Tale of the Badu Night PART FOUR

Start at the beginning.

AS WE LEANED against a wall backstage--me awkwardly, Adria looking inexplicably at ease--a fellow passed by and smiled and asked if we were having a good time. He was the selfsame fellow who'd been in front of us onstage, with the triceps and the cornrows.

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Tale of the Badu Night PART THREE

Read PART ONE HERE and PART TWO HERE.

I wish I could better, or more narratively, remember the show. I recall it only in kaleidoscopic pieces, as befits a religious experience. We positioned ourselves in the left wing of the stage, behind scattered members of Badu's band (the one directly in front of us had cornrows, broad shoulders, nice triceps) and I could clearly see Erykah's colorful bra straps, and when she tired of and removed her heels I could see her toenail polish, which looked white. It is silly to worship people as idols, but I couldn't help it: being that close to Badu made me feel imbued with magic powers.

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Tale of the Badu Night PART TWO

Read PART ONE here.

When I found Adria and the five others they were already several phases into devising crisis strategies. The coreligionist who had bought the tickets simply could not find them. She had hoped to offer records of the purchase at the box office, but this was to no avail. Online tickets leave a trail, but tickets bought the old-fashioned way are like cash: terrible to lose. She was willing to re-purchase for everyone, but the show was sold out. Any personage who seemed to work at the Fox had been pleaded with, also to no avail. No scalpers were in sight. One of the ladies had even been lured by a shady-looking character who swore he could get us in backstage, but when he started leading her around the dark street corner she turned tail.

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Tale of the Badu Night PART ONE

A funny thing happened to me in the last moments of the old year and first moments of the new one. It also happened to my friend Adria, the only person I know whose Baduizt fervor might exceed--yes, exceed, my own. I'd dreamt for years of going to see Badu with Adria. I knew that no matter how zealous and ridiculous I became at the high holy day service of Badu, Adria would be no less zealous and ridiculous. 

So when Adria told me Erykah would be at the Fox Theater in my very own city on New Year's Eve--just in time for me to be sufficiently spine functional to stay out all night doing something fun, which I'd not done in a couple years-- you can imagine my delight. A plan quickly hatched, involving we two and five other coreligionists, one of whom worked near the Fox and kindly offered to buy everyone's tickets at the box office, so we wouldn't have to pay online purchase fees.

As the Eve approached I felt nervous. I never really know how my spine will behave. It's more like I guesstimate the odds. In the week before, I was able to predict a 25% maximum likelihood that a spinal disaster would ensue, and decided I couldn't say fairer than that. I dishonestly texted my mom that I was doing great and was quite sure the show wouldn't be a problem. 

I took precautions. I planned to arrive late, and miss The Coup, who were opening. I declined a pre-party invite from the coreligionist who'd bought the tix. Adria stopped by for a pre-pre-party at my house, and made me a shirt with iron-on Badu lyrics, to match the one she'd made for herself. Her back said, You don't have to believe everything you think/We've been programmed, and my chest had the next line: Wake up/We miss you. We were gloriously nerdy in our shirts.

We smoked a few puffs before Adria took off. We'd meet at the Fox. I spent the next hour stressing about parking downtown on New Year's, about spine, about which shoes would be least aesthetically and ergonomically offensive. But I made it, happily sacrificed $15 for a few hours in a $5/day lot, and headed toward Broadway in my coat and leggings and boots. I'd hardly been downtown the last couple years, and here I was amid the hip New Year's crowd, cold air in my face, hair flying. I was feeling myself. I called Adria, but the connection sucked. I figured I'd find her there. She called back, however, because she had to tell me something rather dire.

The tickets. They were gone.

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Born-Again Baduizt Part Two: Return of the Donk

IT WOULD have been nice if Erykah Badu made just the album I wanted. It would have had all the philosophical depth of New AmErykah Part One and all the yarn-spinning and sensuality of Mama's Gun and even better grooves than Worldwide Underground and would have taught me everything I need to know.

But it doesn't work that way. Badu made the album she needed to make, and it's on me to love it or leave it. Being a proper fan is probably good training for all kinds of other relationships.

I know I've no right to write music reviews. I'm not qualified. I don't understand music, even though I consume it in gobs. So people say New AmErykah Part Two is more acoustically au naturel whereas Part One was more pre-fabby, and I believe them, because* it sounds that way, now that they mention it. But I'd never have thought that up. I share my day job with a pro violist and find her world of wooden objects foreign and fascinating. I'm flattered to use the same mouse as such magic hands. Writing is not cool like that.
*This phraseology is meant to be Colbertish.

