To Funk and Die in LA Read online

  While attending Los Angeles Community College, Stewart gathered a gang of musicians, dancers, and nonconformists into a group called Funk Unlimited. After graduation, he became a host at Heaven's Gate, which was by then a go-to black celebrity hangout. Stewart shined as he engaged folks in conversation and slipped copies of his demo in the hands of record executives, building a buzz for his growing musical aggregation.

  Warner Bros., the Burbank-based label that entered R&B with Graham Central Station, George Benson, and Ashford & Simpson, gave him a deal with immense creative freedom years before they signed Prince. His first two LPs, Funkin' with the One and Limits of Control, scraped past goal. But his third, Chaos: Phase I, released just as big-band funk was giving way to drum machines and computerized keys, was a grand synthesis of progressive black music's past and present.

  It had hit singles like the joyous "Venus Rises" and the sexy "Pleasure," but the real magic was in the DNA of the LP, through album cuts like the majestic, gospel-tinged "Water on the River," the cleverly arranged "Follow My Heart," and the epic title cut, eight and a half minutes of funky jazz and soul wailing that immediately became the centerpiece of Dr. Funk's live show, an unmatched amalgam of P-Funk craziness and Earth, Wind & Fire precision.

  For the two years following Chaos: Phase I, Dr. Funk and the Love Patrol were at the peak of the mountain, selling out arenas and bucking the trends in black music for smaller bands, totally electro sounds, and the streetwise orientation of rap. It was a glorious balancing act Dr. Funk was pulling off, but eventually he, and it, tipped over.

  There has been a lot of tabloid fodder provided by the dissolution of Dr. Funk and Love Patrol over the years. Drugs, debauchery, lawsuits, bad haircuts, and mental illness have all plagued him over the last few decades. If you want the dirty details, TV One's Unsung will surely do an episode at some point. But if you care about the direction of black music, Dr. Funk looms large as a profound influence on all musicians who've followed in his path. I believe that one day, as with James Brown and George Clinton, his music will be rediscovered and his legacy redefined.

  So Heaven's Gate figured prominently in Dr. Funk's story. It's probably why he was able to get in and out without being photographed, D thought. He and Big Danny must really have been closer than Aunt Sheryl knew. Much closer.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SALESMANSHIP AT SOHO HOUSE

  Whenever D traveled across Sunset Boulevard, between Vine and Crescent Heights, from Hollywood to West Hollywood, he always noticed the homeless men who haunted its streets, talking to themselves, yelling to the sky (or at passing cars), usually topless in the sun, often pulling a shopping cart, or lying down by a clump of possessions as dingy as their shoeless feet.

  Unlike New York, a healthy percentage of these men were white, their skin as red and raw as their black comrades were inky and bronze. D thought homelessness was one of the few forms of Los Angeles existence where black folks were on somewhat equal footing with their white brothers. D wondered if he could find Dr. Funk on a Hollywood street if he looked hard enough, the man's genius camouflaged by dirty, unkempt hair, and the blanket of invisibility walking in LA bestowed on pedestrians.

  From what D had gathered, Dr. Funk had no fixed address, regular cell number, or e-mail address. He apparently used burners to return business calls on rare occasions. There was a recent sighting out at the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica, one of several fleeting musical appearances by a man who once filled arenas with song.

  The valet crew at Soho House loved Big Danny's Electra 225, though one of the guys mentioned the bullet hole in the passenger side to his partners in Spanish, thinking D wouldn't understand. Up an elevator and then up a staircase, D entered a wide room that was the heart of new Hollywood. Because of LA's geography, this private club, located on the edge of West Hollywood and Beverly Hills, had become the go-to gathering spot for legit Hollywood players (especially producers and writers), aligned industries (music, advertising, design), and wannabe men and women of every ambition.

  Walking past the long bar and surveying the expensive sofas artfully arranged around the room, D saw a lot of familiar Botoxed faces from back in the day. It made him smile. In Los Angeles, relocated New York players rebooted themselves as producers, TV personalities, lifestyle coaches, and even gurus of new age wisdom. Los Angeles, compared to East Coast and Midwest metropolises, felt like a place where the past was face-lift fleeting.

