Let Love Rule - Lenny Kravitz Page 0,16
He knew every tune Cole Porter ever wrote. He’d actually known Cole. He also knew the history behind each song—what musical or movie it was written for and who first sang it. He was pithy and witty and the kindest man alive. Because he adored Mom, he made sure we had a ringside table. A pink spotlight caught his smile. He had an aristocratic bearing. He performed with such natural grace that even a kid like me—in love with the Jackson 5, James Brown, and Earth, Wind & Fire—learned to fall in love with songs written a half century earlier.
I wasn’t crazy about the food at the Carlyle—it was too fancy and saucy—but I liked how the maître d’ and the waiters called me “Master Leonard.” After the first set, Bobby would make his rounds. The so-and-sos from Newport, the French Riviera, and the Amalfi Coast craved their audience with this extraordinary gentleman. They fawned over him as though he were the queen of England.
He’d wind up at our table, where he’d sit to catch up with the Kravitz family news. What was Mom’s next production? What story was Dad working on at NBC? Did we know that Nina Simone came by to see him last night? And what about you, little man, are you causing trouble at school or being a good boy? He’d rub my head and say he saw me studying his piano playing. He knew that I loved music. “Next set,” he said, “child, I’m goin’ play you some funky blues, so you know I ain’t no old fogey.”
And he did. Bobby belted out bawdy Bessie Smith blues. I was still too young to understand the sexual innuendos, but I felt the raw rhythm. He performed a rendition of “Romance in the Dark” where he got up from the piano, turned his back to the audience, and began to grind and hug himself as if his arms belonged to a beautiful stranger we couldn’t see. I was entranced. Bobby taught me that no matter how sophisticated the style or elegant the setting, soul is the bottom line.
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Then there’s the famous story of Mom and Dad taking Grandpa Albert to their usual haunt, the Rainbow Room, to see his idol Ella Fitzgerald. Ella had been told that a major fan was in the audience, so halfway through the set, when she started singing “Someone to Watch Over Me,” she extended her arm to hold Grandpa’s hand and began looking into his eyes. He froze. He was so nervous that he just stared at her like he was going to pass out. He couldn’t even think to give her his hand.
After the show, Grandma Bessie was disgusted with him. “Albert,” she scolded, “you finally had your chance with your girl, and you blew it.”
That’s the only time I can remember my grandfather speechless. At Mets games, for example, he wouldn’t stop talking, shouting at the umps, cheering on his boys. Before we took off for Shea Stadium, I’d put on the Mets jersey Mom had customized for me. She’d stitched on “23,” the number of Cleon Jones, my favorite player. These were the days of Tom Seaver and Rusty Staub. No matter the score, we stayed till the last out and left the game hoarse.
I also liked the game of chess, introduced to me by my friend Michael Lefer. I caught on quickly. I was never as good as Michael—he was training to be a pro—but I could hold my own. I joined a chess club, learned strategy, and developed my technique, eventually playing with a timer. It took a while, but once I understood the structure, there was freedom—like with jazz. Chess connected to the musical side of my brain. It was all about rhythm. Think, move, click. Think, move, click.
Grandma Bessie’s game was bingo. She’d take me to her church, where I learned it wasn’t as easy a game as it looked. That’s because Grandma worked five bingo boards at once. She’d sit me by her side and claim me as her lucky charm. She won regularly, and as a reward for my patience once, she took me on the subway to the Radio City Music Hall Christmas pageant to see the Rockettes.
The cultural stimulation never stopped. Grandpa Albert, who loved classical music, kept his radio tuned to WQXR. He and Mom were always taking me to Lincoln Center to see artists like André Watts, one of the first African Americans to claim fame