To Funk and Die in LA Read online

  Table of Contents

  ___________________

  Chapter One: TO FUNK IN SANTA MONICA

  Chapter Two: TO FUNK AND DIE IN LA

  Chapter Three: DEAD MAN'S MIXTAPE

  Chapter Four: BIG DANNY'S HOUSE

  Chapter Five: NIGHT IN THE VALLEY

  Chapter Six: BIG DANNY WAS A LOAN SHARK

  Chapter Seven: RED DAWG HAS A THEORY

  Chapter Eight: DR. FUNK MAKES A GROOVE

  Chapter Nine: DINNER WITH AUNT SHERYL

  Chapter Ten: A YOUTUBE WAKE

  Chapter Eleven: HOLLYWOOD SINGIN'

  Chapter Twelve: BIG DANNY'S WILL

  Chapter Thirteen: THE RELENTLESS BEAT

  Chapter Fourteen: SALESMANSHIP AT SOHO HOUSE

  Chapter Fifteen: R'KAYDIA'S MALIBU SOIREE

  Chapter Sixteen: MICHELLE PAK INTRODUCES HERSELF

  Chapter Seventeen: WESTSIDE CONNECTION TO DOWNTOWN

  Chapter Eighteen: BREAK-IN AT BIG DANNY'S

  Chapter Nineteen: R'KAYDIA'S VISION

  Chapter Twenty: IRRITATING AMOS PILGRIM

  Chapter Twenty-One: A RIDE FROM THE PAST

  Chapter Twenty-Two: SCRATCH HAS SOME TAPES

  Chapter Twenty-Three: NIGHT IN THE VALLEY

  Chapter Twenty-Four: SERENE POWERS IS NO JOKE

  Chapter Twenty-Five: OLD MEN PLAYING DOMINOES

  Chapter Twenty-Six: D AND NIGHT GO TO FUNKMOSPHERE

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: NARCOCORRIDOS IN BOYLE HEIGHTS

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: THE DETECTIVE DRINKS COFFEE

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: TEO GARCIA HAS A STORY

  Chapter Thirty: A SOUL SPINNER IN PICO-UNION

  Chapter Thirty-One: A FARMERS MARKET MEET-UP

  Chapter Thirty-Two: A KOREATOWN NIGHT WITH MICHELLE

  Chapter Thirty-Three: WALLI'S ILL-FATED LOVE AFFAIR

  Chapter Thirty-Four: SUN HEE PAK TELLS A STORY

  Chapter Thirty-Five: R'KAYDIA HAS GAME

  Chapter Thirty-Six: MICHELLE PAK MEETS AUNT SHERYL

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: IN THE ANTELOPE VALLEY

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: HOT IN SHERMAN OAKS

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: EVERYONE HAS A STORY IN LA

  Chapter Forty: MICHELLE AND D TALK ABOUT HER FAMILY

  Chapter Forty-One: WALLI'S FIRST POOL PARTY

  Chapter Forty-Two: AFTER HOURS AT HEAVEN'S GATE

  Chapter Forty-Three: VIOLENT INTERVENTIONS

  Chapter Forty-Four: INCRIMINATING CONVERSATIONS

  Chapter Forty-Five: A TAKEDOWN IN CHAPMAN SQUARE

  Chapter Forty-Six: D HAS A BUSY DAY

  Chapter Forty-Seven: A BRIEF MUSICAL MEETING

  Chapter Forty-Eight: BITTER LIKE ALE

  Chapter Forty-Nine: HOPING FOR JUSTICE

  Chapter Fifty: FLOATING THE FUNK IN CUPERTINO

  Chapter Fifty-One: AUNT SHERYL SHAKES HER HEAD

  Chapter Fifty-Two: SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE ACE HOTEL

  Chapter Fifty-Three: LAST DANCE IN K-TOWN

  Acknowledgments

  E-Book Extra: An excerpt from The Lost Treasures of R&B

  Also by Nelson George

  About Nelson George

  Copyright & Credits

  About Akashic Books

  For Sly Stone,

  Rick James,

  Maurice White,

  and the many funk gods of Los Angeles

  Thanks to my editors at Record World and Billboard back in the 1980s who allowed me to cover the dark soul of a sunlit city.

  CHAPTER ONE

  TO FUNK IN SANTA MONICA

  At first no one really paid attention. He was just another gray-bearded, raggedy-looking old black man pushing a metal laundry cart across the Santa Monica promenade. The homeless had made this liberal city by the ocean their residence of choice for decades and, annoying as they were, the locals had become expert at ignoring them.

