A little about me: If you know me, you probably know I'm a classical flautist and vocalist. Maybe you know I also play jazz tenor sax. You might even know that I was nationally known. And if you know all of this about me, then you probably know I was a thorn in my professors' sides, never quite fitting in with everyone else. If you went to one of my recitals you saw everyone in their black gowns and tuxedos. I was the advanced flautist with messy hair and bare feet playing Debussey. Yeah, really. I caught hell for that.
Here's why I did it: because I don't believe music is about fitting into someone else's mold. Music should set you free - whether it's Telemann, Hendrix, Ella, Earth Wind & Fire or Derrick Carter that makes you groove. If it's good and you feel it in your veins and your spirit's set free when you're a part of it, that's what you should be doing. If you can inspire others to feel that groove when you share it, all the better.
I remember the first time I heard about house music.
You probably DON"T know that I was here in Chicago the early 80s. I first learned about house music during a news broadcast - I think it was on channel 32 - about this terrible music club stuff happening in Chicago that was corrupting the young people of our fair city. I was a high school kid who wanted everyone to think she was wise beyond her years (I wasn't). I snuck out of the house by manually opening our garage, shifting the car into neutral, then pushing it down the street. I got caught once. It sucked. I remember Frankie Knuckles back then. I didn't have any idea what a big deal that was. None whatsoever. But I remember him and now I know. If you were ever at a party and you saw a strawberry blonde girl standing off to the side, taking it all in, that was me. And, for two, glorious years, I quietly, in my completely uncool way that was all my own, grooved to the beat.
I told my parents I wasn't ready for college. That I wanted to get an apartment in the city and figure out life before I committed to a university. They said, "you're going to college." I went to college and fell flat on my face. Music was put on hold. Part of me felt dead. Part of me was always reaching for music - somewhere. Anywhere. Jazz? Country? Classical? I say it all the time: if music's in your blood, then music isn't something you do - it's who you are. So I tried to keep my pulse going even when music was on the back burner for me.
Coming home to Chicago in 2007 felt like a true homecoming, complete with happy tears. Seven years later, I still walk outside and think, "My God. Finally," every time I see that skyline along the lake. Every. Single. Time.
Rediscovering friends I hadn't seen in forever and learning that they, too, had discovered house music was a joy I never expected (yeah, I'm looking at you especially, Kim). Making new friends who quickly became like family, multiplied that joy. MANY of those new friendships happened at Frankie's shows right up in front by the beloved left front speaker at Smart Bar.
I attended a set of Frankie's about seven months ago - autumn 2013. When he played his release of Donna Summers' "Hot Stuff," I turned to my friend, Bryan, and whispered, "The queen of disco and the godfather of house music. Perfection. My GOD! Listen to this! Look! Do you feel it??" And then I let the music take me away. Body swaying, arms frantically pumping high in the air, I cried. Because it was beautiful and nothing existed but the music. I looked up and saw the smile on Frankie's face. He was grooving in a way I hadn't seen him do in years. He knew... everyone in the room that night knew. It was one of those moments that can really only be described as "you had to be there." Magic.
Why did I cry when Frankie died? For so many reasons. Partially because I'm just sad that the world lost such a good soul. Did you know that he had a heart for the homeless, especially children? Partially because we won't get to see that beautiful smile here on earth again.
But especially because he understood something about music that it's difficult to describe to anyone but, no matter your genre, if you get it, you really get it:
as an artist, music isn't about you. So many producers and musicians today don't understand this. You create and play music that you love, sure, but if you're not doing it to reach other people's souls, it's flat. Music isn't about you. It's about the people whose lives you touch. It's a God-given gift and it's our responsibility to share it with the world in such a way that they'll receive it.
RIP, Frankie Knuckles. And thank you from the bottom of my heart. ♥
No comments:
Post a Comment