My Auntie’s favorite food was fish, and so we fried it on Fridays a lot. And I do mean that.
Now, this isn’t to say that she was the only person in the family whose favorite food was fish. Nor is it to say that she didn’t have other favorite foods. And it definitely isn’t to say that we were the only Black people around the globe who fried fish on Fridays... but it is to say that if she and my cousins came over, or maybe some other people too, it was probably a Friday, and the grease was hot.
And, like clockwork, as my Dad would fire up that grease outside, and the grown folks would settle in, crack open a few, and kick off their sandals to simply sit with each other... Frankie Beverly & Maze would be playing. From the old indoor stereo we had in the 90s, to the staticky computer speakers we hooked up on the patio in the early 00s, and the various Bluetooth speakers that have come and gone over the years, two things remained the same: what we played, and what we ate.
And thus, Frankie Beverly became the soundtrack to not only family, but also relaxation and release, community, joy, pain, and the vehemently unconquerable vibes of the great outdoors. My friend, we were outside before, during, and after COVID, and it was, in and of itself, sustenance.
This, dear reader, is a lot deeper than hearing “Before I Let Go” at a cookout. But, of course, if you’ve ever been to one and heard that song, you’re certainly barking up the right tree. However, I’ll expound.
It was a Friday night. I was living in Cincinnati (did you know that about me?) and headed to a Reds game. Cincy is a beautiful city, just over the Ohio—Kentucky border. Now by “border”, I mean a river, and by “just over”, I mean the bridge was all that separated you from being in an entirely different state at any given moment.
Anyway, the baseball stadium sits just off The Ohio River, and I was looking for cheaper-than-cheap parking because that’s what 21-year-olds who love baseball do. Circling, circling, circling; no dice. I couldn’t find anything that suited my fancy enough to not feel like I’d get towed over the next three hours. But what I did find was what seemed like a million parent-aged Black folks migrating to a place I was invited to, though it wasn’t far from where I was going.
I would’ve thought it was a funeral had they:
not been so happy
not been in all-white
And when I say all-white, I mean that shit.
Now, imagine me, in a redder-than-red Pete Rose throwback; homage to The Big Red Machine, thinking I was going to be the belle of the goddamn ballgame. Headed to spit seeds and sip brew like a champ.
Au contraire, my friend, I had missed the boat. There would be only one belle that night, and his name wasn’t Charlie Hustle. His was Frankie.
Once I realized what was going on, I immediately thought about those Friday nights home. The times my, Taylor’s, Jasmine’s, Ellis’ (and maybe your) parents left us kids at home as they donned their all-white (and I do mean that shit), and headed to Chastain Park in ATL for greener pastures. He came every year like a coronation of sorts.
Pomp, circumstance, and fanfare ain’t even the word.
And back then? On the Friday nights they went out, Fridays might’ve been about calling girls from school on the house phone for me. Or ordering a pizza pie with the money left on the counter. Or watching Rush Hour on cable, trying to stay up late enough to see Kobe play.
You see, Frankie was cool when the grown folks were there, but when they weren’t, we bode the time as children saw fit. But as I sit and type my piece, I come as one of the many creative offspring of those who watched many a grown folk come over, crack open a few, and sit with you in the name of sustenance.
Back to Cincy.
All alone and far from home, in what seemed like a foreign land, all I could think about was family and home all those years later. And as I sat in my seat at the stadium, watching America’s favorite pasttime, it didn’t take much time to pass to know that I was in the wrong crowd that night.
I knew, then, at the age of 21 that I needed to make this happen for myself. A Frankie Beverly and Maze concert, that is. It was like being a Christian and not being baptized, or being a chef who can’t crack an egg with one hand. Silly shit.
“I can’t believe you haven’t been to a Frankie Beverly & Maze concert!”, I vowed, would be something I’d never hear addressed to me, if I could help it.
Well, life gets in the way sometimes, you know? And urgent things seem to trump the most important things. Alas.
Or better yet at last! My night finally came over ten years later, here in ATL’s Chastain Park.
As my family and I descended upon the venue, in our all-white, and I mean that shit, I was finally in the number. I was equipped: a fish plate, a lil’ fruit platter, with enough drank in my cup and cooler to melt the week away. I was able to set things right in the universe.
“Joy and pain are truly like sunshine and rain”.
