Well, part of the campaign for the weekend are little subsidiary events. The main show takes place at the Asheville Civic Center, and tickets sold out very fast. Meanwhile, small clubs, art galleries, movie theatres, etc. will have kind of connected events to promote and squeeze some of that music-tourist dollar. One such event was a screening of a wide array of musical films, one of them being STRANGER. I got there in time to get a ticket and to my surprise there were about 15-20 people in attendance. A sad commentary on the squarishness of our cities residents and tourists. In other words, dear readers, they don’t know who the $#%^ Bernie Worrell is, and even if they do (as I’ve discovered in the musical circle) they rarely seem to care or know of this man’s contribution to the musical vocabulary. This, and the impending sadness of an early winter’s rain, had me kind of depressed and feeling rather jaded about how ‘lame’ it all really seems.
I paid my $10 to get a ticket — part of admission price being a meet and greet with the man himself. I’d met BW with his band The Woo Warriors in ’02, then backstage at Bonaroo in ’03. Always friendly, willing to talk with you, smiling, a positive person all around. Well, I sat and watched the documentary, which really wasn’t much more than contemporary hipsters and musicians telling how BW wasn’t and isn’t getting his propers, mixed in with some cool musical passages from Bernie. The main thrust of the film was something us fans know: BW is still pretty much not popular and not rich. He is still struggling to get gigs and dates, something even bigger names like Sonny Rollins struggles with to this very day.
The point of the film was that BW would get his props after he died as being an innovative pioneer of sound, but that during life he’s still kind of not so well known. A two-time member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and he’s eating eggs in the lobby of the Econo-Lodge.
Take the time to investigate the fates of most musicians and you’ll wonder why I’m bothering to try and follow in their footsteps. Images of dying in a puddle of piss and broken teeth still don’t seem to get through to me. But maybe the story of Bernie is getting through. He’s got to struggle to get gigs and recognition yet his grooves are entirely the reason under twenty-year olds listen to hip-hop. His trademark synthesizer tones are such a huge part of rap music sounds that they all should be bowing down to him as a godfather of the music. Yet he’s still down on his luck.
Perhaps it’s the fate of such greats. Yet Herbie Hancock and Chick Corea are exhalted, while BW still is in the equivalent of the musical circus. Why is this? Because he won’t wear suit and tie? Because he’s so bereft with the funk? Because he won’t fit into a mold? Perhaps, but BW’s music isn’t about fitting into molds. It’s about melting molds and being free.
When Bernie came in for the meet and greet, he walked slowly and sat, grumbling about his arthritis. His answers weren’t too informative and seemed mostly uninterested in reminiscence. Our questions seemed to pale in his presence. We all knew what was up: Bernie was going to keep jamming, keep getting dates, keep struggling with record companies. Bernie was going to keep on being Bernie. Just as Funkadelic was one of the last African-American groups to sort of get the shaft on proper residuals, Bernie now struggles as a solo artist in the changing tide of music publishing. He spoke of at least three completed projects that were either out of print or yet to be released.
I approached BW and we spoke in friendly terms about musical subjects. I asked him to sign my Funkadelic vinyl collection (most of them, anyway — I didn’t want to take up too much of his time) and he obliged; his shaky gloved hand scribbled across the likes of “Maggot Brain” and “Tales of Kidd Funkadelic”. He seemed happy to see the old records and the other fans seemed to be in awe that I even possessed these relics from the past. I knew that most of these people hadn’t even bothered to listen to these or any of his excellent solo works, such as “Blacktronic Science,” “Funk of Ages” and “Pieces of Woo.” Bernie himself admitted to not knowing or remembering what tunes were on what.
Walking with BW to his van, I felt exalted to be in the presence of such a great man, something that had happened to me in our past meetings as well. A genuineness and sublime greatness seems to ooze off the man; yet he’s the model of humility. To me the sure sign of truly gifted people. I watched his van pull off into the rainy afternoon and the on-coming traffic. I could feel the sense of peace in his presence fading. It was something I wanted to hold onto, yet, I knew it would fade. Now the ink is dry on the album covers, and I was right. I can’t but wonder if Bernie covets certain feelings from people or places he admires himself, and how he comes to terms with being such a stranger in a strange land.
I’m sure the answer lies in the space between his fingers and the keys of the instruments he plays. Perhaps that is what us few fans listen for: his discoveries and for his answers to the same questions we have about it all. Why does greatness seem to suffer? Why am I driven to pursue music when I see so many artists find endings that are pathetic and unjustified? It seems Bernie Worrell’s music does address the frustration — as well as the deep groove — in the universe. His essence is all about the wages of greatness and the suffering for yielding such power. It was nice to be close, even for a moment.
–pd, 12/07
c2008 Paul DeCirce