What I can tell you, experientially, is that Part Two is emotional journey while Part One was bombastic blaxpoitation soundtrack. But it makes leisurely tracks across sophisticated emotional terrain, far from the rawness of my perennial favorite Badu song, "I Want You." For those in need of review, the archetypically Baduizt prescriptions therein contained for the affliction of being sprung on some dude:

1. pray til early May
2. fast for thirty days
3. get a good book and get all in it
4. try a little yoga for a minute
5. turn the sauna up to hotter
and, 6. drink a whole jar of holy water (an entire jar!)

Badu appears to be done drinking holy water. On Part Two, she sounds cozy and requited. Which must be nice. This album doesn't have a natural single, a "Honey" or a "Danger." So "Window Seat" is the one getting tossed out for broad consumption, which is kinda random. It's not the awesomest song ever, but I object to criticism that it's a throwback to the Baduizm days. Nothing on that ankhdafied proto-Badu album was as cool as:

So, out my mind I'm tusslin
Back and forth tween here and hustlin
I don't wanna time travel no more
I want to be here
I'm thinkin
On this porch I'm rockin
Back and forth like Lightnin' Hopkins
If anybody speak to Scotty tell him beam me up

When New AmErykah Part Three comes out (oh yeah: there's a Part Three; you know it), I might as well just turn immediately to whatever track exceeds the ten-minute mark, because those weird, ambivalent, endless jams always become my favorites.

On Part Two, the weird, ambivalent, endless jam niche is filled by "Out My Mind, Just In Time." Throughout the whole ten minutes she never decides whether she is crazy or not, which--I don't know about you, but that's how I go through each day. It does that signature Badu trick of seeming like one track ends and another begins--the mood, the music, the gist of the lyrics may all change; silence may even occur--but no! Still the same song. And when you really listen to one of these smushies it's not just a cute ploy; the parts are rightfully of the same song. It's like with semi-colons; surely these are two necessarily-tethered independent clauses, not separate sentences in need of punctuational chastening.

Another good smush, should you need one, comes on Part One's "Master Teacher." That song also abets my theory that there is a Badu song suited for any mindstate. "Master Teacher" is for insomnia: I have longed to stay awake/Beautiful world I'm tryna find.

The best part of "Out My Mind" comes at one of its about-face seams. She shifts from delicately-sprouting optimism to:

MaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAn
Fuck this shit
Fuck this shit

That bit totally played in my head when I had to sit full days at the reception desk. (The pro violist skipped town for a spell.)

On the opposite end of two spectra--length, seriousness--comes the album's comic miniature track, "You Loving Me," which, in typical Erykah expectation-thwartation fashion, is not a lovey song at all. In its entirety, it goes:

[Badu sounds]
You lovin me, and I'm drivin your Benz
You lovin me, and I'm spendin your ends
You lovin me, and I'm drinkin your gin
You lovin me, and I'm fuckin your friends
[repeat]
You lovin me
[mutters That's terrible isn't it, and chuckles]

Erykah would never do those mean things! Why did she think that up? It's so needless and silly and catchy.

And yes, there's a collab with Lil Wayne because Badu does hear my prayers. It's a romp. He kinda sounds like he's freestyling. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I know he doesn't write shit cause he ain got time.


DON'T WORRY. I am going to talk about the nekkid video. Of course I'm gonna talk about the nekkid video. Badu has generously offered for us all to make of it what we will. So to me it's about unlayering. Which, in turn, is about performance.

Speakinawhich, I saw her perform at Oakland's renewed Fox Theater back in February. Seeing Badu live was not the easy adulative experience I'd anticipated. Goapele, who opened for her, is slick and unconscionably beautiful, and while she is a fairy godmother in her own right,* she seemed like a feeble pop star compared to Badu. Goapele gave us what we wanted. Erykah was making some obscure demand and promising to make it worth our while, like the mean teacher who actually has high hopes for you.
*I hate this phrase. Its use pertaining to the wife of an impressive man should be banned.

She started out inaccessibly weird and excessively clothed and inversed both ways as the night wore on, so when I watched the nekkid video, the theme was already familiar. The show's chailight came when she was down to just glitter pants and purple t-shirt. She led a sing-along to "Ain't No Fun," that classic West Coast posse cut which posits that if the homies cannot partake of the lady you are enjoying that enjoyment is curtailed, and I've never felt so elated singing Cause you gave me all your puss-ay/And you even licked my balls.

