The Real Soul

Amid a Los Angeles singing competition — convened under a banner of Togetherness — the essence of soul is unmasked as two judges attempt to find common ground…

by: Alan Swyer

“Do you know why we’ve chosen you to be a guest judge at our annual singing competition?” asked a member of the NAACP committee seated at a cafe in the Leimert Park section of Los Angeles.

As the only white person in sight, I couldn’t resist a chance to state the obvious. “Tokenism?”

A moment of awkward silence gave way to nervous titters.

“Actually,” said the woman who initially reached out to me, an actress named CeCe Antoinette, “it’s that we appreciate your work in both music and film.”

“Including,” added a man who introduced himself as Omar Stokely, “the film about that Harlem playground basketball legend.”

“And the documentary about this neighborhood,” added LaQuita Perry

“And being a fan of Bobby “Blue” Bland and Big Mama Thornton,” stated an older man named Roosevelt Caldwell, “I loved When Houston Had The Blues.”

After a bit more chit-chat, their plan was explained. With a theme of Togetherness, the all-day program would start with a brief prayer, followed by speeches, then a concert by a youth orchestra featuring guest appearances — based on availability — by a couple of celebrity artists.  Lunch would be served cafeteria-style, while the brass — including me, if I wished — would convene in a private dining room.

While I could simply show up in the afternoon for the competition, I would be more than welcome for any, or all, of the day’s events.

Asked if I had questions, I spoke up. “Am I judging alone?”

“You and a musician who’s done it several times before.”

Seeing me frown, CeCe Antoinette spoke up. “That a problem?”

“Not if we see eye to eye. With three judges, there’d be a deciding vote in case of a tie, even if, as in boxing, it’d be a split decision.”

“I’m sure the two of you will work it out,” said CeCe.

“In the spirit of togetherness,” added Omar Stokely.

It didn’t seem strange or anomalous that I was approached, having spent time on the Board of a historic black college (North Carolina A&T), as well as the Compton Baseball Academy. That owed to the work I’d done both in film and music, which in turn stemmed from my early years living in a predominantly Black community.

Not that there hadn’t been awkward moments throughout my career. In 1998, when I helped the Chicago Blues Festival reunite Ray Charles with musicians from his great group of the late 50’s, I was filming interviews with band members when saxophonist David “Fathead” Newman accused “the white motherfucker” — me — of exploiting them. The chaos that resulted ceased only when Ray burst forth from his private dressing room. “Goddamnit, David!” he exclaimed. “That ain’t no white motherfucker! That’s my friend Alan! This is about legacy, not bucks!”

Nor was Fathead the only one to hit me with that term. When I was asked to write something about Ray, which proved to be the beginning of our friendship, I asked for his help in connecting me with three people to interview: his ex-wife, Stevie Wonder, and Quincy Jones. Though I hoped to interview Quincy face-to-face, he insisted that we do it over the phone, which didn’t please me. “One thing that Ray and I had in common,” Quincy begrudgingly began, “neither one of us ever did shit unless our hearts were really in it.” 

“That explains it!” I interjected.

“Explains what?”

“Lesley Gore’s ‘It’s My Party And I’ll Cry If I Want To‘, which you produced.”

Suddenly there was total silence at the other end.

“What’s the matter, Quincy?” I asked.

“A white motherfucker with a memory,” he answered, only half in jest.

On the day of the NAACP event, I arrived early so as to be part of all the festivities. What I found upon arriving at the hotel in Downtown LA seemed to live up to the Togetherness theme.

Approaching the reception desk to get my badge, I couldn’t help but be struck by the buzz as eager young people scurried toward the ballroom for the first of the events. 

CeCe and Omar greeted me, then introduced me to other officials, but not to my fellow judge who seemed nowhere to be found.

