Nostaligia

Tink, Tink… anybody still out there?

For those who care I’m back. I had to take some personal inventory and decide what I want to be when I grow up. With my 39th Birthday recently passing and my life beginning to settle from recent struggles it seemed like an ideal time to reflect on self. Gordon Parks remarked on how important it was for us to look in the mirror from time to time just to check ourselves, and I think its quite important to take time for periodical self reflection.

Of course my life is far from fulfilled but I’m finding my footing and beginning to positively progress down the new path I have chosen. Still a lot of shit to carry, but hey that’s life, right? But the change has also provided many new opportunities, and with age comes the acknowledgement that time is more precious then I ever imagined. No more time to spare. More importantly, it is time for me to do it my way. With my acceptance of the short time allotted to us here, I also have surmised that to a certain extent Ayan Rand is right, living for ones self, is not necessarily a negative. I have lived my life trying to please others often at my own expense. I have chosen routes that my inner voice warned me were wrong, but my philosophical self said were the “right thing to do.” But alas, I imagine that is why they call life the beautiful struggle.

Now, no more ignoring the voice inside, as I realize it is the voice of wisdom, and I would be a fool to continue to ignore it now that I have this understanding. As Bob said “only a fool would lean upon his on misunderstanding.”

At the risk of sounding like an echo chamber I want to thank my dear brothers, I Self Ra, Humanity Critic, Fruquan, and Gunner, for the constant advice and encouragement. Also a special shout out to the lady in my life who is constant in her loving criticisms and esteem building encouragement.

Not sure if it is my age or my complete snobbish attitude when it comes to Hip-Hop shows-probably a combination of both- but I seldom get excited by upcoming shows that blow through this area. This, in light of the fact, that when I do take a peak at something other then VH1-soul, I realize, I have lost almost complete touch with what is hot. Shit at this point, I’m basically that drunken uncle at the cook out who is constantly going on about “how we use to do it back in the day.” Now it is me going on about how Lil Wayne can’t hold a candle to the GOD RAKIM, and Grand Master Caz could rhyme for fifteen minutes with no hook and never repeat himself. As I have resolved that Hip-Hop is a youth culture, and I’m no longer youth, however, that is no way discourages me form digging for that good shit I know is out there, and speaking my peace on the most important influence in my life, Hip-Hop culture.

We all have certain smells, songs, places, or something that immediately transports us back to a specific time in our lives. For me one of those stimulants is when I go to Zulu Nations anniversary celebrations in NYC. There is something about walking into the Kennedy Cultural Center in Harlem, with its hardwood gym floor, DJ’s on the stage (at Zulu the DJ’s on the stage normally consist of either Jazzy-J, Afrika Bambatta, Or Starski Luv Bug, which makes it all the more mind blowing,) and B-boys in a cipher that takes me back to when I was in JR high school, in a similar gym, rec-center, or in someone’s front yard with linoleum square honing my craft as a b-boy. To this day if I hear Planet Rock or Pack Jam my body unconsciously responds and I find my arms starting to tick and my body loosen, ready to unveil my arsenal of three break moves.

For me Hip-Hop has always been about more then just the music, it has been about the culture and its ability to inform. Even when I’m in a club and they play classic Hip-hop shit, to me an olsd school set just doesn’t give me that complete sense of authenticity without the B-boys, ya dig? The culture as laid down by the elders in the Bronx having been largely evaporated here in the states, largely becoming a cottage industry for the Emcees, seemingly forgetting, that for about the first ten years the culture was existence there were no rap records. Outside of B-Boy battles, which seldom get the attention they deserve, and events like Zulu Anniversary, much of what is billed as Hip-Hop has little dialogue with the foundation of the culture.

So a couple of weeks ago when I got the customary zero hour text from my man Emory-AKA DJ Ill-literate I was amped. When Ill and his partner in crime Cornbread, get on the ones and two, it generally turns into one of those rare occasions I get to time travel and experience an evening that provides the aura circa of 1982. A time when the culture thrived on who was the dopest B-Boy on the floor, the illest rhyme sayer, or maybe wrote the craziest tag, and not about who has the dopest car, and illest chain, ya dig? Back in a time when reverence for your name was given based on the showing and proving of skills in a battle.

