A Talkin' To!

You have managed to turn me from a woman of substance into a Brick flying, calling too damn much, crying and crying, spying, way down, down low with flats on, from the opposite side of the bar, easy off flowing on the top of your car…I never intended to be this chick, groping in smoke for her mind, or the readily dissolving remnants of it, after being chased, I’ve been dismissed, as just an object, something to play with, you have managed to turn me from a woman of substance to this…

Who knew? I certainly didn’t. I suppose we could just chalk it up to fate. Maybe fate is too strong though and makes the consequences sound a bit too dire. Coincidence? Perhaps. It was a little more than a chance meeting. About that much, I’m certain. It felt like the Ritz, on 9th and E, circa 1993, Washington, D.C., all the homeys, and me. If we weren’t on the dance floor we got to the dance floor. Those on the dance floor slowed up for a second, almost stopping to comprehend just what was going on, as the baseline to Das EFX Mic Checka cleared the air with its very daunting, intimidating quiet before the storm intro, or at least as much as that is possible while blasting 50 dB out of some speakers, black folks on 4 floors wall to wall, and then….RIGGETY ROWLLLLLLLL!!!! That’s the sensation that I got as I sat in the grid lock listening to the latest Jill Scott CD (The Real Thing: Words and Sounds, Vol. 3) that was in the changer. It was just outta the blue, but it hit like a ton of bricks. It ran through me like that proverbial buzz saw that the NFL analysts talk about when describing Tom Brady’s Patriots romping through opposing defenses like a hot knife through a stick of butter.

You ever catch your mama, a good friend, a frustrated co-worker, disgruntled postal worker, the team that the aforementioned Patriots embarrassed last Sunday, your ex-wife(!) on the wrong day at the wrong time, and you get to taste the wrath, in full force, in all of its fury, as they decide that today is the day to let the flood gates fly open, to let loose. You didn’t ask for it, but you got it. In the middle of it, you don’t even know how you got there, but one thing’s for certain: you’re stuck. There’s no escaping. You’ve got to weather this storm.

Chances are, it wasn’t even your storm, but you’ll still be the one trying to brace yourself as they proceed to take 400 years of slavery out on your...–shut your mouth! You get a talkin’ to. I got a talkin’ to today, and believe you me...no punches were pulled. Again, I didn’t ask for this. All I did was grab a CD off the shelf as I walked out the door for work. It wasn’t a new CD either. I’ve not only owned it for over a month, I’ve played it several times at home. I’ve listened to it while I ironed clothes. It played while I cooked. Jill wailed on Come See Me while I paid her no mind, cleaning, talking on the phone…blogging. I didn’t hear it though.

You remember when Wesley Snipes was layin’ into Woody Harrelson’s Billy Hoyle in White Men Can’t Jump, “You don’t Hear Jimmy!”? It was like that. Jill was on, but I didn’t hear her. It’s strange how that’s such a huge metaphor for the greater meaning of her narrative, her soliloquy and my talkin’ to. And is it just her narrative? It’s eerily familiar. I’ve been here before.

As usual, Ms. Scott brews up some “crazy nasty, uber-fantastic, chemistry”, marrying her sultry, powerful and vibrant vocals with provocative, soulful, and sometimes hard driving rhythms, just funky enough and sophisticated at the same time. It’s sexy in a grown-up, non-Ciara/Beyonce/Ashanti/Missy/Video Vixen sort of way. And still incredibly relevant. I don’t mean to sound surprised about the potency of her lyrics, she being one of the Big W-I, double-L-I-E’s of spoken word. She always has something to say and never seems to have a hard to time saying it and being oh so colorful. But it was never like this. It was NEVER like this.

Her tales of toast, 2 scrambled eggs…griiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiits, were both clever and cute and made her that really real that Common talks about. Allow me to be the first to put you on notice that she stepped her game up on this effort. Floetry did a little something on Opera, but Jill spread her wings and showed her Airness, rarefied as it is, dropping them and others off on the second floor as she rose to the roof. I found myself looking around and staring into the other cars that were parked next to me on 880 North, wondering if they could hear it. I must’ve blushed a couple times, sheepishly peering down my nose and then to the periphery, embarrassed like a school boy whose crush has been exposed in front of the class, note seized by teacher and read aloud. Neither Puffy, nor Jigga ever made me want to have some Cristal, and Biggie never moved me to get some Remi in my system, but Jill has my mouth watering in anticipation of a Crown Royal on ice, and I do believe I’m turning a deep shade of red telling you about it. Okay, maybe burgundy. But it was altogether deeper than that.

Jill Scott said a lot here. “Did you hear what she said? No…did you listen?” I said to a friend in a phone conversation later that evening, returning a call that I was forced to let go to voicemail as Jill was giving me that talkin’ to. (Of course, she had “heard”, and was mildly amused that I got my head opened up). Listening to this record (if I may borrow my Dad’s vernacular. Before CD’s, there were these black vinyl things…and we didn’t lock our doors at night…) felt like that dream that you wake up from and sit there for a minute, breathing heavily, not sure if it was real or if it was just a dream because its details were so vivid that you swear you had just lived it.

Does Jill’s command of her communication skills so completely eclipse those of the rest of us mere mortals or is it that our 30-something sensibilities and life experiences seem to be in lock step at this moment in time(in a yin and yang, male and female sort of way), allowing me to hear what might have been lost on me at any time prior? Simultaneously, I heard what she was saying, felt what she was saying, wanted to sympathize, be a friend ,empathize, do a better job next time, lend an ear, give advice, and was even moved to apologize. She was Mama, good friend, ex-wife, girlfriend, co-worker all at once, sounding off to me. Getting some things off her chest.

Maybe I’ve been trying to be what they need me to be, when I shoulda just been me.

Wow! That’s really all I can say. “But you don’t call, and you don’t come and you don’t say that you miss me…and you don’t stop on your way back just to say hi…,”. And here I thought I was in touch. I thought I paid attention. I (and I daresay many of my brethren) have been asleep at the wheel. Exxon Valdez captain, that’s me.

It wasn’t all an attack. The full frontal assault wasn’t entirely abrasive. She confided as well, as friends of the opposite sex are wont to do sometimes. The brutal honesty of this confidence doesn’t come around often so I suggest you do as I: just shut up and listen. I learned a thing to two, like when your older cousin or real cool Auntie breaks something down for you. Enlightens you. Armed with this type of information, you could’ve been dangerous all these years.

The Real Thing is a portrait or perhaps more appropriately a dissertation, while, strangely, still an exercise in intimacy. Yes, I said intimacy. Again, my 30-something-ness affords me the luxury of not allowing the longings of the loins cloud the definition. She bares her soul in a way that demands to be acknowledged and considered. Sistas, Jill did you a solid.