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(August 12, 2003)
"Man, I think I'm just gonna Dobie Gray on her ass."
Most people wouldn't understand my friend's reference
to singer Dobie Gray, but to me it was crystal clear: Instead
of negotiating for the affections of the woman in question,
he was going to, in the words of Gray's 1973 hit, "Drift
Away."
Long integral to our cultural and emotional make
up, song titles, lyrics and artist names have become
part of the language of a handful my friends.
I call it R&B dialect. Don't laugh.
To attempt such conversation without working
knowledge of the Top 40 of the last 30 years is to
tour France armed only with Bon jour, or to visit parts
of Mexico annoying the locals with "Paquito." When
someone remarks, "I read the contract and I'm beginning
to feel a little like Keith Sweat here," and you know he means
Sweat's "Something Just Ain't Right" as opposed to "Just
Got Paid," you're fluent in R&B dialect.
To make a point by beginning with, "Now, coming from
a hip place," means nothing to the uninitiated. However,
those savvy in R&B dialect knows the line is from Maurice
White's impassioned rap during Earth, Wind and Fire's
"Be Ever Wonderful," and that something fruitful must follow.
While R&B dialect-riddled conversations themselves are never
about pop music, speaking from the dictionaries of Motown
and Gamble and Huff subconsciously represents an
immense love and respect for the music.
I learned R&B dialect from its king, Lonnie. I met him
in the '70s, at City College shortly after I'd moved to Los
Angeles. A fingersnap away from nerdism, 20 year old
Lonnie's physical presentation--a tall, lanky frame in Navy
bell bottoms and big collared print shirts, H. Rap Brown
shades and a well-tended afro accessorized with a Donny
Hathaway apple cap cocked ace deuce--was his salvation.
However, what truly distinguished Lonnie was the records.
He was proud of the music he owned and never went anywhere
without some of it. He showed me a permanent indentation on
the back of his left thumb, created from constantly sticking
it through the hole of a stack of '45s that he carried the way
women carry purses. Lonnie was never without three or four
of the hottest albums under his arm. In the unlikely event
a party was to erupt at a 7-11 or the dentist's office, he'd
be ready.
Lonnie was a sweet guy who didn't seem to trust himself
to say much when he hung with the rest of us, but when he
did, it was usually peppered with a lyric or hook from
a song as metaphor.
"Boy, you better do like the Jackson Five," he advised
his wild cousin, waiting a couple of seconds to see if anyone
would guess "Get It Together." Lonnie described a down and
out buddy as having "more knives in his back than Eddie
Levert," referring to the lead singer of the O'Jays and their
smash, "Backstabbers." Lonnie didn't quote just hit singles,
referring to album cuts as well. With a poker face and a hustler's
eloquence, he'd string together song lyrics and titles to express
himself, leaving us in awe.
Even so, women seemed able to smell nerd on Lonnie, and
he never had one. That is, until he outnerved us all and approached
classmate Brandy, with the line, "Brandy, you're a fine girl/what
a good wife you would be..." Everyone including Brandy thought
it corny, but she found his gumption cute, and to our astonishment,
they began to date.
In fact, Lonnie spent so much time with Brandy that when
I told him I was relieved that she'd come down with the flu and
couldn't accept her birthday surprise--tickets to the Total Experience
club to see the Gap Band--I was only half joking. Lonnie said
not catching her cold was the only consolation in spending
his time, money and gas on a girl that in a month hadn't
allowed him even a kiss.
At the club, our buddies reacted as if they'd seen a ghost.
They didn't expect to see Lonnie here--not when his girl was
shaking her hips out on the dance floor with another man.
Lonnie took one look and strode out of the place, with
me reluctantly on his tail.
Brandy was a fine girl, all right, but she was too fast
for a guy who'd learned all he knew about love listening to
Al Green and Blue Magic, and neither Gladys nor Marvin's
Grapevine prepared Lonnie for Brandy's indiscretions. We
rode in silence down Crenshaw Blvd., until we reached
Wilshire, where he finally muttered that he felt just like
Teddy Pendergrass.
"Love TKO, Lonnie?" I sympathized.
"Nah," he replied, as lights from oncoming traffic revealed
tears welling up in his eyes. "The other one--'The Whole
Town's Laughing at Me.' "
Steven Ivory is a Los Angeles-based writer. Respond to him
at STEVRIVORY@AOL.COM or eurfeedback@eurweb.com
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