A little context may be helpful here. My man Emory-Ill-Literate is a B-Boy scholar. I don’t just mean in the he can site or recite any verse put on record since 77’ type scholar. Well, he is one of those as well, but he is also a PHD type scholar. The real Ill thing is he got his PHD in Hip-Hop and education from Regent University. How fucking Ill is that? He got a doctorate, with Hip-Hop as his focus from Pat “I predict the world will end because gay people were allowed to have a day at Disney world,” Roberson’s school. Now that’s gangsta! This is the kid I want to be when I grow up, but I digress.

To me the thing that makes a DJ a Hip-Hop DJ juxtaposed to say a mix tape Dj or a radio personality DJ, is ones proficiency for digging in crates, and equally as important, the ability to mix while keeping the party rocking. Making a mixed tape or getting Emcee’s to Rhyme over some beats, although entertaining and impressive, to me makes one a producer not a Hip-Hop DJ. Don’t get me wrong you can be both, DJ Premier is a perfectly example, but when we are talking about the culture in its purest form, it is about a DJ that concurrently wow’s with their musical vocabulary as well as their ability to keep asses on the dance floor.

Ill-Bread, as Ill-literate and Cornbread are affectionately referred, provided, on the ones and two’s, another perfect capsule for time traveling, never ceasing to amaze me with the breadth of their musical jockeying while simultaneously demanding that booty’s wiggle. In attendance was a peace crowed that got what it meant when Dougie Fresh, exclaimed, “I just want to see ya party and enjoy yourself.”

Oh and like the days of yore they announced the gig with dope flyer's, not some glossed index cards with chemical ball, airbrushed, Buffy looking chicks on it.

Enjoy the flyer's and keep coming back.

Peace,

Where I'm From; Greek Festival

This is the second installment in my photo journal of the places I inhabit here in the Norfolk, Va area.

I have lived in the area since 1985, and my first exposure to a "Greek Fest" had nothing to do with folks from a Mediterranean Island. Nope , mine was the infamous 1988, Greek Fest, in Virginia beach, made infamous in PE's song Welcome To the Terror dome. Needless to say the Greek Fest held at the Greek Orthodox Church on Granby Street has never seen a phalanx of National Guards men beating the shit out of festival goers with batons. Nope this Greek Fest is a celebration not of college fraternity's, but a celebration of Greek culture.

Over the past five or six years I have made it a point to attend the Greek fest. Although I never have enough money to eat and buy all I want, it's always a enjoyable experience.

The food, although a bit expensive, is well worth the trip. If you want to avoid the crowd they provide a drive thru food service that always seems to produce an unending line of cars from the moment they open until they shut down for the evening. Yeah, I could go to the three or four Greek restaurants in the area, but the food always seems to taste better in the authentic festive atmosphere. As delicious as the food and wine taste, it is the art of the Greek Orthodox tradition that draws me to attend every year. I can never get enough of the beauty, detail, and power of Greek Orthodox paintings. One need not practice religion to appreciate the power of the art and how it speaks to our humanity. So this year I strapped on the camera for my annual pilgrimage and tried to capture the inspiring works of art inside the two sanctuaries.

The next few pictures are of the stain glass windows in the main chapel. To me they are awe inspiring. Their size and detail give the sanctuary its sense of being the conduit of something bigger then ourselves. This I think runs through eastern religions, even in Islam, the scale of the art in the Masjids gives a sense of spirituality that moves me, but is impossible to articulate. I guess some would call it "the spirit moving."

(My Wis looking upward for direction)

My fascination with Christian art, particularly Catholic, Greek and Ethiopian Orthodox, came during my youth while living in Spain. I remember visiting massive cathedrals lined with gold and some of the most inspiring paintings I have ever seen. I was completely blown away by the detailed craftsmanship of everything from the pillars to the pews. The time and commitment from the community in building these structures, often times over a couple of generations, to me, symbolises mans ability to unite. When I stood in those cathedrals as a child the opulence and scale not only spoke to the praise of something higher, but also served as a reminder as to our size in the grand scheme of existence.

When viewing these paintings one can almost smell the incense waifing through the air, along with murmured chanting in ancient Greek.

