Like a wish inscribed on a paper, slipped into a bottle and thrown into the sea, my little story about the Funk Brothers was picked up on another shore and taken to heart…I had to share it with you all.
With the Sturm und Drang that punctuates too much in the world today, it’s sometimes hard to focus on the brighter, more uplifting, elements of life; those moments that remind you of good people, the notion that someone’s paying attention, the simple hope that a little dream long held might still, inexplicably and unexpectedly, come true. Given that systemic cynicism that attempts to hijack our time and ponderings, I wanted to post this addendum as a reminder that moments of thrill and surprise can happen from time to time.
If you haven’t already read the original story, please do and then come back to this…it will make much more sense that way: Enough With Politics… I Want To Sing With the Funk Brothers!
Hummm-hum-humm (I’m humming as you get caught up with the story…but it is a Motown song I’m humming.).
OK, done? Great. So anyway, I wrote the story mainly because, as noted, I’m inspired by these guys and the music they’ve made and any chance I get to throw a little attention their way, I’m gonna do it. I mean, just yesterday I was listening to “Standing in the Shadows of Love” as loudly as my Ipod and ears could handle and as I bopped down the street like an aging Lada Edmund Jr. in Nikes and a sweatband, I was again in full thrall of the funk that is the Funk Brothers (and tell me, besides my sister Mary, how many of you can say you remember Lada Edmund, Jr.?:)
I posted the story here on Rock+Paper+Music, as well as my column at the Huffington Post (HuffingtonPost.com/Lorraine-Devon-Wilke/Funk-Brothers) where, regardless of my wish that my own blog garnered such numbers, I clearly get more play. And lo and behold, about three days after it posted there – this story that not only extolled the Brothers but went on to declare my Bucket List wish to sing with them – came this message on the comment board:
Lorraine-my name is David Spero and I have managed the Funk Brothers for years. I promise that the next time they play the west coast you WILL sing with them!
Meet us at the soundcheck for a trial run, and if you have ‘the goods’ we’ll invite you up at the show as well.
Pause for a moment of awed silence.
You can imagine my reaction. Message in a bottle.
David Spero is a longtime and highly respected manager and all-around music entrepreneur who has worked with a staggering list of bands and musicians we’ve all listened to over the years. Still very active in the music world, his attachment to the Funk Brothers somehow led him to my article and his unexpected and smile-inducing comment. He later contacted me via my website and we were able to have a more in-depth conversation about my background, his, mutual people we knew, etc., and it was a delightful conversation left with this:
Lorraine…thanks for bringing the Funks to so many people’s attention! That alone gets you a shot on stage…but then when I realized you can really sing, well…let’s fill that bucket. We may be doing (a gig) in April in LA…when it’s finalized I’ll let you know. The gigs are far and few between, the guys all have health issues now, so this would be the best shot. It is so appreciated what you did for them…the guys loved it!
And that, ladies and gentlemen, made my day, week, month, year….knowing “the guys loved it.” Seriously, it does not get much better than that.
So I’ll keep my fingers crossed that the potential LA gig in April will include my humble and appreciative participation but, for this moment, Mr. Spero’s reaching out made clear that life can still surprise me. That’s really nice to know. Almost as nice as picturing the venerable old Brothers reading my piece and smiling.
More later…(but I tell ya, I’m warming up those vocal cords!).
Visit www.lorrainedevonwilke.com for details and links to LDW’s books, music, photography, and articles.
become the “beloved enemy,” necessary nourishment yet persistent obstacle. I had a manager, a mentor, and a band leader tell me at various times in my career that I needed to lose weight if I wanted to be a star. Hungrier for success than fatty foods, I did what I had to do. Then came Thanksgiving.
My band had a gig the week before my departure and as I stood after the show chattering excitedly about heading home “next week,” one of my bandmates looked at me incredulously and said, “You do know Thanksgiving’s tomorrow, right?” WHAT?? No, I did NOT! I rushed to the calendar hanging in the club office and FOR GOD’S SAKE, HE WAS RIGHT!! For some reason I’d always assumed Thanksgiving was the last Thursday of November and had booked accordingly. But no, it’s the fourth (4th!) Thursday of November and this particular November, whatever year it was, had five freakin’ Thursdays! I could barely contain my panic but I was going to have that damn Thanksgiving dinner come hell, high water, or a $500 last minute ticket change!