The convocation boded well for all that was to follow. The prayer was uplifting, but mercifully brief. The speakers were welcoming without being long-winded. The youth orchestra displayed a wonderful blend of talent and energy, as did the celebrity guests. First to take the stage was a female Gospel singer whose rendition of “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” segued into a moving version of Sam Cooke’s extraordinary “A Change Is Gonna Come.” After a few more instrumental numbers, up stepped a well-known R&B artist, who started a sing-along with “Lift Every Voice And Sing.” Again invoking Sam Cooke, he next raised the entire room to a crescendo with a jubilant call-and-response rendering of “Having A Party.”

The spirit of togetherness continued as the conventioneers broke into smaller groups invited to participate in assorted workshops and programs.

Conspicuous in an otherwise all-Black environment, I was pleased to be approached by people who took a moment to introduce themselves, while others thanked me for being there.

A tall woman with braided hair who introduced herself as Joy Stewart led me to a lounge, where she and Omar Stokely explained that the singing competition, which was to feature nine contestants, had been reduced to eight due to a young woman calling in sick. Each participant would sing one song, accompanied by a band with whom they’d had a brief rehearsal. After four were eliminated, the remaining singers would get a chance to perform a second pre-rehearsed number of their choosing. Following another deliberation by the judges, the two top contestants would proceed to sing again, but unaccompanied, to determine the winner.

When Joy offered to take me around to get a taste of the various activities taking place, I hesitated for a moment, asking when I would meet my fellow judge, whom for purposes of discretion I’ll call Reggie Johnson.

Joy shrugged. “He likes to make an appearance.”

“So that all eyes are on him,” added Omar unhappily.

The first workshops I got to peek into focused on the arts — songwriting, poetry, spoken word — while the second batch dealt with activism — public speaking, motivating, and getting out the vote.

At lunch, a tall woman in an African-inspired dress introduced herself as Cookie Williams, then surprised me by saying that she loved the documentary I made about boxing.

“How’d you get interested in a sport like that?” she asked.

I explained that I learned at the Police Athletic League, then took it up again while going to school in Paris, which gave me the right to a swim and a shower at the University Athletic Complex. Then I asked her the same question.

“I’m a daddy’s girl,” she answered. “Sugar Ray Robinson, Sugar Ray Leonard, and especially Ali — those were his heroes. Since he didn’t have a son, I became his boxing buddy for fights on TV. Okay if I pick your brain a bit?”

“Fire away.”

“What would it take to bring the sport back?”

“First, make Olympic boxing important again. That’s where the world discovered Ray Leonard, De La Hoya, and above all Ali before he changed his name.”

Cookie nodded.  “And?”

“Get rid of the Alphabet Soup. With the WBC, the WBO, and all the other sanctioning bodies, there are too many champs, but no real champ.”

Cookie nodded again. “And?”

“Get a charismatic heavyweight champion who’s American, or speaks good English. From Joe Louis through Marciano and Ali, being heavyweight champ was it.”

“Can I interview you some time about this?”

“You’re a journalist?”

“No, a kosher butcher,” quipped Joy. “Yes, I’m a journalist.” With that, she gave me her card. “Up for it?”

“Sure.”

“So what’s your feeling about Reggie?”

“No feeling so far.”

Cookie made a funny face. “That’ll change.”

“A piece of work?”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“So why,” I asked, “does he keep getting invited?”

Seeing the look on Cookie’s face, I realized no answer would be forthcoming.

It was thanks to CeCe Antoinette, who escorted me to the room where the singing competition would soon be held, that I got the lowdown.  Every year since he started judging, she informed me, Reggie had managed to get the winner a recording contract.

“That pleases the higher-ups,” CeCe explained.

But did it bring glory to the organization? I wondered. Or was it that the award provided the springboard for the deal? I chose not to put CeCe in an awkward position by asking. Nor did I mention that it shouldn’t be viewed as entirely an act of altruism, since Reggie, CeCe acknowledged, attached himself as manager each time a winning contestant signed with a label.

“Oo-poo-pa-do and how do you do?” echoed through the hall as CeCe and I approached our destination. Instantly, both of us turned to see a large man with dreadlocks.

