The Album That Soundtracked My Music Awakening: Maze, Live in New Orleans
November 14th, 1980. The venue was the Saenger Theatre in New Orleans. And Maze, one of America's most beloved soul and R&B bands, with Frankie Beverly as their lead singer, took to the stage for what would become one of their most well-loved and well-remembered concerts.
Everyone was firing on all cylinders, the music was booming, the energy was up. Frankie's all-white get-up stood out on stage like a beacon, and was reflected back at him in the outfits of excited fans, many of whom were also dressed in white for the occasion. The entire concert was recorded along with the following night's set on the 15th, and released in the following year by Capitol Records (along with four new tracks recorded at The Automatt in San Francisco), allowing those who were there to relive the magic, and those who weren't to hear out what they'd missed out on.
Frankie said to the audience on that wonderful night: “This is the place, y’all, this is the place.” And they felt that. On that November night, the Saenger Theatre in New Orleans really was the place to be.
Fast forward to the mid-90s. The place is now Croydon, in the UK. And the audience member is a nine-or-ten year old me, feeling rather perplexed as she sits with her classmates in school during the morning break time. On that day, as with many, that perplexity was related to the topic of music.
My dad loved his music - especially soul music, and he had shelves upon shelves of vinyl records. I wasn’t allowed to play with them, or with the stereo, but I could look at all the covers, and learn about the artists by name: The Futures, Teddy Pendergrass, The Dells, Diana Ross, and his favourite: The Temptations. Each time I went to visit my dad (my parents had divorced), I would look at the records, pull out my favourites and listen as he put them on and taught me about those singers, and the amazing music they created. And so, I naturally wanted to share this with the rest of my class - none of whom were either into soul music and its rich history, nor were they black.
Being the only black child in the class and in my year group, I often felt ‘different’ to my peers. A brown face (a beautiful brown, might I add - even though at the time I didn’t always feel it) in a sea of rosy pinky-peach. There were also light brown skin tones, in smaller amounts - though still in multiples, but I was the only one ‘like me’, and I knew it.
It showed itself in a range of ways from the other girls at school. Some of them genuinely didn’t faze me: questions and compliments about the different things my hair could do, especially when I wore it in braids, or that the girls came up with a sweet nickname for me that made me smile one day when I was feeling sad (a nickname that has stuck to this day, but is now reserved only for close friends). But there were also the deliberate mean-spirited butcherings of my name, the jeering comparisons between being the only girl in class with my skin colour and the only one with parents who weren't together. The comments about the dual-tone of my hands and feet, or the nasty stares in assembly every time we sang “a child is black, a child is white/the whole world looks upon the sight” (I’m not joking - one girl in my class used to do this every time we sang that song, without fail. If she could make eye contact with me for that line, she’d be at it like clockwork). And a myriad of other micro and not-so-microaggressions that kids - and adults, to be fair - don’t always know they’re Ieaning into.
I also had some questions myself: Why are you giving me crap for being concerned about my skin when I notice that it needs moisturising? I can see the dry skin on you too (remember, ashiness likes equal opportunities, and does not discriminate) - so why am I the only 'weird' one here?
Don’t get me wrong, school was overall a pleasant experience that I both enjoyed and excelled at in many areas, but I was always acutely aware that my experience of life, as far as skin colour was concerned, was not the same as my friends’. And so, when I tried to share my musical tastes with them I was met with confusion, dismissal or amusement - depending on the day. They were more interested in boy bands, with their manufactured upbeat, poppy tunes and all-white palatable good looks, and encouraged me (or pressured, some might say) to get into them too.
After-school wasn’t much better, as far as music went. My mum, as a single parent, worked full time - which meant that I went to a childminder each afternoon. Almost all the other girls in my class were picked up by their mums or a relative every day. As I was collected instead by someone who clearly was not family, they often equated this with me being black, and therefore different. The family I was with at the time weren’t people who would have been particularly open to hearing about soul music and Motown, so I stayed quiet. Their youngest son, who was about a year older than me, instead subjected me to repeats of his parents’ Chas & Dave tapes, all of which I tuned out. I may have only been about nine years old, but even then I knew when to just go ‘…nah’; Chas & Dave (and their demographic) was a whole different world. Different to the boy bands, but no less alien. Now it’s coming up to thirty years later, and I could not tell you one Chas & Dave song. It was a joyful day indeed when he got a Sega Megadrive and we could while away the after-school hours with Sonic, Ryu and Chun-li, and the crew from Golden Axe instead.
