Love Me Still is a hauntingly beautiful song sung by legendary soul singer Chaka Khan, who co-wrote the song with Bruce Hornsby (who plays piano on the track and appears in the video) and was initially featured on the soundtrack to Spike Lee’s 1995 film, “Clockers.” I fell in love with the song and it remains one of those ballads that leaves me breathless, and even for a long while in the mid-1990s, I used it as the music on my answering machine (remember those?).
Of her myriad of sonic gifts – the funk, the grit, the spunk etc… – Love Me Still touches me for its pure simplicity; there are no vocal pyrotechnics, no improvisational scattering, no jazzy quirk – just a straightforward reading via Khan’s richly clarion vocals, accompanied by the gorgeous tickling of the ivories by Mr. Hornsby.
There are two versions of the video that were released, both directed by Spike Lee. The soundtrack version has clips of the film interspersed throughout and the standard version omitted that footage.
In an excerpt of the January/February 1997 issue of Performing Songwriter, writer Lydia Hutchinson asks Khan about the songs origin, and co-writing it with Hornsby:
Tell me about writing “Love Me Still” with Bruce Hornsby.
“I went to Virginia and visited with Bruce and his family and had such a great time. We were working on some songs, and he finally said, “OK, I know you like this melody so let me work on it some more and send it to you.” So he finished it and sent it to me and when I heard it, it just blew me away. It was this beautiful hymn-like piece and it just sort of told me what it was about—the sentiment was there. So I sat down and the lyrics just came out. And I recorded it immediately and was so happy with it that I called Bruce up and played it for him over the phone. And we were both knocked out by it.”
How long did those lyrics take you?
“Oh, they took a while … at least a couple of hours.”
(Laughing) A couple of hours?
“That’s a long time to be messing around with words!” (Laughs)
Have you noticed a maturing process that you’ve gone through vocally, such as “less is more”?
“Absolutely. My thing was always to kind of scream and go over the top. When I listen to my old stuff I also sound like I’m going at about three speeds faster than I am now. I sound a little bit frantic and young and wet. Now my vibrato has slowed down. My voice has deepened. So yeah, it definitely feels much more effective to pull back and then be choosier about the over-the-top parts.”
I really noticed a more reserved delivery in the song you and Hornsby wrote.
“That was one of the hardest songs I’ve ever had to sing, because I knew I had to really hold back on it and still get the message and emotion across.”
(I wrote this in 2012 for Adam’s 34th birthday, upon discovering that he had died a few years prior, never having the chance to say goodbye. I’ve removed older post when reconfiguring MyNewBoyfriend, but decided to continue with these, for Adam…)
Adam Forgetta and I met 18 years ago during a brisk and stinging winter morning. It sounds like a cliché, I know, but it’s actually true. I was standing on a near-empty underground subway platform at Church Avenue waiting for the F train, when, from the corner of my eye I noticed a young man (who vaguely resembled a young, handsome male version of Sandra Bernhard) bopping and sing-whispering aloud to Guns N Roses, with a pair of drumsticks protruding out of his back pocket. I don’t recall who initiated the conversation, or what our first words were, but I remember, after giving him the thumbs up for his pseudo-public performance, he smiled, took his headphones off and we started speaking. Soon subsequently, he and I were at my apartment – Guns N Roses was his favorite band, Axl Rose his favorite singer, and he was in awe of my massive CD collection that I “acquired” while at my recent past tenure at Tower Records. As a fellow music lover he was enthralled spelunking the thousands of titles (especially those G ‘n R imports) packed in my small one room apartment.
The above photo was taken on March 9, 1994 in that Bensonhurst, Brooklyn apartment on Bay Ridge Parkway and 17th avenue not too many months after we met. Unemployed at the time, living off my “savings” from Tower, we spent limitless days lounging about. We kept each other company through that cold winter, lunching on microwavable hamburgers and diet Coke from the corner deli up the block on 18th avenue, traipsing through the snow to Manhattan to check out new CD releases from the copious import stores that saturated the East Village. We strolled to Bay Ridge in the springtime and sat along the water, people watching, dreaming. We excitedly talked of buying bikes so we could pedal to the Verrazano Bridge to enjoy the exercise and the view. I told him about my friend, Kenny Joseph, who took his life many years ago by leaping, and how the bridge has become, for me, a sort of sanctuary for contemplation, even amidst the clamor of the traffic above. The holidays swiftly came and went, and we enjoyed visiting the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, with the hopes that the imminent New Year would bring forth happiness. I loved teaching him everything I knew about music, movies, life, politics, and I loved him, soul deep.