(Above is the front of the Church above the pulpit)







(This is in the foyer of the main chapel, I believe)































This and the one that follows is from the ceiling of the smaller chapel. When you look up to this the blue background truly gives you the sense of the sky. Looking up to this provides the same sense of tranquility as looking into a summer night when the stars seem within grasp.















When looking above and beholding such beautiful art, it makes for an easy transition to a meditative state.





(Above is in the front of the smaller chapel, behind the pulpit)

(This piece hangs inside the smaller chapel)
This painting is captivating to me for both its detail and power. I can stare at it for hours.

The babies keeping their traditions alive.

Victory For Ricky D

MC Ricky D, AKA Slick Rick, long immigration journey has finally come to an end http://wcco.com/entertainment/slick.rick.pardoned.2.732101.html.

Rick is arguably the best story teller in Hip-Hop music history. Although Ghostface has been given him a run for his money of late, however Rick still wears the crown in my estimation.

I actually had a chance to see him last summer at a place called the Jewish Mother in Virginia Beach. When I heard he was coming I was amped as the Jew Ma can't hold more then a couple of hundred of people. In fact, the Jew Ma is so small, there is no back stage, the artists enter from a side door right off the street onto the stage . So to have the opportunity to see a legend that close-up was indeed the rarest of treats.

Rick did not disappoint. He did all his hits and had the crowd rocking and sweating in that tiny box. But the thing that stood out most to me was how humble the brother was. Despite his trunk jewelery, and arrogant swagger as an Emcee, Rick was mad cool. During his last song he was signing autographs for the crowd. Cats were handing him their vinyl and he was signing the records right there from the stage while still performing. Even after the show on the street next to the venue he kept singing autographs and taking pictures. And not in the, hurry up and get this shit over with way, but giving each person his undivided attention.

Tthroughout the show he constantly thanked the crowd for the love and support, especially upon his release from prison. He seemed genuinely humbled by the love. Which was a breath of fresh air in this day, when so-called Emcees, who can barely form a sentence, walk around like their shit don't stink and act as if the world owes them something. But I digress.

Rick has to be in most Hip-Hop snobs (that right MR. Rodriguez nothing wrong with being snobbish about this shit LOL) top ten list of Emcees. Rick's rhymes have been more akin to watching a movie. One thing I always thought separated him from many Emcees was his ability to show vulnerability. While most Emcees spend too much time discussing how many hoes they have, or how fly there material possessions are, Rick found ways to add humanity to his rhymes. The song "The Moment I feared" serves as an perfectly example, where he discusses getting yoked by some Brooklyn cats as well as fearing being raped in prison. Now that's real! Not in the bullshit way most talk about "keeping it real." Normally when cats are hollering "keeping it real' it is a justification for some hedonistic endeavor that has nothing to do with most peoples lives.

There has been talk recently of a new Ricky D Album tentatively titled "The Adventure Continues" but in a recent interview Ricky said it was not happening. Rick intimated he was waiting for a mature audience niche before attempting to put another album out. Rick if you hear this I would tell you that audience is out here and we are starving to hear something from you! I implore you, get to the studio!!

Anyway, Big Up to Governor David Patterson, who is obviously not blind to the facts, and allowed one of Hip-Hop's finest to stay put here is the U.S., and inshallah provide more bangers in the future.

Quriks

My brother I self, AKA Dan Tres Omi, tagged me to do provide six quirks. So here goes;

1. I cannot stand to eat food with no shirt on. Just seems gross to me. Further more I can't stand to watch anyone eat food without a shirt on, even is she is as fine as all out doors.

2. If your going to listen to my CD's, they MUST put them back in their case when finished. This is true for DVD's as well. I have put far to much money into my music and movie collection and it should be handled with care. This also means I generally don't loan my shit out either.

3. I have never, and to this day still do not, eat my cereal with milk on it. Not sure how it started cause I don't remember ever eating it any other way. I didn't think much of it until I was in the Navy and people constantly remarked how odd they thought it was. I guess I just don't want my cereal squishy.