  Even when the old man stopped near the AMC multiplex and pulled a beat-up mini Moog synthesizer, a small Marshall amp, and a tiny generator from his cart, the shoppers heading to Pottery Barn and Steve Madden kept their distance and, wisely, held their noses. It was only after he squatted on two milk crates and pressed his long brown fingers onto the yellowed keys that a couple of curious souls slowed down, hearing the magic in those wrinkled fingers.

  When he opened his mouth to sing, a magnificent sound emerged: it was the choir in a Southern backwoods church; working people drinking in a Midwestern bar; the rustle of sequined shirts and star-spangled pants; the chemical stink of Jheri-curl juice; the wind in Africa; and the prayers of those kind beings who left us the pyramids.

  Each passerby heard him differently. For one woman it was the sound of her grandmother's favorite song. For an aging hip hop head it was a sample used by Biggie or Tupac or Raekwon. To a bunch of folks on the Santa Monica promenade it was a new sound that made the latest hits seem tiny, like Mozart heard through earbuds. He was lean and he was old, but his voice was a mountain.

  Smartphones appeared and images were recorded. Tints were applied and snappy captions concocted. Selfie nation took over the Santa Monica promenade. People angled to include themselves in pics near, next to, and almost on top of this gray-bearded revelation.

  On his keyboard was a small plastic cup, which began filling with quarters and dollars, and one welcome twenty-dollar bill. It was all good until a man close to the keyboard said, "I think that's Dr. Funk."

  And then it was over. The old man shut his mouth, his fingers left the keyboard, and he glanced around at the crowd like a turtle outside its shell. He stood up—or, rather, half stood, half bent—and swiftly slid his gear back into his laundry cart. Several people tried to engage him but his replies were a low mumble or a distant stare.

  From the old man's pocket appeared a shiny new Samsung, seemingly his only possession from this century. He tapped his Uber app, confirmed a pickup point, and pushed his cart toward Santa Monica Boulevard. A white woman claimed she saw him at the Hollywood Palladium in 1982 (though he had shown up two hours late). A man walked next to him saying he had a vinyl copy of Dr. Funk and the Love Patrol's classic Chaos: Phase I that he'd love to get signed. To their consternation the old man pressed on, determined to meet his Uber and ignore their conversation.

  Then an imposing man with salt-and-pepper hair, a serious tan, and an expensive suit appeared by his side. "I saw a video of you on Instagram," he said quickly. "I'm Teddy Tapscott, a movie producer. I was associate producer on Straight Outta Compton. My partner and I are anxious to set up a meeting with you."

  "So you associate with producers?" Dr. Funk said drily. "I used to do that too. Now I'm too busy."

  "You deserve a film biopic," Tapscott said quickly, trying to slow the old man down. No dice.

  "See that guy over there?" The musician gestured toward a sleeping homeless man. "He deserves a meal. What do you deserve?"

  Tapscott held out his business card. The old man ignored him and kept moving, so the producer dropped his card into the laundry cart.

  "You saw me sing, right?" the old man said.

  "Yes," Tapscott replied excitedly. "Yes. On Instagram."

  The old man turned to look at this well-dressed fan. "You're welcome," he said, then waved down the waiting Uber.

  After dumping his gear in the trunk and avoiding eye contact with the disappointed producer, the man known as Dr. Funk, who was the soundtrack for millions, a sage for thousands, and a bandleader for a select few, negotiated his lean, bony frame into the backseat of a white Hyundai. The car headed east, in the direction of wherever he was living these days. And, like the melodies he'd just played, Dr. Funk evaporated into the moist Santa Monica night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TO FUNK AND DIE IN LA

/>   Like so many mornings since 1992, Daniel Hunter, known to friends and neighbors as Big Danny, stopped his beautifully maintained green 1970 Buick Electra 225 convertible in the parking lot behind the minimall at Crenshaw and Vernon. Happy Pizza was the anchor tenant, located diagonally across from Leimert Park, but Big Danny didn't fuck with that place. It was the kind of fast-food joint that killed black folks with fried crap. Anyway, his attention was focused on his ride. He worried that dust from the unending Metro light rail construction had tainted its shiny coat.

  Between his dutiful, loving care and the forgiving Southern California weather, Big Danny's ride had been rolling through the LA streets for decades. His rims didn't spin (too old for that mess) but they glistened like medals on a five-star general. Big Danny was a tall man who, at seventy-two, still stood up straight, though his trademark bop had become a shuffle after two hip replacements. From a distance, Big Danny, in a blue Dodgers cap and jacket, beige shorts, white tube socks, and white Stan Smiths, looked more like a retired athlete than a semiretired shop owner.