Through this all, and right after his birthday the following year, the eventual had happened.
Age never really mattered to me, up to some point (his actual age was definitely something I never pursued – my range was always a +10/-5 year circumference). But the age he told me he was upon our meeting (20) – and appeared to be, in all his emotional and personable fortitude – was not what the truth was; there was more than a decade difference between us, I knew, and though he was younger, I did not think he was a teenager still. I was confused after I found out the truth – and angry (for a little while) – but I was thankful, too, that, when the eventual actually occurred, he was of legal age in New York. But it didn’t distill my uncomfortability with it, and that part of our friendship was instantly halted. It didn’t matter to either of us – after all, we weren’t “a couple” – we were friends who, after spending a year as such, extended the boundaries; out of love, out of brotherhood, out of boredom too. And…if it was beautiful, then how could it have been wrong? (It really wasn’t.)
I never thought Adam was gay, despite our relationship – I knew he had been with other men, usually older, but he spoke so often about girls that I figured any same-sex dalliances were merely that of the heightened hormones of a horny teenager. Before I knew his real age, he told me he was bisexual, and I accepted that, knowing even then that ours was a temporary sexuality – and one that was merely that extension of friendship rather than a torrid romance. I loved him, but I was never in love with him. And vice versa.
I started working shortly thereafter at Merlite Industries, a costume jewelry catalog company based in Chelsea, and our times together grew more fleeting, though we made our efforts to see each other whenever able. Over the next year or two, we saw each other as often as we could – even after I moved in with a roommate to a larger apartment not too far away from my previous one and sporadically beyond that.
Sadly, as time progressed, Adam had virtually disappeared. Our visits were more and more infrequent, our phone calls halted completely (it didn’t help that he no longer had one). The last time I had spoken to him, he was living with an older woman and her two children. He sounded happy, despite their age difference (funny, huh?), and I was happy for him. He was 18 at that time, I surmise. As I hugged him goodbye, I kissed his cheek and said, “I miss you, man!” He replied, almost bittersweetly, “I know. Me too.” We paused a little longer mid-embrace, and then he walked out the door, heading home.
If I had only known…
Despite the years-long hiatus, I’ve often searched for Adam. I had no phone number for he had no phone; his previous address left no forwarding one. When I finally purchased a computer in 2000-2001, I began, in vain, my quest. I spelunked Yahoo and AOL chat rooms, on Guns N Roses fan message boards. With the advent of “social media,” I would peruse Friendster and MySpace then later Facebook and Google, all grasping onto the hope that Adam took to this new form of technology.
But the reason he was intangible breaks my heart, still.
In May of 2011, like an epiphany, I remembered Adam had an older sister – he talked of her fondly years before and I loved that her name was “Starr”. So I looked up Starr on Facebook on a hopeful whim and there she was! I eagerly wrote:
Hi Starr – forgive my intrusion but I was wondering if you were related to Adam Forgetta. He’s an old friend of mine from back in the 1990s and we’ve lost contact over the years. I know “Adam” is a common name, so let me describe my friend Adam – he was about 5’9 – reddish curly hair, a HUGE Guns N Roses fan (big music fan in general). He’d be in his early 30s now, as I knew him when he was a teenager. If Adam is indeed a relative of yours, can you please let him know that his old friend from Bensonhurst Jeffrey (the music man with 8,000 CDs) has been looking for him for a few years…and if he is indeed a relative, please let me know and I will give you my number so you can give it to Adam. If Adam is not related to you, please let me know as well. Thanx for your time…I hope to hear back from you soon. ~jeffrey
She replied with the worst words I never wanted to – or expected to – hear:
I’m his sister and he passed away in 2004. U can call me at xxxxxx
I momentarily froze. My hands quivered and I sobbed uncontrollably. Through the tremors, I responded:
I can’t talk…I’m in tears…I will call, but I can’t now…too emotional…how did he pass…?
Ur going make me cry! I loved my brother very much. He died from HIV and cancer and he left a set of twins behind, a boy and girl. They’re 9 years old now…
Oh my…I am so sorry for your loss…I didn’t mean to make you cry. I loved your brother…he was special to me and when we lost contact a piece of my heart left…I still have photos of him from a few parties I threw…Oh, Adam!!! I am weeping so hard… I’ve looked for him for years…I wish I never lost touch…oh, sweet, sweet Adam!