A hysterical late-night wrangle with credit cards and flight reservation desks got me that very expensive ticket to Chicago early the next morning, which wiped out my available credit but would surely be worth the drain. My flight got me in about an hour before dinner, my brother picked me up at O’Hare and whisked me to a warm and inviting home that was jam-packed with more people than I’d shared a table with since I…well, left home! Cheers at my arrival were heartening and as my Mom and various siblings got platters out to the table and I waited in anticipation for the entrance of the bubbling brown turkey, my Mom leaned over and in a conspiratorial tone whispered, “Your Dad and I finally figured out how to make Thanksgiving less stressful. We cooked the turkey last week, sliced it, froze it, then all we had to do today was give each plate a dollop of Campbell’s gravy and a quick zap in the microwave…what could be easier??” she chortled triumphantly.
Life is short. Or it’s long, depending on how you look at it. And despite economic woes, global unrest, famine, war, pepper spray, clueless politicians, joblessness, the Phelps family, bigotry, hate and Kim Kardashian (OK, that was just mean!), there is still so much to be grateful for. And we all know it. We just have to pay attention. And what most of us are most grateful for are the people in our lives; the circle of wagons that curls around us like a great, protective huddle. And these people for whom we are so grateful, who carry the key to our joy, these people need to know how we feel. Today or tomorrow at the latest, but don’t wait much past that; don’t wait until you forgot what you wanted to say, don’t presume “they know anyway,” and certainly don’t put it off until the only moment left is the memorial speech at their funeral. Yeah, that’s too late.
Despite entreaties from the clueless one, the sister perpetuating the estrangement rejects any attempts at rapprochement and has announced this is forever irresolvable. And it probably will be. Two sisters split over something unknown and likely very minor. Tragic in the scheme of things. In the other situation, schisms over financial matters poorly handled by one have split a family, likely beyond repair and, once again, what was once a warm, loving group has been fractured due to unspoken resentments and unreconciled shame and confusion. In both cases I wanted to scream to whomever was the hold out, “THIS IS A WASTE OF LIFE! This is your sister/brother/father/daughter/etc. and time will sweep by without notice and all this petty bullshit, this righteous anger, won’t matter a bit when a death bed is involved and life is no longer an option to waste. Fix it! Figure it out! It’s important.”
smooth the rift; solve the schism. Say all the admiring things you’d want to say at that memorial service but say them while the person is still standing in front of you. Make their lunch. Make their bed. Make their day. Buy, read and make comment on their book. CD. Fashion line. Business plan. Go to their play. Cheer at their baseball game. “Like” their page. Respond to their emails. Listen on the phone while doing nothing else. Do something unexpected to show your gratitude. Don’t make presumptions about “I have lots of time.” You don’t. Time can slip away and sometimes disappear without a warning.
Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays because other than the iconic meal we either do or don’t have depending on our own traditions and palates, its only purpose is to acknowledge and celebrate gratitude. Whatever its history, whatever its traditions and origins, its purest, most salient element is the simple celebration of gratefulness. What a sweet mission statement! And so in my family we not only do make the traditional meal (and I’ve been told no one does it better! :), but we take a moment at some point during that meal to go around the table as each of us verbally expresses what we’re most grateful for. I always look forward to the surprises that sometimes come in those revelations.
Mostly I’m grateful for LIFE, the meal we all share. Good, bad and in between. There’s something deeply exhilarating about an adventure where every single day you get to wake up and have a new shot at it. How exciting is that? So thank you, all of you who are part of my adventure. I’m glad you’re here. Stick around. Me? I gotta go start the pies, the potatoes need peeling and the turkey is on the grill for a long, time-sucking 4 hours. I promise, we’re eatin’ good tonight!
For me it was the creative arts. Always. I don’t know why. I could point to the lack of TV in my youth and childhood – and the books, music and art that filled the gap – but, frankly, my younger sibs who did not do without are just as artistically inclined and they were definitely Children of the TV (similar to Children of the Corn only in that their eyes are a bit large). Perhaps our penchants are pre-programmed. A carry-over from a previous life (if you believe such things). Certainly they’re influenced by parents who, in my case, were passionate about the arts, injecting them at every turn, convinced that even rearranging the living room was an expression of the creative mind. It is, Mom; I agree. And thank you, both, for your fine contribution to my artistic journey.
So armed with my many Muses who kept me company throughout an eclectic life, I happily bandied in a bevy of mediums, even past the point when others tried to convince me to “pick one and stick with it.” Creative monogamy, so to speak. But I had arrived in LA pumped by youthful years of writing, acting and singing, poised to take it all on in this fine creative mecca, so I chafed at the notion of exclusivity. Seemed so…exclusive. Still, I was a naive and eager young lass, addicted to my ambition and ultimately easily swayed, so I threw aside my concerns and did just that; I chose acting, forsaking all others like a good, faithful spouse, convinced that by committing to only one Muse I would certainly conjure its success into being.