  Also exiting the car was his grandson Walli Hunter, a lanky teen with his woolly hair cut into a black peak, wearing a black T-shirt with A Tribe Called Quest across the front in white letters, skinny orange jeans, and black-and-white Vans. The MacBook he had under his arm was adorned with a Kendrick Lamar sticker.

  Next to Happy Pizza was Classic Crenshaw Coffee, a relatively new café operated by two twentyish white men who wore long beards, black horn-rimmed glasses, and matching white-and-red-checked button-down shirts. A few of the young white couples who'd purchased homes in nearby Leimert Park were inside tapping away on laptops, nibbling on gluten-free baked goods, and drinking free-trade coffee. Leashed outside was a feisty brown-and-gray Yorkie, who yapped as he walked up. Big Danny looked down, barked back, muttered, "Little dishrag dog," and laughed.

  "You gonna sit in there and e-mail and shit?" he asked Walli.

  "Yeah. They make a great chai latte, Grandpa. You should try it."

  Big Danny smiled. "Chai latte? If that excites you, please enjoy it. I'm gonna get a paper and a coffee and then go handle some business. I can swing by and pick you up on the way back."

  "Why you buy coffee and the paper there, Grandpa? You have your own store," Walli asked.

  "You gotta support your people."

  Walli shrugged and said, "Sounds good," then entered the coffee shop.

  His grandfather looked inside with a slight shake of the head. Chai latte, he thought. Used to be a good cup of joe was enough. Now every morning drink has to be fake Italian.

  Next door to Classic Crenshaw was K-Pak Groceries, a mom-and-pop minimart that had been in biz since the eighties, back when the first Korean immigrants started retailing in black hoods. It had survived two generations and a lot of LA history. Behind the cash register was Lawrence Pak, the son of the original owner. He greeted Big Danny with a tight nod and then reached under the counter for a very specific copy of the Los Angeles Times.

  "Annyeong haseyo," Big Danny greeted with a decent Korean accent.

  Lawrence smiled and said, "Good morning, sir," before handing the newspaper to Big Danny, who then walked over to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup of the thick black brew.

  "Feels like a pamphlet these days," he said of the newspaper.

  "I read it mostly online," Lawrence replied. "So my father says this is it," he added, quickly changing the subject. He looked intently at Big Danny.

  "Yes it is," Big Danny said evenly. "It's been a long time coming. But then, me and your father move at a different rhythm."

  There was an awkward pause until Lawrence asked, "So have they raised your rent on your store too?"

  "Not yet," Big Danny said, "but it's coming. Once that new Metro line is really pumping, everybody's rent is going up as high as hell. But I ain't leaving."

  "We may move," Lawrence said. "Not sure yet. Maybe nearer Koreatown. It keeps growing."

  "I'm sure your mother and father have a plan."

  "They always do," Lawrence said without a smile.

  Big Danny reached over and shook the young man's hand before exiting. He glanced through the coffee shop's window as his grandson sat amongst the new people, chai latte steaming, laptop glowing. Big Danny watched Walli live in the present and future, then wondered how much longer he'd linger in the now and then.

  This time the Yorkie just glared at Big Danny, saving his voice for the next tall black stranger who strolled by. Back inside the Electra 225, Big Danny leaned the LA Times against the steering wheel and flipped through it. Stuck inside the sports section were a medley of hundreds, fifties, and twenties—nearly $8,500 in total. He picked up the eight-track cassette from the passenger seat and slipped Dr. Funk and the Love Patrol's Chaos: Phase I into the player under his dashboard. He did have Sirius Radio and liked to listen to the Dodgers on KLAC, but Big Danny was never one to ditch technology that still worked.

  He sat back in his seat and sighed. Well, that was done. He took another swig of coffee, then frowned at the bitter taste, thinking that maybe the fancy new coffee shop was worth a try. Scanning through the Dodgers' box score to see how Yasiel Puig had done last night, Big Danny didn't notice the shadow pass his side of the car or look up when the little dog started yapping again.

  Puig went one-for-four last night. Just a single. He loved that damn Cuban for the way his baserunning drove white folks crazy. Big Danny put down the paper, checked his watch, and started the car. He turned onto Crenshaw and headed north, thinking about Kershaw and young Thompson in left field.