I called Starr after I composed myself and we spoke – and through our tears she told me the tale of her brother’s later life, of the woman who had given him HIV, his twins he loved so much, the AIDS-related cancer he had finally succumbed to. How it was 7 years since he died and how she misses her brother beyond comprehensive words and how she longs to embrace her twin niece and nephew, Adam’s children. She told me of the tattoo she had made in her brother’s honor so he would forever be with her. She told me if I Googled his name, I would find his death notice. I have Googled his name in the past, and always came up with nothing. After we hung up, I did so again. And there, like a serrated blade, it was. So I wept again.
I know it’s a cliché to say it, but there really aren’t words to convey the prodigious size of the hole in my heart. I had prayed to a god I don’t believe in that the aforementioned hiatus would be just that…that I would find my long-ago lost, itinerant child…that I would embrace him and feel that breathtaking hug of his, and to again smell his hair while doing so (which he always thought was weird, and we’d laugh); that, speaking of laughs, we would have a few good ones at the expense of his favorite singer’s eccentricity (though there’s no doubt Adam’s love for Axl would not have waned). I had always expected that I would see him, rocking down the street, air-drumming with those drumsticks he was rarely – if ever – without (they were his security blanket, his constant thread to his reality. And you wouldn’t recognize it instantly, but he’s twirling those beaters in the photo above). I anticipated the ensuing day I would hear the tales of his happy life, perhaps of a wife and kids, or a partner or husband. I fervently awaited the tales of how he had filled the missing years that separated our tangibility, but not our brotherhood or bond.
I just assumed that, given time…he would just…be here.
But, these are now evaporated aspirations, jolting evanescences, discarded dreams. Oh, if only I had tried much harder…used any resources at my disposal, extended my searches. I never should have allowed those expanses that life jettisons at us to allow him to slip away. If I tried more powerfully, perchance he would still…be here.
Maybe, if we remained tangible, I could have, at the very least, held his hand when he left us.
I recently dreamed of Adam, almost a year after receiving the news, and one of a myriad of dreams he’s haunted for years and years. These dreams were always surreal, unexplainable, but commonly; they very rarely altered – they were of Adam and I doing what we’ve always done as friends, as if time were not merely a ghost. This time was different, though. I remember reaching out, imploring to him, “Don’t go…stay, Adam…” And he smiled that goofy, glorious grin, enveloped me in his arms and said, “I love you man. Always have, always will…”
Drenched in tears, with the sunlight bathing my face, I woke up smiling.
I don’t believe that dreams are anything other than our subconscious minds working overtime to get us through the night. But…that embrace…maybe, just maybe.
So, Adam, here’s to you on your (34th ) (35th) (36th) (37th) (38th) (39th) (40th) 41st birthday. You are forever tattooed on my heart, and will always reside within the storehouse of my soul, for as long as I shall live…and beyond…
On your grave, I will lie, it’s the closest I will get to touching you again. I will kiss the dirt, make love to the stone…I will always remember you…
…especially during those cold November rains…
I recently reached out to Starr again and asked if she had any other photos, but most were long gone. She sent me the only two she had – of Adam and his son, Adam Jr., from 2001, and a childhood Christmas photo with Adam grinning with the heart of the holidays. Hindsight can make one despondent at times, but I wish I had known to take more photos of us. Selfies, digital cameras, iPhones – all pipe dreams from SciFi films. We lived life sans the technology.
The other one is a photo I found in my archives of a New Year’s Eve party, with Adam on the far right looking bemused at my party antics.
Moments frozen in time…etched in our memories, eternal.
Happy Birthday to the Rock Goddess, and the indisputable Queen of Rock N Roll, Stevie Nicks!
To commemorate that, plus the upcoming 36th anniversary of the release of The Wild Heart, released on June 10, 1983, here is a rarely-seen “Liner Notes” interview Stevie did way back in September of that year. This interview aired only two weeks after I saw her astounding shows at Radio City Music Hall. Those pre-internet days of concert going was always an adventure; I trekked into the city overnight, and waited in line with a few dozen other Stevie fanatics, at Radio City’s box office. It was summer, it was warm, it was the 1980s so the area was mostly desolate at 3am. But when the box office opened I purchased three tickets for both nights. I went with my friend, Spike, the first night on September 12th, and I went solo the following night. It was an incredible show, the highlight being her transcendent live version of “Beauty And The Beast,” my favorite track off The Wild Heart, which reduced me to a puddle of tears both evenings.