“Alan,” said CeCe, “meet Reggie.”

“Let’s take a little walk,” said Reggie, steering me away from CeCe. We strolled in silence until we were alone in a quiet spot.

“How do I know the shit I heard about you is true?” Reggie asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That you were tight with Brother Ray. And Solomon Burke. And Ike.”

“You don’t.”

“Say what?” muttered Reggie.

“You don’t know it’s true because you didn’t bother checking. But just so you know, nobody close called him Brother Ray. And Ike and I parted badly.”

Undeterred, Reggie stared at me. “When it comes to the judging, I get the final say.”

“Because?”

“Deep down, it’s brotha shit.”

I studied Reggie for a moment, then laughed. “It’s not working.”

“What’s not working?”

“The intimidation. So much for the theme of togetherness.”

“Togetherness my ass,” snarled Reggie.

Despite the ill will generated by that confrontation, the spirit in the room where the the competition was held felt wonderfully upbeat. A brief introduction was followed by two rousing instrumentals by the band: Booker T & the MG’s “Green Onions,” then Young-Holt Unlimited’s “Soulful Strut.”

Then the competition began. First up was a guy named Lamar Clayton. Fighting the jitters, he announced that he was taking us on a fast train to Philly before segueing into Teddy Pendergrass’ “Only You.”

Next a young lady in an Astros hat, Aaliyah Mobley. “Let’s go to down to Houston, y’all!” she proclaimed, nodding to the band, which accompanied her on Solange’s “Cranes In The Sky.”

“We’ve heard from Houston and Philly,” said the third contestant, who introduced himself as Rodney McCray. “But I say we go to Jersey, with a little P-Funk before it was P-Funk.” With a sign to the band, he launched into Parliament’s “I Wanna Testify.”

The other contestants followed. A woman in a hijab, Sayida Rooks, gave a moving version of the Etta James classic “At Last.” A skinny guy in a bow tie, James Brown Towne, did “Never Too Much” by Luther Vandross. A woman calling herself simply Jasmine wowed one and all with another oldie, Fontella Bass’ “Rescue Me.” Then came a young man billing himself as Unique because, as he said, “I am unique.” Promising to take us back to a happier time, he did his interpretation of Prince’s “Little Red Corvette.”

Instead of belligerence, Reggie had an unexpected air of affability when he and I stepped into a small room to discuss the first cuts.

“So who are your top two?” he asked after closing the door.

“Sayida, with the Etta song, plus Jasmine with ‘Rescue Me’.”

“Somebody likes the ladies.”

“Especially those two.”

“And on the bottom?”

“The guy who did Teddy Pendergrass and the one channeling Luther Vandross.”

“And?”

“Prince lite,” I stated.

“And?”

“Aaliyah.”

Reggie smiled. “I’m with you on all four. And you were thinking I was gonna be difficult.”

“Who, me?” I joked.

Reggie patted me on the back. “See? The two of us are family.”

Reversing the order for the semifinals, Unique led off by going further back in time to sing Bobby “Blue” Bland’s “I’ll Take Care of You,” which drew appreciative applause.

Next came Jasmine, who announced that coming from St. Louis, she was going to pay tribute again to Fontella Bass, which led to the ballad “The Soul Of A Man.”

“Since I’m from right here in LA,” said Sayida, drawing some cheers, “I’m going to stick with my homegirl, the great Etta James.” Cuing the band, she delighted everyone with “Something’s Got A Hold On Me.”

Up to the microphone stepped Rodney, who stated that though he was currently a Jerseyite, this time he was going to pay tribute to the place where he spent his early years. That led to a song by Detroit’s Smokey Robinson & the Miracles, “Ooh Baby Baby.”

“So who’re your two now?” Reggie asked once we were again alone.

“Again I’d go with the ladies,” I answered.

“And here I thought you’d be a sucker for the guy who did Bobby “Blue” Bland.”

“He’d be my number three.”