But at home? Forget Take That or Chas & Dave. I was unknowingly getting a musical education that would serve and inspire me for years to come. A musical awakening, if you will.
You see, another thing my dad liked to do was make mixtapes of his favourite tracks. Every few months, he’d send me home with a new tape of songs that he had curated, complete with the end of each song fading out before the next, and the playlist carefully written out on the insert card in his familiar-looking block capitals, allowing me to learn the names and the artists on that particular curation by heart. Even as a child, I had a sense of the care that had gone into making them. My mum and I would play the tapes on repeat in the car and sing along, and they became synonymous with a joyful and happy part of my life.
I especially remember playing around my birthday (in November, which makes it even more fitting that I'm writing this piece for The Everyday this month) - and the tapes provided the soundtrack to the fun and excitement of the celebrations. And one of our favourite tracks was Maze’s ‘Feel That You’re Feeling’, which had been recorded live at the Saenger over a decade prior, before I was born. This was a special song to me because it was also the only one on its particular tape with a live audience, which gave it a whole different aura. The excitement in the crowd was palpable, and it came through our speakers by way of a small, simple rectangular object made of plastic. My child-like mind marvelled at the sound.
Years later, I tracked down the full Live in New Orleans album online. By then, my love for music and fashion from the late-60s, 70s and very early 80s had been steadily blossoming for a long time - reflecting itself in the music I was listening to and some of the clothes I was choosing to wear, as my personal style developed. My style is still evolving, but the influences of the time are there for sure. Anyway, I had remembered hearing the album with my dad as a child, and wanted to revisit it. It didn't disappoint. I was also tickled to learn that the album had actually been recorded on November 14th and 15th, which is only a few days after my own birthday; another reason to feel connected to it.
The standout tracks for me are 'Changing Times', 'Joy and Pain', and of course, 'Feel That You're Feeling'. The whole album is incredible, with the music, the vocal harmonies, Frankie Beverly's connection with the audience and the energy of the crowd - and I highly recommend giving it a listen. And last year, Live in New Orleans celebrated its 40th anniversary with a reissue of the album. I'd picked up a vinyl copy a while back (and it's currently on our stereo as I write this), but I can't lie - that new limited edition is calling me. The special edition discs are white, as a tribute to Frankie Beverly's all-white stage gear - and also to show appreciation to the many audience members who would also dress in white for the shows to show their support. Gotta love that.
As a little girl - when I felt like I didn’t fit in at school or at my childminder’s, I could reassure myself that a part of my own culture was waiting for me at home, and it was a culture to love, embrace and be proud of. I stopped trying to speak to school friends about soul music because they clearly weren’t interested - but at the same time, why was I troubling myself over Boyzone, when Frankie Beverly and Maze were at home (or in the car), waiting for me? They didn’t get it, and as time went on, I realised I didn’t actually need them to get it, because I had something special of my own. That thought in itself was not only comforting, but it was also powerful in ways I didn't fully understand at the time.
And so when November 14th comes around in a short time from now, I'll maybe think about wearing white too, to celebrate this wonderful live album's 41st anniversary. In the meantime, however, this piece is dedicated to my father, Kenny. Every time I hear ‘Feel That You’re Feeling’ (or any song that was recorded at the Saenger that night), I’m reminded of my own personal musical awakening. Of the happy times we had, and that the music I grew up with has been a gift that has continued to inspire and help shape me into the person I am today. It's a gift that is priceless, and I have my dad to thank for that.
Ketishia (she/her) is a writer, graphic designer and photographer based in London, UK. When she’s not working at her day job in marketing for a youth-based charity, she can be found taking photos, hula hooping, pole dancing and exploring new music and good tunes. She’s supposed to be learning the bass guitar as well, but she needs to actually sit down and practice. With a developing interest in slower fashion and less consumption, she’s excited to start flexing her styling and creative muscles in new ways. Her blog on the subject is coming soon at ketishiav.com, but in the meantime you can visit her at @ketishiav on both Instagram and Twitter.
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