4. Not sure if this is so much a Quirk as it is a sense of taste. When I make or get an apple martini made I replace the Vodka with Crown Royal. I tripped upon this little tasty treat when I was in Atlantic City about two years ago. I was at the Sounds Of Philadelphia restaurant inside of the Bally's hotel and they had a drink called an "Philly Apple." Which was basically a apple martini with Crown Royal vice Vodka. Makes all the difference in the world. I suggest you give it a try.

5. Ok this is an odd one. I can't count the number of times I have had someone come up to me or I have even recognized them, had an entire conversation, and couldn't remember their name. But that is not my quirk. The quirk is I never ask, I just keep on talking but never ask their name. An example; their is this dude at the gym and we both recognized each other, and for the past three weeks we have spoken each time we see each other, and even given each other dap. But can't remember his name, and for whatever reason I always feel odd asking. Kind of a Larry David moment.

6. Ok last one; I never put my good books in my back pack. I always hand carry them as I cannot stand for the pages to become dog eared.


The rules of the game is I'm to tag six others to do this. Problem is, I don't have six friends, and only two in the blogosphere, and one of them was the one who hit me. So Amadeo if your up to it, the mic is all yours.



Peace

Arts and Culture

Since I last checked-in much of my time has been spent attending arts and culture events. I have also continued snapping pictures (one of which-the Alvin Ailey banner is mine) and caught up on a couple of Woody Allen films, Cassandra’s Dream and Melinda and Melinda. But even more enjoyable over the last few weeks I have had my pick of some serious Jazz and stage performances. During the last few weeks there has been an Ella Fitzgerald birthday celebration, and the 12th annual Virginia Arts festival taking place here is the seven cities. When it came in deciding which shows to attend my eyes were bigger then my stomach so I had to make decisions on what events to attend. Just to give an indication of the level of entertainment that blew through here the following is a list of artist I didn’t get the pleasure of checking out; Dave Brubeck (yeah that Dave Brubeck), Foreplay with Bob James, Kathleen Battle, and the Ramsey Lewis Trio. Again, that’s who I didn’t get to see.




For the last two years or so when I make my annual winter track to NYC, I tell myself that I’m going to plan it around seeing a performance of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater. Of course like many things for one reason or another this plan has fallen by the wayside, largely because of late I seem to find myself lost in a sea of dreads in Flatbush section by day, and dipping into Jazz clubs, in the Ft. Greene section of planet Brooklyn at night. So immersed in BK that when I get back to VA I find myself shouting out “718,” knowing I’m not from there (see Joell Ortiz on that.) So needless to say, when I saw that Alvin Ailey was scheduled to appear at this years Virginia Arts Festival, getting lost in Brooklyn was no longer an excuse. When I eyed the calendar I realized that the show would be on a weekend that I had my babies, perfect, this is mandatory exposure for them. As I see it they may not appreciate or understand certain things that I expose them at the time, but at some juncture down the road, inshallah, a light will turn on. The hope is that I can somehow provide them with a foundation for appreciation of art, if not now, maybe later in their lives.

Ok, normally the only time I wear a tie is when I have dealings with the Judicial System, which over the last two years has been a bit too often. But this was a Sunday, the theater, and an Alvin Ailey performance, and dressing to kill was quite necessary. I must say my Wiz had my daughter looking as cute as I have ever seen her, and my son and I, actually looked as if we had a bit of class. After being groomed it was off the theater.

I have to say from the opening curtain until the end of the performance based entirely on reputation I expected to be blown away. I must say however the first piece, Firebird, although enjoyable did not capture me. Not to mention the worst of all fates for a dancer occurred as one of the performers actually fell mid-way through the performance. The next piece, The Golden Section, was filled with high energy. What I found interesting about this performance was their use of the wings of the stage. A good portion of the dancing was stage left or right not center stage.

As this is the 50th anniversary of the Alvin Ailey theater we were privileged to see them perform their signature piece Revelations. This was without a doubt worth the price of admission. One cannot help but be mesmerized by the vibrant colors and the fluid movements of the dancers. The strength and elegance of their bodies is absolutely phenomenal. Not only are you lurid in by the dancing, and the accompanying gospel music has you dancing along in your seat. My daughter was absolutely engrossed in the performance which is saying something because normally I can’t her to sit still or be quiet for anything. My son seemed to enjoy it as well, so hopefully the seed of an appreciation for arts and culture has indeed been planted.