  Sitting in a corner with an expansive view of smog-drenched Downtown behind him, Walter Gibbs faced a slim, chic brunette with blond highlights. Gibbs had been one of D Security's first serious clients. In the nineties, Gibbs had been a full-fledged music mogul when hip hop had overwhelmed R&B, dismissed rock, and gripped out pop's jugular. D did whatever Gibbs needed done. Protecting rap stars from other rap stars: got it. Guarding ingénue singers from predatory hustlers: D was on it. Protecting master tapes from counterfeiters: copy that.

  And then Napster appeared in 1999, and all the air seeped out of Gibbs's balloon. Within three years he, his label, and his management company were all gasping for breath. So were all his peers. The record industry strategy of suing customers for downloading was a dead man's last gasp.

  But Gibbs hadn't risen from working-class Queens to a Manhattan penthouse without street smarts. He'd learned quickly, while promoting hip hop, that the truth was in the streets and not offices in Midtown Manhattan. Before most of his peers, Gibbs realized that the new streets were cyberspace.

  Gibbs was on Myspace two days after it launched. Instead of suing his customers, Gibbs turned his attention to buying shares in sites that impacted music. Everybody did it now, but Gibbs was there first. Moreover, he no longer just sought out young producers with the hottest joints; he also wooed kids who coded. These, in his opinion, were the new beat-makers. Gibbs leaped into the digital pool and came out looking photo-shoot fresh.

  Gibbs downsized his label, using it primarily to manage the catalog (and clear samples), and launched a couple of websites (the most successful of which was www.hiphopluxury.com). The transactional sites kept up the cash flow, as did flipping property in quickly gentrifying Brooklyn. Most significantly, Gibbs gave up on New York. He told friends it made him feel old ("all that history") and dabbled in films and TV, getting an output deal with Netflix for comedy specials and super-low-budget gangsta-themed flicks. In LA, Gibbs knew you were always just a testosterone shot, vegan meal, and hot yoga class away from rejuvenation.

  Relaxed in Cali, Gibbs could run game all day long. At Soho House on Sunset, he would lock down a sofa around eleven a.m. and eyeball the room for his next partner.

  D slipped onto the sofa next to Gibbs as he talked to Shelia Lynch, the brunette with long legs, a short dress, and a vaguely Middle Eastern accent. The entrepreneur was leaning toward her and explaining his philosophy.

  "Sometimes your success is best defined by your enemies," he said. "Pick up the right haters and your core fans embrace you more; their love for you grows in intensity as you are attacked. It what's helped hip hop when Bob Dole and others attacked us. It helped Donald Trump when the mainstream GOP went after him. It's a very useful tool."

  "I see," Shelia replied, then glanced over at D. "Is this the friend you were waiting on?"

  "Shelia, this is D Hunter, the best bodyguard in the game and a fan of the color black."

  "You're in law enforcement?"

  "No," D said flatly.

  "D doesn't need a gun or a badge," Gibbs said. "He's streetwise. Very little escapes his eye. He's as smart as a laptop and slick as a custom suit. But what really makes him great is that he truly cares about the people he works for. He treats and treasures them like family."

  "Thanks for saying that, Walter."

  "No doubt. He's protected me from hurting people many times. I mean, I hit hard, Shelia. So I need the Mount Rushmore of bodyguards to have my back."

  "You must be a versatile man. Making deals and a street fighter too."
D couldn't tell if she was buying what he was selling or being sarcastic. She had a blank smile but her eyes twinkled. Then Shelia turned her attention back to D. "Weren't you in a video on YouTube?"

  "Uh-huh. Something got up there. Yeah. My grandfather's funeral." D wanted to excuse himself and maybe go to the restroom or something. That damn video. Fortunately, Shelia's phone rang and she excused herself to the terrace to take the call.

  "Thanks for the wonderful introduction, Walter, though it feels like I'm about to retire."

  "There's no retiring, D. What would you do? What would I do? We're sharks in the water. Who's bleeding? My next meal."

  "You mean deal."

  "I mean meal. A deal is just a means to feed you and your family. It's some primal shit. You gotta accumulate chips for when your cash flow dips."

  "Walter, your cash flow hasn't dipped in twenty years."