In this interview, Stevie was promoting that recently released, now classic album (it was released on June 10th), and she discusses the beginning of her musical journey with Lindsey Buckingham, her duality of being a member of Fleetwood Mac and her successful solo career, her great new solo band, Prince (whom she collaborated with on “Stand Back”), and of course, the album itselft and her devotion to her fans.
And after all these decades, we are still devoted to our Queen.
In 1998, twenty-two minutes after she was asked to cover for her ailing friend, Luciano Pavarotti, Aretha Franklin walked on stage at the Grammy Awards to perform the legendary aria “Nessun Dorma.” With little time to prepare Franklin performed the aria as is. In Pavarotti’s key. No one knew what to expect. No one knew what he or she was about to witness.
That performance begets one of the most extraordinary musical moments in awards show history, in a canon as mammoth. It brought the audience to a thunderous ovation and remains, in my opinion, the greatest performance in the history of the Grammy Awards.
Happy 70th Birthday to Aretha Franklin, the Queen of Soul.
There are no elaborate celebratory plans to commemorate this 125th birthday milestone, so I decided to pay tribute myself by posting the celestial Patti LaBelle (accompanied by the late, great Billy Preston on organ) saluting Lady Liberty in a great 1986 July 4th concert that aired to fête the 1986 re-opening, which coincided with her 100th birthday. It’s an other-worldly gospel performance so joyful it almost made this atheist a god-fearing believer! (I said almost!)
Happy Birthday Lady Liberty. I promise to visit you soon, that is, once you’re available for company…
On April 11, 1990, 1500+ people attended Ryan White’s funeral. It was a sad chapter in American history (I previously wrote about it HERE).
In times of sheer darkness and despair, you shone brighter than the most brilliant star and displayed a bravery rarely matched.
Happy 39th birthday to the little boy with the bright smile. Happy birthday, skyline pigeon…
Turn me loose from your hands Let me fly to distant lands Over green fields, trees and mountains Flowers and forest fountains Home along the lanes of the skyway
For this dark and lonely room Projects a shadow cast in gloom And my eyes are mirrors Of the world outside Thinking of the way That the wind can turn the tide And these shadows turn From purple into grey
For just a Skyline Pigeon Dreaming of the open Waiting for the day He can spread his wings And fly away again Fly away skyline pigeon fly Towards the dreams You’ve left so very far behind
Just let me wake up in the morning To the smell of new mown hay To laugh and cry, to live and die In the brightness of my day
I want to hear the pealing bells Of distant churches sing But most of all please free me From this aching metal ring And open out this cage towards the sun
For just a Skyline Pigeon Dreaming of the open Waiting for the day He can spread his wings And fly away again Fly away skyline pigeon fly Towards the dreams You’ve left so very far behind
I cannot remember a time in my life where I could sleep in silence. To drift into timelessness, there must be the delicate sounds of human language…music never helped either, and still doesn’t…it has to be conversations in the dark, like angels converging in my timespace. Now, and since the genesis of my adulthood, I sleep with the television playing old reruns through the night (until Rob comes to bed and shuts everything down), but as a teen, with no TV in my room, I would drift into dreamland by listening to talk radio or, in many cases, the local all news station.
And I heard it in the middle of the night, awoken while listening to New York’s all-news 1010 WINS…and I was paralyzed. Was this a nightmare? I tended to drift between reality and dreamscape, sometimes unable to momentarily grasp the difference between the corporeal and the intangible dreams…
No, this had to be merely the night terrors, brought on by the incessant tick-tick-ticking of WINS’s archaic background sound effects. I jettisoned out of bed, ran to the bathroom, splashed my face with water and sighed, lumbering back into the sanctuary that was my bed on the floor. But I had to be sure. So, I listened again.
And I wept in the silent hollow of the night. How can John Lennon be dead?
The next school day was a day of mourning, as students and fans sat around the piano in the auditorium singing the songs the world knew. No one could believe that he was gone…murdered…why a man who lived his life for peace and love would be so mercilessly executed. In hindsight, and to anyone not born of that time, this might all seem a bit idealistic, but it served the youth of the world back in the prehistoric, pre-Internet era of 1980.
It’s unfathomable that almost three decades have passed since madman Marc David Chapman put a bullet through the very fabric of an era.
The world lost not only a philanthropist, but those who loved his music, his philosophy and his inherent goodness also lost a fabric of their innate being.
And, more tragically, a woman lost a husband and a little boy lost a father.