Don’t get me wrong, I had loads of fun as an actress but ultimately fell out of love, particularly after it was clear that a viable career was not to be had and, it turns out, I really didn’t care all that much. Mostly I missed the other Muses. I remember telling my manager at the time, after five years of acting fidelity, that I missed music and wanted to get back to it and he literally laughed in my face. Seriously, he laughed. His perspective of me was so narrow that rather than explore a new path and its many possibilities, he presumed I was a deluded little dilettante. Big fat tipping point, that laugh. I dumped him, quit my acting class, threw out all my vapid 8×10’s and spent the next decade or so deliriously happy as a singer in a rock n’ roll band. And a writer. And a taker of pictures. All of it. Even some damn acting. My creative harem. Welcome home.
Though you’re just meeting, I’ve actually been shooting pictures for most of my life. For whatever reason, the idea of visually chronicling the journey was as natural as blinking an eye….and this was before Smart Phones and Facebook! I had a crappy little camera I took everywhere and I have many of those pictures still. They’re amateur and silly and some are as crappy as the camera taking them, but the eye was there, the composition was good and, bottom line, they are responsible for inciting my interest. It’s only been in the last couple of decades, however, that the passion to do it well became a pull. In fact, there was some regret that I hadn’t actually taken it more seriously earlier on…damn if I didn’t find the whole darkroom ritual of lights and chemicals and magically appearing images a romantic one! In fact, if I hadn’t rushed headlong into the performing arts I’ve always said I would have either been a professional photographer or a zoologist. Seriously. Either one. Primates or pictures.
But given my lack of aptitude for the sciences, photography, albeit peripherally, was at least able to come along on the ride – as much as possible given the limits of time and money. And though that first crappy camera held me in good stead for many years, it was when my mother-in-law bought me my first good Canon 35mm about 20 years ago that my world changed. Suddenly the pictures in my mind’s eye translated to paper. I began viewing things from the perspective of frame and light. Even when I didn’t have the camera, I was like Pam in The Office wedding episode snapping invisible pictures of perfect moments. I learned that the excitement of capturing an image of true beauty or amazing candor was as exhilarating as belting a killer song or writing that brilliant paragraph. I was hooked. And when the digital revolution exploded with all its heady possibilities, I took a leap of faith, invested in a top line Canon DLSR, a couple of stellar professional lenses and have been in a solid relationship with the Muse ever since.
happy and represent amazing experiences in which I participated. Some depict historical places that took my breath away, some are those decisive moments in real life captured in a flash of serendipity; others are simple beauty or sweetness with no other explanation, and some are stories I wanted to tell or people who grabbed my eye. A few are even technically du
bious but exude something unique or special in a way that won them a spot on the site despite their flaws. It’s a collection that speaks loudly to how I see the world and I happen to like what it has to say.
When I was about three months pregnant, I remember looking into the empty room that was to be his, overwhelmed with a feeling of, “Oh, dear God, there’s going to be a person, an actual living person in there in a few months, and what the hell do I know about taking care of an actual person who’s going to non-negotiably LIVE with me for the next couple of decades??!” It was science fiction, that’s how strange and unimaginable it seemed at the time. And yet, by eight months I was calm and ready to get on with it; by nine I couldn’t wait. It was then I realized how truly brilliant Mother Nature is, the way she so wisely manages our evolution to assimilate, cope, and ready for the big changes in our lives. And just as we mothers are given nine full months (in most cases) to ramp up to the enormity of the task we’re taking on, the gestation period of the college chapter 18 years later is our time to learn how to successfully let go and move beyond that first incarnation of the job. The Motherhood Bookend, if you will. Bringing Them Home then Letting Them Go. There’s a sad but sweet symmetry there.
understandable, that struggle, but since the changes are inevitable, it’s advised to get a jump on it! Take the gift of these college years, so generously offered by Mother Nature, to slowly but surely learn the parameters of your new role. By the time you actually get to their Fully Adult part, when they’ve moved into their own home, are paying their own way, and struggling with their own transitions into their own new roles as independent men or women, you’ll have a tremendous head start, ready and able to help them through it all. And they’ll need it!
expense! Though it depicts an in-house industrial rather than a 1983 version of an Apple commercial, it remains a hilariously dated snapshot of another, seemingly very distant, era in computer history.
1. Make sure you fall in love with someone who can ultimately be your friend. By your 21st year that friend will likely mean more to you than any lover ever could. And if you’re lucky enough to still have a buzz with each other at that point, you’ll be fully aware that six-pack abs, a full head of hair and the chiseled jaw of youth are all quite fabulous and chemistry-inducing as a starting point, but ultimately can’t shake a stick at that friend who knows all your physical and emotional sweet spots and loves you despite the outward lessening of your previously-held vixen status.
Happy Anniversary, Pete.
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