  "Oh, don't be fooled, D. Success is an illusion. If you really have two cents and they think you have four quarters, then you have four quarters and people are more likely to give you more. That's really true out here. Everybody's fronting. They're leasing what you think they own. They're being sponsored when you think they're paying. They got a Rolls but they're living on the wrong side of Venice. I know this game. I love this game."

  Shelia came back from the terrace. "What are you doing tonight, Walter?"

  "Nothing more important than what you're inviting me to."

  "There's a cocktail party in Malibu hosted by my business associate Teddy Tapscott. I know he'd be overjoyed for you to attend. And D, please feel free to join us. I'm sure you'd know a few people there."

  "If Walter would give me a lift I'd be happy to attend," D replied.

  "You must have mad charisma, D, cause very few men in LA get an immediate party invite from Teddy Tapscott. I've been waiting on mine for months."

  "Walter, please," she said. "Your social calendar is pretty full from what I've seen."

  "Quantity, yes," he admitted, "but what about quality?" Gibbs reached over and touched Shelia's knee and squeezed. "Quality is rare."

  This rap sounded incredibly corny to D, but Walter Gibbs had an insincere charm, a way of acknowledging he was full of shit while being earnest in his desire, a technique that had seduced women on both coasts and many a Midwestern city. Shelia tapped his hand as if scolding him but didn't remove it. In that moment an unspoken agreement was made to have sex one day.

  When Shelia left (actually, she just moved to another sofa on the other side of the room for her four thirty meeting), D said to Gibbs, "You never learn."

  "Why should I learn? I'm free, black, and fifty-plus. The fact that I'm alive and have more than three cents in the bank is a motherfucking miracle. So me trying to fuck everything that moves at this point is a victory lap."

  "For a chanting motherfucker, you are still so scandalous."

  "Nawn, D. I'm just present. Incredibly present."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  R'KAYDIA'S MALIBU SOIREE

  The house was one of the Malibu spots that, from the Pacific Coast Highway, was just a wall with an elegant door and a buzzer. Behind that wall was a walkway that led to a beautiful white house with big glass windows, elegant external lighting, and foliage imported from across the country.

  Inside, next to one of Basquiat's jazz-inspired paintings (this one saluted Louis Armstrong), D found himself in a huddle with Walter Gibbs and Teddy Tapscott, a white man in an expensive suit.

  "I've heard of you, D," Teddy Tapscott said.

  "Really?"

  "You're the Johnny Cash of security. The man in black."

  "Okay, I guess that's me."

  Gibbs said, "D runs one of the finest security services in the entertainment business."

  "You've done a lot of work for Amos Pilgrim."

  "I've worked with his client Night, who I consider a great friend. I don't actually work for Pilgrim."

  "That's very specific of you, D," Tapscott said. "You sound like a lawyer the way you just split that hair."

  "Clarity is a good thing, right?"

  "Absolutely, D. Have you moved to LA?"

  "My grandfather just passed so I'm out here with the family."

  "His grandfather was a pioneering black businessman," Gibbs said in that hypey way he had.

  "You should relocate," Tapscott opined. "Lots of work out here for someone in the safety business."

  "Safety," a woman's voice interjected. "None of you look safe to me."

  Tapscott turned in the direction of the voice and said, "No one is when you're around."

  A tall, lean black woman in a sky-blue dress, reddish tanned skin, a ruby necklace, and beige Louboutin shoes strode toward them. She was slim but her shoulders and arms had the taut muscle of a dancer. Her hair was cut Halle Berry short, with amber highlights that played off her copper tone. She had an entitled FOO (Friend of Oprah) swagger. With a glass of white wine in one hand and her other arm swaying under the weight of a glittering gold bracelet, she appeared totally at home and completely judgmental. All the men save D seemed to genuflect, either intimidated by her regal aura or just wisely bowing to the queen. Her name was R'Kaydia Lelilia Jenkins. You could call her Kay when she was feeling generous. But in her mind she was "the R" and she carried herself with the confidence of a Rakim rhyme.

  "Mr. Hunter," she said, "you may be the first viral security guard."

  "Well . . ." He fumbled a moment for something to say. Finally: "I guess that must be true. That certainly wasn't my goal in life."