“How’s this?” said Reggie. “You pick one and I’ll pick one.”

“Who gets your vote?

Reggie smiled. “Gotta go with Rodney.”

“Because?”

“He’s got the best shot at a career.”

“Because?”

“He’s the most commercial.”

“And commercial’s what matters?”

“C’mon, man,” said Reggie. “Your guy Ray wasn’t commercial?”

“He wound up commercial because the public loved him. Think ‘What I Say‘ was willfully commercial?”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Try improvised. He’d run out of material, and the people in the club were going to tear out the seats if he didn’t do another number.”

“Still,” Reggie said, clearly ruminating. “How about ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You‘ and the album it was on?”

“Ray got to do Country only because he’d demanded complete artistic autonomy. The label thought he was nuts.”

Reggie frowned. “Bottom line is, you pick one singer, I pick one.”

Though I had nothing personally against Rodney, who seemed ebullient and likable, I cringed when his choice for the a cappella finals turned out to be “All Of Me.” Milking the John Legend song for every possible drop of melodrama, he seemed, to me at least, to be auditioning for American Idol or The Voice.

I wasn’t the least bit surprised that Reggie ate up every single moment not just of Rodney’s over-the-top emotions, but also of his relentless melisma. No single note was sufficient if there was a chance to replace it with a bushel.

Though not to my taste, I could see how Rodney would be a tough act to follow.

Rodney acknowledged the applause he received by taking bow after bow, then reluctantly ceded center stage to the finalist chosen by me.

“Even though LA’s my home,” Sayida immediately told the audience, “my mama’s from a place known as the Crescent City. So here’s something originally done by the Soul Queen of New Orleans.

In contrast to Rodney’s theatrics, Sayida’s rendition of  Irma Thomas’ “I Wish Someone Would Care” was spare, sweet, and straight from the heart. To my delight, every bit of rustling, coughing, and squirming in the audience came to an abrupt halt, with all eyes focused carefully on her.

“I’d say that was pretty clear cut,” Reggie announced as the two of us once more sequestered ourselves. “To me it’s Rodney all the way.”

“Not the way I see it,” I countered.

“Then maybe it’s time for me to pull rank.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You’re probably one and done, but I’m here helping every year.”

“Helping? Or pimping?”

Reggie glared at me. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“When you get somebody a deal, who’s on-board as manager?”

“Well—”

“And what percentage does Mr. Manager take?”

Reggie fumed for a moment before speaking again. “Just what I need—”

“Finish the sentence,” I insisted.

To my surprise, Reggie chortled. “A white motherfucker.”

“Bingo!”

“You really gonna fight me on this?”

“Rodney’s fine,” I acknowledged. “But there’s a whole bunch like him trying to get signed. To me, Sayida’s special. She may not wind up Nina Simone, Dinah Washington, or Esther Phillips. But she’s herself. She’s got talent, charm, and sings from the heart. Forget bucks for a minute and recognize she’s real, not an imitation.”

“Still—”

“Look at it this way,” I said. “Which one is show biz, and which has the real soul?”

Reggie took a deep breath. “I should probably tell you to go fuck yourself.”

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

Rodney let out a sigh of resignation. “Motherfucker, you’re costing me money.”

“Then lunch on me one day next week.”

“An expensive lunch,” Rodney muttered as he conceded. “A really expensive lunch.”

“How?” asked CeCe Antoinette as she walked me to my car once the day was over.

“How what?”

“How did you get Reggie to come on-board with what was clearly the right choice?”

“First, what do you think he called me?”

CeCe pondered momentarily before speaking. “A white motherfucker?”

“Can’t put anything past you.”

“You okay with that?”

“Maybe,” I said with a shrug, “I should start considering it a badge of honor.”

CeCe chuckled. “At least we know which one of you has the real soul.”

Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, boxing, and singer Billy Vera, plus a new one, When Houston Had The Blues. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel The Beard was recently published by Harvard Square Editions.