Brother Ray

Rest in funk, my brother... A few years ago, I went to Jazzfest with BabyGirl Beth and got myself saved by Ray Charles. Well, actually, he was just the highest point in a miraculous 24-hour period in which I saw The Neville Brothers, The Funky Meters, Bobby Blue Bland, Dr John and Taj Mahal--back-to-back-to-"let your backbone slip." But I cried when Ray Charles started to sing, in his beautiful brown tuxedo with the velvet pinstripe down the leg. I'd just been through a terrible period, during which all of my musical dreams had come crashing down around me, and Jazzfest fixed the ache in my heart and unkinked my spine. BGB and I danced and sweated and laughed until we didn't hurt so much anymore. Boy, do I need some of that right now... But back to Brother Ray. Remember when he sang "It's not easy being green" on Sesame Street, and suddenly a whole generation of little kids understood how their black friends felt, a little bit, and what was wrong with racisim and right about being the color that you are? "It's not easy... but it's beautiful..." I have this Greatest Hits CD of Ray's that makes me want to put on a swank dress and high heels and swan around. (That is, until "What'd I Say" comes on, which makes me want to act much less ladylike.) Working on the Pepsi account in the 80s, I did lots of crappy promotional things with Ray's face on them. And I was outraged when they called those white girls "The Raylettes" because they weren't. The Raelettes are, and always have been, sistas of the highest order. Maybe a little older, maybe a little rounder, but far closer to the essence of soul than those skinny white model bitches. When I grow up, I wanna be a Raelette. I want to Hit the Road, Jack. I want to spend all my Greenback Dollar Bills on whisky and wine (and no Pepsi, thanks). My favorite thing? The joy in Ray's voice, even when singing "Drown in My Own Tears." Joy in sorrow. Sorrow in joy. That's the truth about it all. Preach on, Brother Ray. Preach on.