Who knew misogyny could be so efficiently undercut by mockery? But then co-optation of the oppressor is a fine tradition. It's why gay people took 'queer' and black people took the 'n' word. (Also why I took 'Cleb,' but long story.) Winking co-optation succeeds where rants fail. During the part that goes, And if you can't fuck that day baby/Just lay back, and open ya mouth, Badu tipped her head back and opened her mouth and aimed her mic there. It was hilario.

Onstage and in the "Window Seat" video, Badu's protective opener armor is peacoat, hoodie up, lots of articles. (It's like Game says: My mind fucked up, so I cover it with a Raider hood.) She sheds that protection in layers, with determination and care. Art demands self-exposure, but overexposure might kill you. The video evokes the work and risk of trodding one's individual path. She walks with unmistakable purpose. When I listen to "Window Seat" while walking home along Lake Merritt, I may or may not walk thusly myself. And may or may not loose my hair from its tyrannical clip in dramatic fashion at some pivotal moment.

Badu specializes in what they call 'brave vulnerability,' a thankless specialty. If it weren't bad enough to have your soul all naked, you also get demeaned as a pussified emotionalist. This strikes me as the opposite of, say, intellectualism, war and sports--pursuits that garner such ready respect.


NOT THAT that's why she did the Dallas stripdown. She did it because she heard that her #1 stan said this:

My only problem with [the song "Me"] is the part when she says "my ass and legs have gotten thick." If you have seen any recent pictures of stick figure Badu, you'll understand why this is offensive to those of us in the thick community.

Erykah: I am so sorry. Point taken. Your boomboom might mine own exceed in size. The thick community welcomes you.
xoxo,
Cleb

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Born-Again Baduizt

IF only this post could fade in with sparkly sounds like "Back in the Day." Writing is just not cool like that.

I had always heard her, but only recently have I come to accept Erykah Badu as my personal savior. As for many born-agains, my Baduizt epiphany came when she performed on Chappelle's Show. She swayed her small hips, she rocked her big afro wig. I fell into a trance.



For Chappelle she performed "I Want You," which proceeded to become my favorite song. It's Badu at her extended-jam finest; the album version runs to ten minutes and fifty-three seconds. The song is so simple and she's just chanting I I I I I I I want you you you you you you you half the time, but it totally works. The lyrics suggest the following archetypically Baduizt prescriptions for the ailment of being sprung on some dude:

1) pray til early May
2) fast for thirty days
3) get a good book and get all in it
4) try a little yoga for a minute
5) turn the sauna up to hotter
and 6) drink a whole jar of holy water (an entire jar!)

I can start the "Back in the Day" glitter intro when I hop on the bus downtown and jam through the city of Oakland on a Badu ride, wrapping up the flight-of-fancy riff at the end of "I Want You" just in time to walk through the gate to my backyard and let the chickens out of the coop. If life gets better, I don't know about it yet.

And I have learned to let Erykah go on her flights of fancy. She has won my trust; I'm willing to take the ride. These days I earnestly and willfully choose to march through all the dense "Bump It" yodeling in order to earn the clear awakening "Back in the Day" intro (about which I won't shut up).


WHEN New Amerykah Part One came out last year I was naturally keen with anticipation. But that album is like *advanced* and, not being a music nerd, it took me a while to break into it. Because the rest is not like "Honey." The rest is some bombastic blaxploitation soundtrack that this whitegirl was not initially prepared to get with. Plus, the vibe struck me at first as ickily political and I don't like music trying to be political (although I have to give it to Erykah that she can pull off even that without much departure into lameness).

But I found a road in, eventually, with the song "Me," which falls on the tender, self-reflective side of the bombastic blaxploitation spectrum. My only problem with it is the part when she says "my ass and legs have gotten thick." If you have seen any recent pictures of stick figure Badu, you'll understand why this is offensive to those of us in the thick community.

My next single was to be "That Hump," a song which promotes my theory that there is an Erykah Badu song for any mood that might befall one. "That Hump" works on feelings of depression or discouragement: If I could get over that hump/Then maybe I wiiiiill feel be-etter. But my latest fave off New Amerykah Part One is "Soldier," which is actually a gentle groove track despite the name. It includes classic Baduing around à la: Break it down say mhm whooooaho hey hey (repeat). Turns out "Twinkle" is the dark, disturbing song. (Oh, Erykah, how you love to thwart my easy expectations!) It has the hoped-for sparkle sounds, but they come off spooky somehow.


WOULD that this post could blast out on a Hendrixy riff like "I Want You." But writing is just not cool like that.

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