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October 25 - 31, 2007

Cover Story
buzz@boulderweekly.com

If ever I decide to pen my autobiography, I believe I will call it, The Misadventures of the Only Black Kid in Whiteville. That won’t be an entirely accurate title, since there were, in point of fact, five black kids in my high school, but since three of them lived in my house, I think it’ll hold up as representative of my experiences. Growing up where I did, musical socialization was an interesting process for me.

Most of my early musical tastes were shaped by my mother, who had the kind of crush on Lionel Richie that a young lady today might have on Justin Timberlake (which is to say, unreasonably visceral for someone you’ve never even met); and my father, whose collection of Ray Charles and Jackie Wilson curiously migrated into my own when I reached the age of enough courage to engage in blatant theft. I quite literally, until the age of about 10, did not know there was music made before 1975 that was produced by someone other than Motown Records (Yeah, I know, Charles was on RCA and Wilson was on Brunswick. I know that now. Then, I thought that all black musicians were from Motown. I didn’t know where Motown was, but I knew it had really good music.)



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