Much of modern interruptive dance can often be very dense in deciphering, Revelations, however, is accessible without losing quality or emotion. It’s theme of course is the refection of Black American struggle through the prism of the church. But it also conveys the universal desire and struggle for “betterness” in humanity, as the Honorable Robert Nesta Marley would say.


The week prior to this was adult night. April 19th through the 25th The Ferguson Arts Center at Christopher Newport University held their 11th annual Ella Fitzgerald music festival. Like I said earlier had to make a decision on which show I was going to attend which was no easy process. After going through the list which included the likes of Dave Brubeck, Bob James, and Ramsey Lewis, I decided on the show the featured Al Jarreau. Two reasons I made the choice I did; Cassandra Wilson and Cindy Blackman. Don’t get me wrong, I have been listening to Al Jarreau since probably 83 or 84, but the chance to see both of those ladies made the decision a little easier.

I stumbled across Cassandra Wilson years ago while reading the Jazz Times and found her voice to be quite sultry, and her appearance quite attractive. I After reading the article I grabbed a couple of her albums and have been a fan ever since. Consequently I had been itching to see her live for quite some time. But outside of a Jazz Festival years ago in D.C, I never really had the opportunity to catch her.
On record her voice is sultry and warm much like the feeling one feels when snuggled in a warm blanket, in front of a fire, with a good book, and glass of wine. Although the beauty of her voice comes through live, the smoothness of it served more of a lullaby then capturing vocal experience. For me the best part of the show was when her band opened playing Duke Ellington’s Caravan. They kept the core of the original but layered it more with Arabic sounds making it one of the best renditions of the song I have ever heard.

Cassandra’s pianist, John Baptiste, went into an upbeat crowd pleasing solo after the other members of band had exited from the stage upon completion of Cassandra’s set. Baptist’s solo captured the crowd more then Cassandra’s entire performance which turned out to be the perfect segue way for Al Jarreau's entrance.

Prior to Cassandra almost putting me to sleep, Cindy Blackman provided a mouth watering opening to the show. My first exposure to Cindy came when she began drumming for Lenny Kravitz. Cindy’s style is still bad ass rock n roll but her music is all Jazz. Her band was tight, at times they sounded like something from a Bitches Brew era Miles Davis, while at others like the “gentle side” of John Coltrane. Cindy directed her band flawlessly. Her bass player did all the heavy lifting holding the melodies of each song, while Cindy and her saxophonist took turns soloing. To me their sound dialogued so well with the past that if you closed your eyes you got the feeling you walked into a band jamming at the Five Spot circa late 50’6 to early 60’s. I imagine even Stanley Crouch would have enjoyed this performance.

From the moment AL Jarreau hit the stage it was obvious he is a veteran who has perfected craft. His voice was immaculate, his stage presence absorbing, and his personality intoxicating. He acted a fool telling joked and interacting with the crowd in a way that never interrupted the show, but in fact, enhanced the entire experience. I was completely blown away. The words fail me in articulating how well Al sounds in person. I can only recommend that if you have the chance to hear him that you not hesitate to go.

I must say living outside of a large metropolitan area it can be quite exhausting to locate venues with consistent, real, jazz music. Unlike say NYC, I can’t just head downtown and walk into a place like Blue Note or Frank’s Place and catch real jazz musicians in a jam session. Recently the city of Suffolk closed down the only viable Jazz club in the area. Besides periodic events like The Ella Fitzgerald birthday celebration, real Jazz music in this area is at a premium to locate. All of which leads me to a bit of a rant. In June across the water the annual ‘Hampton Jazz Festival” is set to take place. Problem is there is no organic Jazz to speak of on the bill. Here is the line up to play over three days time; Gladys’s Knight, Boney James with Jonathan Butler, Raheem Devaughn, Chrisette Michele, Jill Scott, Kenny G, KEM, Maze, Joss Stone, and Dave Koz with Peabo Bryson.

