Give It Up, Turn It Loose

"Whoa RVA. You probably have nothing better to than go to this lecture tonight. Sweet."

That gentle reminder was from Nelly, a Richmond musician currently on the road, referring to the Cornel West talk at VCU tonight. She must have posted it just after I left my apartment to walk over to the Seigel Center.

There, I joined a line that snaked the length of the building, overhearing comments as we filed into the auditorium such as, "I fell in love with him because he's chairman of the Democratic Socialists of America," and "I haven't contacted Bernie Sanders' campaign yet, but I need to because that's where he needs help: the South." The first came from a guy who appeared to be about 18, the second from an aging hippie who probably voted for LBJ.

Knowing I'd have to wait once seated, I'd brought a book, "The Thurber Carnival," a delightful collection of James Thurber's essays and drawings from 1932-49.

Let's just say it was jarring reading dated descriptors such as, "with a colored woman like Della" and "Mrs. Robertson, the aged colored washerwoman" as I'm awaiting the start of a lecture by a major black intellectual in a series entitled, "Race, Citizenry and Memory in the South."

But that was then and this is now.

The crowd was diverse and just kept growing until the moment West walked out (accompanied by the man who introduced him) and began bowing to massive applause and then a standing ovation. Before he'd said a word.

But of course, we knew he'd have plenty of interesting points to make and he did, using the cadences and occasionally the rhetoric of a preacher on the pulpit. Meanwhile, people kept showing up although 95% of those who arrived after West was already speaking looked to be students (obviously raised by wolves).

He began by warning us that, "I move with the spirit so I don't move in calendar time," before moving through a one-hour talk and another hour spent answering audience questions.

In between, the audience testified when he said something profound, clapped when he hit a nerve and generally gave themselves over to the gospel of Cornel. Okay, there was one girl who sat plastered against her seat back, eyes wide, as if affronted by the passion of his commentary, but she was the exception.

Music and especially jazz were woven into his analogies. Talking about how Hoover had kept track of the goings-on of black literary and art figures, he roared, "Ever kept track of John Coltrane? How are you going to keep track of a love supreme?"

He talked about the inaccurate black worlds Disney created in films. "Yes, Disney enriched my childhood. I had to deconstruct it later."

Beginning with a Socratic note, he challenged everyone to decide what kind of human they'll choose to be. Running through his points and anecdotes was an entreaty to invoke our collective memory and examine preconceived notions.

Referencing people from Donny Hathaway ("He did not need a pat on the back") to Curtis Mayfield to Martin Luther King, Jr ("55% of blacks disapproved of him when he died but he didn't care because that's who he was"), he explained, "We love Lincoln, not because he was always right, but because he was willing to grow."

In an hour, he managed to address white supremacy, ecology, the 1%, "vanilla" suburbs and "chocolate" neighborhoods and the commodification of churches ("Not the titillation of praise choirs looking for a record deal").

He of course got political, with comments about the milquetoast neo-liberalism of the Democratic party, the donor-based and the corporate sponsored Presidential candidates ("The problem with Brother Trump is...well, that's another lecture").

Over the course of the evening, he admitted to two things. First, being a redeemed sinner with gangster proclivities, or, as he said, "I"m not being evangelical tonight telling you to become a Christian - it is a good idea - but that's not what I was doing."

Secondly, that he'd choose Aretha over Beyonce (while MLK had been devoted to Mahalia Jackson).

I feel sure I'm not alone in saying that it's always satisfying to spend time listening to a smart, funny man.

Once the Q & A ended, lots of people rushed the floor, no doubt eager to touch the man or ask for an autograph. He was quickly surrounded by a crowd.

For what? Far better to absorb what the man was saying and apply that to your life going forward than fawn, kids. Just do it.

The truth is, Nelly, I could have been satisfied at that point. I'd gotten to hear a brilliant man rail against not just the staus quo for blacks, but also for women, Latinos, the working class and poor and the prison population.

My mind had been stimulated and I'd gotten to hear an excellent orator.  But why not more?

Why not also go to Balliceaux for their first night with live music since closing at the beginning of the summer and just reopening two nights ago?

Why the hell not?

As I told several people tonight, I'm just happy to have one of my music venues back. I'd have felt the loss just as strongly if it had been Gallery 5 or Strange Matter that had closed for three months.

Bopst had booked Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess ("I love how her voice sounds like a 78 record. I wanna play scratching in the background," he says to me), a quartet of guitar, upright bass, clarinet/sax and washboard/cymbals, to re-inaugurate the back room and they were just beginning their first song when I went back there and found a place near the side.

Within moments, two couples were up and swing dancing, their perfectly synchronized moves an inspiration to the rest of us.

It's at least my third time seeing the band whose music is a pastiche of Dixieland, Tin Pan Alley and neo- bluegrass, with their secret weapon Jessy's voice, part little girl, part crooner and always full-bodied.

Once the band started "Old Fashioned Love," Bopst was on the floor in front of them, snapping pictures for the Internets (probably "Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess, Balliceaux, first set, NOW").

Near me, a guy slid his hand discreetly under the dress and up the leg of his girlfriend while continuing to look in her eyes and talk to her.

A barback returning from the side door by the stage where liquor is stored, two gallon bottles in each hand, did a nimble side step twice as he minced his way through the three couples dancing on the floor.

The lights were low, Jessy's voice was sultry and the band was swingin'.

Balliceaux was back to normal.

A very tall woman - maybe 5'10" or 11" - walked in wearing a cute dress and four-inch stilettos. Next time I saw her, the heels had been traded for white Keds and she was swing dancing.

During the band's second set, Jessy moved to the front of the stage to belt out a song without the mic, her voice carrying all the heartache of an old blues woman to the back of the room.

After another raucous number, she told her band, "Okay, let's do something easy. What's easy on that list?" Whatever it was, it got a few couples slow dancing.

Familiar faces dotted the crowd, all people I felt certain wanted to show their support for the return of live music: the organizer, the DJ, the former neighbor, the nattily-attired barkeep.

The last song was so fast-tempo that the three couples who staked out the floor were soon flummoxed. One stopped dancing and began clapping instead, another moved to the side and the third couple tore it up, changing out one partner for another throughout the fast part until all three were back to dancing with their partners by mid-song.

Yep, you read right. The evening was capped off with a dance-off to live music.

So, Nelly, don't worry. I went and heard Dr. West speak and then I went out for live music. I'm keeping the RVA flame burning in your absence. But come back soon because there is so much sweet stuff happening.

I just don't know how anyone had anything better to do tonight.