The abundance of tracks that were recorded during the sessions that begat the John Lennon/Yoko Ono classic DOUBLE FANTASY were supposed to be released successively as sort of companion pieces, and in January of 1984 – four years after Lennon’s slaughter – Ono finally released MILK AND HONEY, accumulating John’s songs from those sessions with her (mostly) new songs. Musically it was a strange dichotomy – Lennon’s sonically unfinished tracks were hardly masterpieces, though there were some gorgeous moments. Ono’s newer tracks hinted at a more contemporary feel while subsiding (though not totally) her usual avantgardism for a more Pop sheen (though hardly Pop). Juxtaposed as the same call and response schematic as DOUBLE FANTASY, MILK AND HONEY, at times, loses a coherency. And I admired the collection for these exact reasons. Reviews were mixed, and many pondered the motives around Ono releasing this material (she talks about such in the interviews below).
For over four decades, Ono’s unfairly been a pariah to psychotic Beatles fanatics, Lennon-ologists and journalists, and still, to this day, by muttonheads who stupidly continue to espouse the “SHE BROKE UP THE BEATLES!!!” mantra like the 33 of “Revolution #9” played on 78 (forget that some of Lennon’s finest musical seeds were nourished after the dissipation of the Fab 5, thanks to Ono as inspiration).
What was – and is – almost always overlooked was their happily-ever-after. If anything at all, it was indubitable that John & Yoko were passionately in love with each other and their son, until sadly, what transpired was their Till death do us part.
Certainly, Ono was (and is) not unaware of the conspicuous disdain the majority of the public feels at the mention of her name or the mockery at the suggestion of her musicality – though I’m apt to believe most negative connotations, especially these days, come from a force of habit, as if it were merely common knowledge to loathe her – but she rarely, if ever (and certainly not during this interview) lets her guard down or lets the toxic forces imbibe her tightly sealed bubble (at the time of this interview, she’d had almost two decades of such barrages to have already built up massive invisible force shields).
Some also scoffed because this was a paid interview – Robert Christgau, the Dean of American Rock Critics, was commissioned to interview Ono by Ono herself, for this promotional film for MILK AND HONEY. In his weekly Village Voice Consumer Guide, dated March 24, 1984, Christgau wrote:
“* * * Attention * * * Disclosure * * * Attention * * * Before the goddamn Times finds out, I’ll do the apparently honest thing and note that I was paid by Yoko Ono to interview her for a promotional film she’s making about Milk and Honey. I took the job well after (and only because) I’d fallen for the album, though the interview clarified my ideas about it. For a while I considered not reviewing Milk and Honey, or keeping my opinion off in some discreet corner, but in the end it seemed stupid, not to mention ethically dubious…”
Christgau gave MILK AND HONEY an “A” grade in his Village Voice Consumer Guide.
Besides Yoko, Christgau also interviews Sean, who at the time was a precocious 9-year old, wise beyond his youth. But these interview segments are fairly brief, and woven with home movies of Lennon and Ono and Sean (some of the footage I’ve never seen) that are both wondrous and heartbreaking. They exist as aural and visual paintings – from “Nobody Told Me” to “Borrowed Time,” to “Grow Old With Me” to “I’m Steppin’ Out.” Presented almost as music videos, these are rare glimpses of a sojourner’s happy past and present that numbs in the realization that he – and we, and Yoko, and Sean – were robbed of a spirited, almost assuredly monumental, enchanted future.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BRUCE! Rock ‘N’ Roll Savior. The Boss. The “Future Of Rock And Roll”. Senior Citizen?
I know. As hard as it is to believe, Bruce Springsteen hit the BIG SIX-O, and to celebrate, he joined the elite list of Rock icons to have graced the cover of the senior citizen bible, AARP Magazine– the bi-monthly magazine that’s issued to every member of AARP.
Okay, to be fair, the AARP isn’t an organization directed only at senior citizens – it’s an organization for folks who hit the big FIVE-O and over.
But that’s not really the point. One can say that to admit a legend or an icon’s aging is to ponder within your very own soul and realize the truths you sometimes don’t want to admit.
Or, we can accept those truths and be thrilled that by the grace within that aforementioned ‘own soul’, and by the power of those you love and who love you, embrace it. As AARP editor Nancy Perry Graham said:
We put Bruce on the cover first and foremost because he was turning 60,” she said. “Like the rest of America, we found that to be inspiring. Looking at Bruce, he really personifies our message at AARP that attitude matters more than age.
Well-said, Nancy (click to read the Bruce AARP MAGAZINE article).
I’m 20 years behind Bruce and don’t think about old age often. Or I try not to.
My New Boyfriend 