  He rolled his big green vintage machine up past Maverick's Flat, a music club he'd been competing with since the eighties. Big Danny had done his best with his club Heaven's Gate, but it had never quite matched the vibe of the Flat, which was where Richard Pryor, the Commodores, the Soul Train dancers, among many, had made their first LA impression. But the great Dr. Funk had always favored Heaven's Gate, which was something Big Danny remained proud of.

  He glanced over at the construction where the Metro line extension was to open in 2019. Change was coming to the area fast and, despite his age, Big Danny wanted to benefit from it. A group called Capri Partners was adding two million square feet of new hotel and retail space near the Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza. The artist Mark Bradford (thankfully black, Big Danny thought) had opened an art space called Art+Practice in Leimert Park that hosted exhibitions and sponsored workshops for kids.

  He'd spent his life in the hood and, one way or another, Big Danny wanted to cash in. (But how?)

  A driver in a blue Mustang honked and nodded in respect at Big Danny's Electra as he crossed West Adams. His big Buick, with its 370 horsepower V8 engine and glittering chrome rims, always got love on these Cali streets. By the time he passed Pico he'd changed up from Dr. Funk to an old CD of Dr. Dre's KDAY mix, smiling as Prince's "17 Days" flowed into Roger's "So Ruff, So Tuff," with 808s booming out of the ride's recently revamped speakers.

  Though it was early in the day Big Danny thought about rolling over to the Beverly Hot Springs, a Koreatown spot just a few blocks east of Western and the stately homes of Hancock Park. A sauna, a dip in the natural hot spring, and a deep-tissue massage from one of those big-shouldered Korean women would be dope. He should celebrate. After all, it had taken years, and lots of cajoling, but he'd gotten his money back with interest. It was like the end of a chapter in the long, drawn-out book of his life.

  Big Danny was at the light on Crenshaw and Wilshire, contemplating whether to make the right toward Koreatown or head to his bank to the left, down near LACMA and the Petersen Auto Museum. He was having this internal debate when a Chevrolet Impala SS pulled up on his passenger side. The driver rolled down his window and aimed his Glock at the older man's head.

  Big Danny felt a presence and turned.

  In his last moments on earth Big Danny saw his life, his town, and his soul. Mayor Tom Bradley. Roscoe's House of Chicken & Waffles. Rick James. The Motow
n building on Sunset. Dorsey High. Locke High. Don Cornelius. Marcus Allen. The Coliseum. Kids rocking Raiders gear. O.J.'s #32 at USC. O.J. as public enemy #1. Fuckin' Daryl Gates. Magic. "Showtime!" The Great Western Forum. The Slauson Swap Meet. The Crenshaw mall. Cruising on Crenshaw. Maverick's Flat. The Baldwin Hills theater. Rodney King. Black-owned signs on Manchester. Koreans on a rooftop with twelve-gauge shotguns. A bundle of twenties. A naked breast and a brown nipple. Bongos. Electric bass. His home. His wife. His tears. Her eyes.

  And then—bang!—Big Danny was gone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DEAD MAN'S MIXTAPE

  The funk mix Dwayne Robinson had made for him years ago still made D Hunter head-nod, foot-pat, and, when he thought no one was looking, play some mean air drums. The first twenty-five songs were from the 1970s with grooves driven by trumpets, trombones, congas, Fender bass, and chanted vocals, with lyrics that referenced spaceships, Egyptology, and hot pants. The last twenty-five songs were from the 1980s and were created by LinnDrums, Roland 808 bass lines, Fairlight computers, keyboard horn stabs, and lyrics about dancing, freakin', Jheri-curls, and Spandex.

  The late music historian had made several mixtapes for D and he treasured them all, finding particular comfort listening to them on long flights. As D floated across America he listened to funk's evolution from Kool & the Gang, the Ohio Players, Betty Davis, Graham Central Station, Rufus featuring Chaka Khan, and, of course, Sly & the Family Stone. The J.B.'s and Maceo & the Macks got him from JFK to Missouri, while the Time, Prince Charles, Kleeer, Cameo, the Gap Band, Midnight Star, the Dazz Band, and Prince took him to Nevada.

  D's funk focus was an attempt to forget his last meeting before leaving New York. First Zena Hunter forgot a name or place here or there. D used to joke that she was just saving her memory for the neighborhood poker games. Then one day it all went south. She couldn't remember names. She couldn't remember him.

  Yesterday he'd sat across from her and she'd called him Rashid, Jah, and Matty. Being mistaken for one of his dead brothers? Okay. That he could stand. But then she called him Fred, his father's name, which he hated. But what could D say? You can't scold a woman battling Alzheimer's and think that's gonna do any good.