THE UNION
Bay Half Moon Full
Artist; Native American Mother Cherokee; Godmother. If you know anything about southern soul music and rock ‘n’ roll or just happen to be a James Bond fan, then you know the timeless and inspiring southern velvet voice of “The Delta Lady” Rita Coolidge. Mark Wahlberg likes her singing A LOT.
Thirty-seven years ago was Rita’s last experience of Judy and I. She walked out on stage at the Throckmorton Theatre on Dec. 7th, 2013 at 8:30 pm.
I saw something I hadn’t experienced since Dec. 7th, 2011 exactly two years to the day. That experience was branded. “Unique…one of a kind even…what swagger,” I thought.
It’s not seen in many women, especially one so beautiful.
Instinct, human nature and a strong sense of self-preservation would tell you what that swagger meant; “Warning, unstable, approach with caution, could be hazardous to your health if provoked.”
Thirty-seven years, and all this time I’m walking around with the belief that this unmistakable branded trait belonged solely to one woman. That woman was Judy, my mum.
December 7th, 2011 was the last time I saw her.
The first question sizzling in my head to Rita would be, if I got the chance to ask… “So, who gave who THAT swagger?”
The past two years of me fumbling around, documenting and researching seems more like a calamity of comical errors compared to my first experience of Rita Coolidge walking on stage. She graced towards her mic and readied herself to sing.
That singular experience would have been enough for me. Although a fleeting moment, it was one I believed to be permanently lost. All that had transpired before to get me to this moment was now worth it.
How could it get any better than this? It wasn’t possible. It didn’t need to be and, at that moment in time, nothing else mattered.
And yet, each moment that followed became more spiritually fulfilling.
The first song was “Superstar.” What seemed like several minutes had only been seconds.
Was the universe just having an overly generous celestial moment with me? At one point I may have questioned if I was owed some divine debt that afforded me this experience? Stop asking so many questions. And with that admonishment, my internal line of questioning ceased.
I had finally been able to remove the unwanted and nonpaying tenants in my head that had been taking up free room and board so that I could enjoy whatever the evening had in store for me.
The song “Superstar” just happens to be the song that plays over the opening credits of the “Surviving the Artists” documentary. Rita and several artists including my dad, Bobby Keys, are on an airplane headed to Dallas, Texas for another leg of the “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” tour.
Since Rita and Bobby are the only surviving family members left, it was fitting that the documentary opened with vintage footage of them collaborating on the song that I now know to be titled “Superstar.”
At this point I don’t know if Rita was aware of my presence. As I soaked in the minutia of each second I thought, “Did she get my email? Did she know if I was here? Could she see me down in the front row, slightly off to stage right? Would she say hello if she saw me?”
Or would I be asked to leave because of my tenacity and blatant filming of the entire show? I had recorded all the events that transpired before and leading up to this moment.
Rita and my mum Judy had more than just a friendship. As Rita tells me, “Judy and I are kindred spirits.” I had no idea how I would be received. I had no expectations; only aspirations of love.
My goal was to experience my godmother in the flesh. Not to impose my own wants or to inflict some claim of entitlement.
There are many lifetimes one might have in what seemingly could be only ten years. Nobody ever fully masters this game I hear referred to as living, because the rules keep evolving until the precipitous end.
Rita and I had almost four decades between us. The only memory would belong solely to Rita, if there was one at all.
After my first calamitous experience with someone I had not had any contact with in 40 years, Pattie (Harrison) Boyd, I recalled that moment in London with all the joy of an over amplified ice cream headache shaken with a twist of mild genitalia torture and proceeded with extreme caution.
To go out of my way and tread lightly (to quote the great Walter White) was accepting the most likely scenario of (probably) no contact. Besides I had Nanny Betsy by my side. Betsy’s last experience of me was of a three-year-old who ran in between the legs of the musicians, including my father that engulfed our living room.
I would entertain the entertainers with my silly impression of them snorting cocaine from a tiny silver spoon, then run in circles around and around, yelling out the age appropriate words,
“fuck, fuck, fuck.”
All for the Rolling Stones’ amusement.
I reveled in their laughter as I pretended to fall to the ground in my dizziness and play possum just like dad’s best friend, Keith.
I just got paid (It’s good to have money when you can) and Judy’s Mustang had a full tank of gas. It was Friday December 7th 2013, 4:00 a.m., Sherman Oaks, CA. Destination: the city of Mill Valley in Marin County, hidden home to famous artists of all types for decades now. Population: 13,903. The MapQuest printout read “383 miles to end point.”
The car was packed with recording equipment. My early Christmas present of a camera mount and tripod would serve as my director of photography, driving companion, confidant AND record my entire journey. You know. If I was the type of person that would put that kind of pressure on inanimate objects.
I never expected the monumental impact of what happened a quarter of the way through my godmother’s show. But, before the trip was over, that impact ended up being the emotional equivalent of a 6 on the Richter scale compared to the 9 that was headed my way.
All was revealed on the trip back from the show. Heading home on December 8th 2013 (the 2 year anniversary of my beloved mother’s inexplicable death), to paraphrase what Rick says to Victor Lazlo in “Casablanca,” it seems that destiny took a hand at 6:03 pm. All my preparation meant nothing to what transpired in front of me and, more importantly, my camera.
Without the camera, this is conjecture, the musings of a woman deluged by grief. No one would believe it. I wouldn’t. This doesn’t even happen in movies. The event, like most wonders in life, came with no warning or time for preparation.
It’s correct to assume that what you are about to see can all be explained. Any scientist with a degree from Los Angeles Community College could tell you. Full Disclosure: I love scientists from Los Angeles Community College.
At some point in our lives, however, all of us are going to ask how many coincidences are enough? At what point do we let it go and accept it as a gift?
I love science. I adore actual facts. I feel better with truth, facts and absolutes. We all need them. We need answers. They make sense to us. They comfort us and give us closure. Even in moments of despair and tragedy, we need them. Even if it contradicts the age old notion that made us all want to vomit, Linda Blair-style, on the person who first told us “Everything happens for a reason, even if it isn’t necessarily clear at that moment.” This did not make sense.
I kept hearing Ricky Jay’s voice from the prologue of “Magnolia” in my head, “This was not just a matter of chance. No. These strange things happen all the time.”
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