Suburban Curtis Mayfield
Fumbling through Pusherman and Human Rights
In eighth grade, I bought a cassette tape from the bargain rack at Kemp Mill Music with a cool Black Caesar, Fred Williamson-looking dude in a colorful suit holding a gun in one hand and a scantily dressed babe in the other on the cover. It was entitled Greatest Pimpin’ Hits or something similar and anthologized many of the classic soundtrack cuts of ’70s Blaxploitation-era cinema. Isaac Hayes’s “Shaft,” of course; Bobby Womack’s “Across 110th Street” and Marvin Gaye’s “Troubleman” are other ones I remember, along with Curtis Mayfield’s “Superfly.” Come to think “Pusherman” and “Freddie’s Dead” were on the tape as well. I would imagine three tunes making Curtis the leading representative of Greatest Pimpin’ Hits. If the pimp shoe fits.
I loved this cassette tape. Listened to it all the time. Not because I — nestled in an affluent Washington, D.C. suburb — was particularly aware of the socioeconomic context and political backdrop of these films, or had ever even seen any of them at the time, but because it was damn funky soul music. I remember one summer I was mowing lawns — I hated mowing lawns — despised it with all my heart — and it was a regular in my day-glo Sony Walkman.
Now for the embarrassing suburban-white-kid-early-‘90s-cluelessness anecdote: as junior high schoolers it was required of me and my buddies to hang out at the local mall, where we occasionally partook in the activity of “Pimpin’.” This meant we would dress up in ’70s clothes gathered from the basement, attic, or bargain bin and strut around the mall blaring Greatest Pimpin’ Hits from a boombox. Curtis Mayfield’s smooth falsetto:
I’m your momma, I’m your daddy, I’m that nigger in the alley / I’m your doctor, when in need, want some coke, have some weed
and our long strides around the Sbarro’s and Cinnabon. Nigh 30 years ago in suburban Virginia we thought that was pretty sweet. Nowadays maybe not so much — it’s conceivable we’d have been guesting on Hannity by the time we got through the food court, but back then we truly didn’t even consider it was inappropriate. I recall the people from the Glamour Shots appreciated it anyway, gifting us with some fine 8 x 10 glossies in our pimp gear in exchange for momentarily enlivening the tedious hours of their mall working day.
Having thankfully moved on from my pimping years, I came back to Curtis Mayfield via my preferred genre of metal, courtesy Fishbone’s cover of “Freddie’s Dead.” Thrashing about in the pit at some humid summer festival: hey, I know this song — wait a second, this is from that tape!
If I had to name my all-time favorite band, Bad Brains would get a better than decent shot at the title. Along with being righteous heavy music, Bad Brains tick all my personal boxes: subvert expectations, crash genre, local boys to boot, but as I think about it, maybe there is also some related connection to my early courtship with Curtis. They are, foremost, city music: Curtis from Chicago; Bad Brains, my own D.C. and later NYC when they were forced to relocate in search of an audience and clubs where they were allowed to play (see: “Banned in DC”). Their music speaks to an awareness and connection with legitimate social concerns developed from real experience and expressed in a kick-ass musical fashion. Pusherman and Troubleman and Freddie-on-the-corner are from the same place that led to Bad Brains’ HR (Human Rights) screaming in “Big Takeover,”
Understand me when I say / There’s no love for this USA / This world is doomed with its own segregation / Just another Nazi test.
And back to Curtis with another sentiment that hasn’t changed much these many decades later:
We’re all built up with progress / But sometimes I must confess / We deal with rockets and dreams / But reality what does it mean / Ain’t nothin’ said / ’Cause Freddie’s dead.
*This essay was first published in 2017 as part of a project to celebrate Rolling Stone Magazine’s Top 500 Albums. This essay was for Mayfield’s Superfly.
