Sorry, my fellow Dictators fans, this isn't a post about the shredular genius of Ross Friedman, aka Ross "The Boss" Funicello. Rather, it's another musing on the way a song can suddenly dislodge a stray memory from the silt of time...
This afternoon, Miss Howerton and I were on the way back from getting the oil changed in "The Thermos" (aka my '05 Honda Element), when "The Boss" by Diana Ross popped up on XM Radio's Studio 54 channel. I can't remember the last time I'd heard it... but hearing it again immediately took me back to the late spring of 1979, when Miss Ross's Ashford & Simpson-penned disco jam was initially released, and somebody brought a copy of the 45 in to my Seventh Grade music appreciation class at John Burroughs Junior High in Los Angeles.
I can't remember who brought the record in, but I do recall the reaction of this kid who sat in the row across from me, a black kid named Chuckie. Chuckie had a huge, extremely nappy Afro, heavily-lidded eyes, a raspy speaking voice, and a gigantic grin which revealed a broken front tooth. Judging by the state of his dental health, and the generally ragged condition of his clothes, Chuckie's family evidently didn't have much money, but the kid had some serious swagger and groove; on more than one occasion, he interrupted the class by hopping out from behind his desk to shout "I said FREAK!" a la Chic's "Le Freak," and bust a brief move or two. Looking back, he was kind of like a sixty-year-old chitlin' circuit comedian (or maybe Rufus Thomas) trapped in the body of an inner-city adolescent.
So anyway, on this particular day, the students were allowed to bring in a record they liked and play it for the rest of the class. I brought in Electric Light Orchestra's Out of the Blue, both because I loved it, and because I thought ELO's classical music elements would score me some brownie points with the teacher. Somebody brought in Sister Sledge's "He's the Greatest Dancer," which the class enjoyed a helluva lot more than ELO's "Sweet Talkin' Woman," and I remember someone else brought in Switch's "There'll Never Be," which to this day remains one of my favorite late 70s smooth soul jams.
(I also remember being totally unconvinced by our teacher's clearly made-up-on-the-spot explanation of the group's name: "They're called Switch because they switch to falsetto when they sing," she said. Later on, I found out that it actually had to do with the DeBarge Brothers' impressive ability to switch instruments onstage.)
Chuckie tapped his foot and nodded to Switch and Sister Sledge, but generally seemed disinterested in the entire exercise — at least until another kid brought that brand-new picture sleeve of "The Boss" up to the record player at the front of the class.
"Aw yeah, Diana Ross," Chuckie rasped to no one in particular, while breaking into that broken-toothed smile. "She an' I used to ball ALL the time!"
Wherever you are, Chuckie, this one's for you.