First of all how the f&#k did Joss Stone find her way on this bill? Secondly, and more importantly, where is the jazz!!! If you are thinking or going to argue Kenny G is jazz then I have no further words for you. Kenny G is to Jazz what, well, what Joss Stone is to soul music, a horrible, uninspired, imitation. Yeah, yeah, one can make a somewhat viable argument that Boney James and Dave Koz are jazz. But all too often their work approaches the elevator friendly music of Kenny G. But more to the point, even if those two artist qualify as Jazz, the concerts are suppose to be part of a “Jazz festival”, but only highlight two questionable Jazz acts.

I have lived in the area since ‘84 and it has always been this way. I think that it is past time for them to reconsider the title of this event. Maybe the “Hampton Soul Fest, or “Hampton R & B Festival” would serve as a better title. I mean in a place starving for true Jazz, labeling this event as a “Jazz Festival” serve only to further frustrate the search for legitimate Jazz in this area.

Aiight I’m out.

Brother George's

Fairly recently I picked-up a camera and began snapping photos of everything I saw trying to ascertain whether or not I have an eye for the art. After randomly snapping pictures I thought it would be more productive to create a specific project for myself and seeing as I am far from having the funding to finance a trip to either Spain or Egypt, I figured I would start with something closer to home. So with that in mind I have begun taking pictures of places and people that I frequent and influence me here in the Norfolk, VA area. The working title of the project at the moment is “Where I’m From.” Although the project is far from complete I thought my blog would be the perfect place to work through the process. The first place that jumped in my mind was the Self Improvement Educational Center. It is an oasis of knowledge and health located in the center of the Park Place, one of Norfolk’s most notorious neighborhoods.

Sad to say during my grammar and high school years I did little more than just enough to get by. Meaning I basically rote memorized my way through school. I eventually joined the Navy and it was there I quickly realized the importance of having an education and more importantly direction. I found myself fascinated with the conversations about religion, culture, and politics I was hearing some of the older cats engaging in during off hours in the berthing compartments. As much as I wished to join in I had no frame of reference to add to the conversation other then the jingoistic perspectives one receives from public school education.
So it was sometime during my first year in the Navy I decided for the first time to pick-up a book for no other reason than to expand my mind. I don’t recall how I came across them but I got a hold of a copy of ; The Last Speeches of Malcolm X, and The Philosophies of Marcus Aureilus. After I tore through both of those books I was ready to devour more.

The sign on the building says it all “Self Improvement Educational Center.” I had passed by the store numerous times but for one reason or another never bothered to stop in. With my recent discovery of Malcolm and the numerous Islamic references being dropped in Hip-Hop music at the time, I wanted to learn more about the subject and something told me that the store on 35th and Newport may just have what I was looking for. Not only did I find the information I was looking for but I found a place that would guide and support me to this very day.

The guide I found came in the way of the proprietor of the store George Welch, known throughout the community as “Brother George.” In fact Brother George’s presence is so ubiquitously linked to the store that no one ever refers to it as the “Self Improvement Educational Center” but simple as “Brother George’s.” Back when artist such as Check D and KRS 1 were dropping science in their songs about historical figures and events, it was Brother George who directed me to what books to read. Not only did he direct me to the proper literature but he was always available to provide an explanation and insight into the new information I was digesting. Once I became heavily active in grass roots organizing I could always count on Brother George to allow us to use his store for meetings, video showings, or even a press conference. As a member of the paler nation Brother George never once made me feel as if I wasn’t welcomed in his store, as I’m sure others have had something to say about it, but from the day I walked in to his store Brother George never blinked an eye and has never been anything but supportive of myself and my endeavors. In fact it was Brother George who provided me with one of the more memorable moments of my activist life.

During the run up to the Million Family March in assisting the local Nation Of Islam contingent Brother George invited local grass roots organizations out to help assist in drumming up publicity and getting people bussed up to the march. At the time I was running the local chapter of the International Family and Friends of Mumia-Abu Jamal chapter and in that capacity received an invitation to help organize. As the March date approached Min. Farrakhan went on cross country speaking tour to further advertise the march. When the Minister arrived here a personal meeting with local activist and city official was setup at his hotel and I was asked to be a part of the meeting. Not only did I get to meet and talk with the Minister but a picture of me at the meeting appeared in The Final Call newspaper. As I was preparing to leave the meeting Minster Albert who was running the local NOI temple at the time asked if I would give some opening remarks and an update on Mumia’s case later that evening prior to Minister Farrakhan speaking a local church. Needless to say I was honored and horrified, honored that I was going to get to speak before the Minister but horrified that I would be speaking before the Minister ya dig? Anyway I got my fifteen minutes that evening and because of my association with Brother George I can actually say I spoke on the same dais as Minister Farrakhan.