Part mantra, part war cry, part lector-style call and response, we felt every bit of it that night. We sang, we danced, we smiled so hard that we laughed, and then we sang some more. And, as I’d heard for years, through word-of-mouth and other scuttlebutt, what they said was true. Frankie’s voice was “leaving him”.
It had been for years, actually. But what did that matter? Especially when he had us to sing along with every word of every song at every stop on every tour. For all the times he’d lent his services to the quaint moments in our cars from here to there, the background of casual conversations, the lethargic cookouts in need of an extra kick, and the quiet Friday nights in my backyard... if his concerts were now a time for us to pull our weight, well the I’d be damned if I didn’t answer the call. So, that’s what we did.
And, I cannot make this up nor can I tell a lie, it STORMED right when he got on stage. And I mean that shit. So bad so, that it was probably smarter to just stand there and get wet. That type of rain. You wouldn’t believe how far from reality the thought of trying to head to our car that night really was. That place was an absolute Maze, as it were.
Not that anyone was ever really planning on leaving anyway. That’s not part of the doxology.
This was best illustrated by the young couple next to us. Much younger than my parents, yet they appeared to be older than me and my soon-to-be-wife who was standing next to me. And if they weren’t older than us, they were definitely wiser. The dude to my left leaned in during the storm:
“I know your girl might be antsy because of her hair getting wet and all, but tell her that ain’t nobody leaving. What I’m saying is y’all would be the only ones to leave. You never know, our legends are getting old. Gotta stay. GOT to stay.”
I was entranced. And when I looked down, there were two, neatly folded ponchos in my hand. And then, when I looked back up, he was smiling at me and nodding.
I understood. See, baseball games get rained out all the time. Not Frankie Beverly concerts, though. And even though we were with our parents and siblings, and they didn’t have enough ponchos for the whole family, which made us feel somewhat guilty, we figured two ponchos were better than no ponchos. So we did what kids do...we snuck them on, survivor’s guilt be damned, and zoned back into the party.
By the time we turned back to our right, our family all had on ponchos too! Someone nearby had done the same thing for them. The fact that it seemed like we were the only ones to have not checked the weather that morning was far beside the point. This was a communal experience, regal no matter if you were in all-white or soaked ponchos. Put it like this... people planned on staying so far in advance that they brought extra ponchos so that other people wouldn’t leave. After all, when Frankie is on stage, every voice counts.
Oh, speaking of the concert, let’s rewind. Did I mention The Isley Brothers opened up the night? How dope is that?
I mean, what is Frankie Beverly & Maze if not a creative offspring and Ronald and the boys? Or Levert and his crew? Uncle Charlie and the gang? Part Whispers, part Sade, part EWF in their own right. There’s no denying their resonance.
And while Ernie played his guitar, winding down the opening act, a certain someone walking to their seat caught my eye. Tom Joyner! Moving slowly, he hobbled, about as well as his tired legs can these days. His voyage to Atlanta was complete. His reserved seat in the front row was fit for a king, royalty in his own regard.
The HARDEST working man in show biz was in for a treat that night, and he knew it. I was just happy to watch someone play him a tune for a change.
And seeing Tom there put it all in perspective for me.
All those years he’d woken us up on the radio to music from the likes of the very men on stage, the others mentioned above, and whatever else he drummed up from the 70s, 80s, 90s, and today... those years were starting to show. Not only in Tom, Ronald, and Frankie, but in all of us. Me being grown enough to be there could only mean that they were getting old, man. No two ways around it.
And for a few minutes that’s all I could think about.
How the passage of time itself is scored by the music in our hearts. Colored with the memories made with the ones that mean the most to us. Bright moments always come back vividly, but you can never get that time back. I snapped out of it yet again to enjoy the moment I was in.
So, yeah, when he sang “joy and pain are like sunshine and rain” we meant that shit.
Ain’t no telling if the Cincinnati Reds won that night, or if they will tonight. No one will remember that. And, if the Braves had a home game the day we were all at Chastain Park to see Frankie, that shit got rained out. It would have sucked to be in the wrong crowd that night.
But perhaps, you’ll do it right today, and find your crowd; it’s Friday after all. And Friday nights were always for fish and Frankie Beverly.
And, well, on this Friday night, I won’t be with my Auntie,or Kobe for that matter, guess who will? Fire up that grease for Frankie, y’all. And I do mean that shit. Everyone’s already in their all-white up there, what you waiting for?
For Lack of a Wetter Bird, rest in peace, Frankie Beverly.