  R'Kaydia's voice darkened: "It is a tragedy what happened to your grandfather. Have the police made any progress?"

  "Not much," D said, unclear where she was coming from or why.

  Teddy cleared his throat. Eyes in the circle shifted his way. "R'Kaydia and I were so surprised to see Dr. Funk at your grandfather's wake. They must have been close."

  "I knew they had a relationship," D said, "but we had no idea he'd show up. Much less sing."

  "Deeply moving, D," she said unconvincingly. "There's no reason to feel shy about your tears. I cried myself when I watched it on YouTube." D doubted that was true but forced a smile.

  Teddy cleared his throat again but this time D didn't turn his way. Clearly dude was a puppet. He watched R'Kaydia to see how she pulled his strings.

  "It's ironic, actually," Teddy said, "because R'Kaydia and I have been trying to get in touch with him for some time."

  "Really?" Gibbs said, finally seeing an opening. "Maybe I can be of service."

  "What a sweet offer, Walter," R'Kaydia said, though her eyes shouted, Fuck off, dude!

  Teddy picked up her cue: "D, we were wondering if you could help us."

  "D," R'Kaydia said, continuing the verbal dance, "Teddy and myself are quite interested in helping some of the greats who have either been forgotten or exploited in the past. Dr. Funk was a crucial part of all our lives."

  Tapscott added, "I believe there's an incredible movie in his story. I worked on Straight Outta Compton, and you saw how well that performed."

  "It's not just about a movie," R'Kaydia said. "It's about legacy. How is someone remembered? How is their story framed? Would you take a meeting with us, D?"

  "Sounds interesting," he said, trying to sound neutral.

  "Good," she replied while touching his arm. "We'll be in contact."

  A nicely tanned couple walked up and exchanged kisses and hugs with Teddy and R'Kaydia as the conversation shifted to ski trips to Aspen and the deteriorating Cali shoreline.

  D drifted away to the windows and gazed out at the Malibu surf, savoring the Pacific sky and this fleeting taste of privilege. It sure helped to have money if you wanted to enjoy nature. Gibbs then came up next to him, his champagne having given way to a gin and tonic. "So," Gibbs said smoothly, "I see a payday in your future."

  "I got a feeling R'Kaydia and her man see one too," D replied.

  "Exactly, though I'm not sure that's all they have in mind. But whateve
r it is, they aren't thinking of breaking me off a piece."

  D laughed at the truth of that.

  Gibbs continued: "Which means there must be more money in it than I know. Please keep me in the loop, D. You will need a consultant on any deal with those two."

  "Believe me," D said, "I'm not signing anything they offer me without your beady eyes in on it."

  Gibbs took in the beach and the sky and their glitzy surroundings. "A long way from Brooklyn, right?"

  D was happy to be there but remained far from seduced. "You know, it's not really that far. Wherever you go and whoever you meet, there's always a hustle."

  "The question is, who's being hustled and who's the hustler?"

  D turned to look Gibbs in the eye. "I know you know the answer, my man."

  "Word."

  "Okay," D said. "Now, can we get the fuck outta here?"

  "Not until I find Shelia and discuss the benefits of tantric yoga."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MICHELLE PAK INTRODUCES HERSELF

  D sat out alone on the porch of Big Danny's house, sipping apple juice and watching cars. It was one of those rare days when his regular all-black attire was sadly on point. The funeral had been, in contrast to the wake, a traditional affair: an old church, proper deacons, women in crowns, a hearty choir. Despite the urging of his aunt Sheryl, D hadn't spoken. After his brothers' funerals in Brooklyn, he had run out of pious things to say and quoting scripture wasn't his thing.

  D felt further unnerved because Sheryl had received an e-mail from his father, which said he was on his way to LA from wherever he was in South America. D wondered if he might overlap with his wayward father this time and, if so, where their conversation would start.

  He was contemplating his tragic childhood when a gray Lexus and a large moving van pulled up next door at the Jacksons' old house. A curvy Korean woman about thirty exited the Lexus, conservatively dressed except for red horn-rimmed glasses. She walked over to the For Sale sign and plucked it off the lawn.