Nelson George - To Funk and Die in LA

For Sly Stone,

Rick James,

Maurice White,

and the many funk gods of Los Angeles

Thanks to my editors at Record World and Billboard back in the 1980s who allowed me to cover the dark soul of a sunlit city.

CHAPTER ONE

TO FUNK IN SANTA MONICA

At first no one really paid attention. He was just another gray-bearded, raggedy-looking old black man pushing a metal laundry cart across the Santa Monica promenade. The homeless had made this liberal city by the ocean their residence of choice for decades and, annoying as they were, the locals had become expert at ignoring them.

Even when the old man stopped near the AMC multiplex and pulled a beat-up mini Moog synthesizer, a small Marshall amp, and a tiny generator from his cart, the shoppers heading to Pottery Barn and Steve Madden kept their distance and, wisely, held their noses. It was only after he squatted on two milk crates and pressed his long brown fingers onto the yellowed keys that a couple of curious souls slowed down, hearing the magic in those wrinkled fingers.

When he opened his mouth to sing, a magnificent sound emerged: it was the choir in a Southern backwoods church; working people drinking in a Midwestern bar; the rustle of sequined shirts and star-spangled pants; the chemical stink of Jheri-curl juice; the wind in Africa; and the prayers of those kind beings who left us the pyramids.

Each passerby heard him differently. For one woman it was the sound of her grandmother's favorite song. For an aging hip hop head it was a sample used by Biggie or Tupac or Raekwon. To a bunch of folks on the Santa Monica promenade it was a new sound that made the latest hits seem tiny, like Mozart heard through earbuds. He was lean and he was old, but his voice was a mountain.

Smartphones appeared and images were recorded. Tints were applied and snappy captions concocted. Selfie nation took over the Santa Monica promenade. People angled to include themselves in pics near, next to, and almost on top of this gray-bearded revelation.

On his keyboard was a small plastic cup, which began filling with quarters and dollars, and one welcome twenty-dollar bill. It was all good until a man close to the keyboard said, "I think that's Dr. Funk."

And then it was over. The old man shut his mouth, his fingers left the keyboard, and he glanced around at the crowd like a turtle outside its shell. He stood upor, rather, half stood, half bentand swiftly slid his gear back into his laundry cart. Several people tried to engage him but his replies were a low mumble or a distant stare.

From the old man's pocket appeared a shiny new Samsung, seemingly his only possession from this century. He tapped his Uber app, confirmed a pickup point, and pushed his cart toward Santa Monica Boulevard. A white woman claimed she saw him at the Hollywood Palladium in 1982 (though he had shown up two hours late). A man walked next to him saying he had a vinyl copy of Dr. Funk and the Love Patrol's classic Chaos: Phase I that he'd love to get signed. To their consternation the old man pressed on, determined to meet his Uber and ignore their conversation.

Then an imposing man with salt-and-pepper hair, a serious tan, and an expensive suit appeared by his side. "I saw a video of you on Instagram," he said quickly. "I'm Teddy Tapscott, a movie producer. I was associate producer on Straight Outta Compton. My partner and I are anxious to set up a meeting with you."

"So you associate with producers?" Dr. Funk said drily. "I used to do that too. Now I'm too busy."

"You deserve a film biopic," Tapscott said quickly, trying to slow the old man down. No dice.

"See that guy over there?" The musician gestured toward a sleeping homeless man. "He deserves a meal. What do you deserve?"

Tapscott held out his business card. The old man ignored him and kept moving, so the producer dropped his card into the laundry cart.

"You saw me sing, right?" the old man said.

"Yes," Tapscott replied excitedly. "Yes. On Instagram."

The old man turned to look at this well-dressed fan. "You're welcome," he said, then waved down the waiting Uber.

After dumping his gear in the trunk and avoiding eye contact with the disappointed producer, the man known as Dr. Funk, who was the soundtrack for millions, a sage for thousands, and a bandleader for a select few, negotiated his lean, bony frame into the backseat of a white Hyundai. The car headed east, in the direction of wherever he was living these days. And, like the melodies he'd just played, Dr. Funk evaporated into the moist Santa Monica night.

CHAPTER TWO

TO FUNK AND DIE IN LA

Like so many mornings since 1992, Daniel Hunter, known to friends and neighbors as Big Danny, stopped his beautifully maintained green 1970 Buick Electra 225 convertible in the parking lot behind the minimall at Crenshaw and Vernon. Happy Pizza was the anchor tenant, located diagonally across from Leimert Park, but Big Danny didn't fuck with that place. It was the kind of fast-food joint that killed black folks with fried crap. Anyway, his attention was focused on his ride. He worried that dust from the unending Metro light rail construction had tainted its shiny coat.

Between his dutiful, loving care and the forgiving Southern California weather, Big Danny's ride had been rolling through the LA streets for decades. His rims didn't spin (too old for that mess) but they glistened like medals on a five-star general. Big Danny was a tall man who, at seventy-two, still stood up straight, though his trademark bop had become a shuffle after two hip replacements. From a distance, Big Danny, in a blue Dodgers cap and jacket, beige shorts, white tube socks, and white Stan Smiths, looked more like a retired athlete than a semiretired shop owner.

Also exiting the car was his grandson Walli Hunter, a lanky teen with his woolly hair cut into a black peak, wearing a black T-shirt with A Tribe Called Quest across the front in white letters, skinny orange jeans, and black-and-white Vans. The MacBook he had under his arm was adorned with a Kendrick Lamar sticker.

Next to Happy Pizza was Classic Crenshaw Coffee, a relatively new caf operated by two twentyish white men who wore long beards, black horn-rimmed glasses, and matching white-and-red-checked button-down shirts. A few of the young white couples who'd purchased homes in nearby Leimert Park were inside tapping away on laptops, nibbling on gluten-free baked goods, and drinking free-trade coffee. Leashed outside was a feisty brown-and-gray Yorkie, who yapped as he walked up. Big Danny looked down, barked back, muttered, "Little dishrag dog," and laughed.

"You gonna sit in there and e-mail and shit?" he asked Walli.

"Yeah. They make a great chai latte, Grandpa. You should try it."

Big Danny smiled. "Chai latte? If that excites you, please enjoy it. I'm gonna get a paper and a coffee and then go handle some business. I can swing by and pick you up on the way back."

"Why you buy coffee and the paper there, Grandpa? You have your own store," Walli asked.

"You gotta support your people."

Walli shrugged and said, "Sounds good," then entered the coffee shop.

His grandfather looked inside with a slight shake of the head. Chai latte, he thought. Used to be a good cup of joe was enough. Now every morning drink has to be fake Italian.

Next door to Classic Crenshaw was K-Pak Groceries, a mom-and-pop minimart that had been in biz since the eighties, back when the first Korean immigrants started retailing in black hoods. It had survived two generations and a lot of LA history. Behind the cash register was Lawrence Pak, the son of the original owner. He greeted Big Danny with a tight nod and then reached under the counter for a very specific copy of the