SOUL HOUSE PARTY circa summer of '67
A memory of music and culture from the height of the soul music era.
Chicken wings and potato sit on plates in the kitchen. Six packs of beer are stacked on the lower shelves of the refrigerator. My mother moves through her preparations wearing a sky-blue dress she sewed using patterns on her machine. She takes her brunette wig from its resting place on a white head made of Styrofoam. The scent of Prince Matchabelli perfume fills the hallways of our project apartment.
In the living room multi-colored bottles of whiskey and Barcardi rum sat to tall bottles of Coca Cola and a glass vase filled to the brim with ice cubes situated on a small metal framed mini bar. It had been rolled next to a Motorola high fidelity aka hi-fi of reddish wood shined bright by lemon Pledge. The hi-fi three and a half feet high and had speakers built into the front that were covered with beige fabric that puckered in and out whenever a bass line throbbed. A stack of 45 rpm records sat on the record changer, a round brown metallic cylinder that was placed over the thin, metal turntable spindle. If it’s working right one record drops down, the tone arm moves over to the turntable’s center and the needle finds the groove.
No DJ needed. Just my mother as the selector who’s lined up “Function at the Junction,” “Get Ready,’ “Soul Man,” “Cool Jerk,” “Dancing in the Streets” and “Tramp.” Still in their paper sleeves are a stack of records for the slow jam section of the evening –- “When a man Loves a Woman,””Do Right Woman,””These Arms of Mine,” “Love’s a Hurting Thing,””Gee Whiz,””Stay in My Corner.”
As guests arrive the smell, and smoke, of Pal Mall, Newport and Kool hover in the air rise to the ceiling. One of my mother’s “cool” male friends arrives in a short sleeved red & black knit shirt and black slacks. His lady, a slender looker with shining brown skin, is garbed in a Kelly green and beige crochet hot pants and halter top, and black go-go boots. The cool brother sports a bushy mustache and the shades at night that make him look like a West African diplomat. Both members of this hot couple have round, well-tended Afros. Not surprisingly he’s the man with the “reefer” that will make him the center of attention.
As more people arrive the sound of smacked palms, phrases like “What’s happening brotha and sista” and “You jive turkey” conflict with the voices of Otis, Aretha and Curtis. The living room table, which has several ash trays and a ’65 World’s Fair souvenir atop, is pushed against a wall. Feet in pointy toed shoes grind against the recently waxed floor. Hip’s curl, sway and elevate up and down to execute the smashed potato, the. jerk, the boo-ga-loo, the camel walk and more dances. A red light bathes the party people in crimson, blurring everyone’s vision as they drink and eat, smoke and laugh.
A man drinks too much and stumbles into the hi-fi scratching a record. He’s asked to sit down or leave. He sits down. A man and woman who didn’t come together (or alone) share a cigarette by the refrigerator and she passes him a match book with her number inside. A man tries to imitate “the Jackie Wilson split” and ruins his pants. A woman on the sofa can’t stop laughing at a joke, her giggle louder than king Curtis on “Soul Serenade.”
Slowly people start peeling out. The cool brotha with the reefer knew an afterhours spot not too far away. A woman asks to use the phone on the kitchen wall to check in with her babysitter. The dude with the split pants now can’t find his car keys, which have slipped under the cushions on the sofa. The red light is turned off, but one couple, connected so lose they move as one, still slow dance in the center of the living room to “Green Onions.” The tempo doesn’t affect their movement one bit. For lover’s the night is still young.
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For more of my writing on the history of black music check out:
Where did our love Go?: The Rise and Fall of the Motown Sound
The Death of Rhythm & Blues
Hip Hop America
Buppies, Bboys, Baps and Bohos: Notes on Post-Sound Culture
The Hippest Trip in America: Soul Train and the Evolution of Culture & Style