My story is only one of hundreds of brothers and sisters who have stepped foot in Brother George’s store. It is place one can feed their body proper nutrients and their mind right knowledge. On any given evening there will be brothers in a cipher discussing anything from Dr. Ben to Jazz music or the benefits of holistic living. For years I have stopped by at least twice a month to get a bean pie and a Final Call newspaper. Now days I take my babies for their bean pies and more importantly their exposure to a place that could hold the key to unlocking the vast potential of their minds. I have been to book stores similar to Brother George’s from New York to San Diego but this is the one I call home and it is the one for me that all other are compared. Although Brother George has talked of turning the store over to a younger brother of late no matter who is running the store, to me and I think most others, the Self Improvement Educational Center will always be “Brother George’s.”


Nas Dawud and Brother George.

Requiem For A B-Boy

I started this on April 4th (the 40th year recognition of Dr. Martin Luther King JR’s assassination) and around this time I would normally write some euphuistic ode on how Dr. King’s words and image is so often taken out of context in a disingenuous manner by those utilizing them for ulterior motives that have little to do with King’s complex vision. But last evening I got news of the passing of Wayne “Frosty Freeze” Frost an incomparable member of the NYC B-Boy crew, Rock Steady Crew, and this caused me to reflect in a much different manner.

Like any cultural changing movement some names transcend the movement as King did in the American Civil Rights Movement, and the B-boy movement is no different. Names like Crazy Legs and Ken Swift can usually be thrown out by a pedestrian observer of the culture. But Frosty Freeze was more like those who marched and held up the signs that produced the ground swell of people power that allowed King the ability to be heard and affect change. Although Hip-Hop culture and the Civil Rights movement are far from transparent they both have had a profound affect on the intersection of race, class, and social interaction in the last half of the 20th century, and Hip-hop continues to inform the early part of the 21st century. Frosty Freeze’s importance in Hip-Hop culture was equally as influential and profound as not only the foot soldiers in the Civil Rights movement, but those lesser known organizers (Bayard Rustin, Fred Shuttlesworth) who were equally as visionary as King.

Quiet as kept if it were not for cats like Frosty rolling with Crazy Legs B-Boying may have been erased as an element altogether in the late 70’s. It was through the commitment and dedication to the culture of B-boys like Frosty that when the original cotangent of B-Boys were moving in other directions with their lives this second generation of B-boys not only resuscitated the art but proved to be innovators as well. Not only did the dance survive but Frosty and this second generation of B-Boys became international stars appearing in movies and on television throughout the world in the early to mid 80’s. They were integral in laying the foundation for the international appeal of the culture.

To me Frosty represents all the people who came out to Kool Herc’s building parties at 1520 Sedgwick Ave in the Bronx, which soon grew into people filling up near by Cedar Park that then turned into jams in parks all over NYC, onto the clubs, and eventually the world. Frosty represents not only those who filled up the parks back in the day but those who continue to embrace the entirety of the culture (meaning the four original elements as laid down by Afrika Bambatta-Writing, DJing, B-Boying, and Emceeing). Frosty represents the B-Boys who do if strictly for the love. The ones who do it for the thrill of those fleeting moments when your in the middle of the circle and the crowd is yelling and clapping with anticipation of your every move, and the beat pulsating through your body as you wreck the floor commanding the respect of all in attendance. That is who and what Frosty represents to me.

Unfortunately large portions of Hip-Hop culture have become mired in the decadence and hedonism of the age. Fortunately there are still gyms and small venues where DJ’s throw down playing classic break beats, and B-boys rule the floor. There is still Zulu Anniversary parties where you can still smell the original incarnation of the culture. Although many scenes like this may be difficult to find they are out there, and it is there where the spirit of Frosty Freeze, and true Hip-Hop culture will always live.
“…keep rockin don’t stop it, keep rocking don’t stop…”