Our Funk Did You Some Good

Matthew was having, I think, his second annual White Elephant / caroling party. It is quite possible there had been many others that I had not been invited to, a whole history of kooky and fantastic gift exchange ‘tis the season festivities, but this was one of the only for which I made the cut. There was snow—wet thin Portland snow—slopped over the sidewalks and trees. Matthew lived in what seemed like a distant southwest outpost—not as far as Karen, but far—down by the Albertson’s just off the Beaverton Hillsdale Highway. The living room was a jumble of Matthew’s innumerable friends, acquaintances, friends, and various other impossible to define relationships. There was a tree blinking in the corner. Boys wore the button down waistcoat, the guatamala woven shirt, dressed down up, and long hair. Girls in flowy cotton, vaguely ethnic prints. Everyone in chunky ecuadorean sweaters, rag wool. Winter in Portland, late 80s early 90s, I do not know. But I do know that when this unruly tribe of earnest yet overly ironic teenagers came warbling up to the suburban crackerbox houses, clove cigarettes blazing, ukeleles astrum, bearing—as a distinctly non-Christian talisman—a plastic horse enshrouded in duct tape (weirdly anonymous, like Jeff Koons’ rabbits with their faces spray-painted silver), singing cracked versions of ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’ in increasing volume as the tedium of the song wore on, well, the staid Beaverton-Hillsdalers were either nervously forbearing or festively creeped out. We only sang at houses with garish displays of Christmas lights and our biggest fan was an older woman whose astigmatism and hearing loss allowed her to witness a denomination of angels laud a stirring ‘Silent Night’. A hasty retreat was beat. Back at Matthew’s we drew numbers from a paper bag, and went round in a circle, gifts piled stage center. In order, each could take a gift from the center, then choose to open it, or take a previously opened gift from someone’s sometimes welcoming hands. Earlier that afternoon, Karen and I went to Django’s Records and flipped through the bin of 50 cent vinyl. I found a few things including John Cale’s pseudo-classical album with both words by Dylan Thomas and a cover photo of Cale wearing an astoundingly assymetrical haircut. Karen came away with the Brothers Johnson’s ‘Look Out For #1’. Let’s just admit right now that the Brothers J had hair that immeasurably surpassed Cale’s coif by at least as much as their album did. As the gift game went on, with arch comments, profound sarcasms, and naïve peacey love sentiments, my Cale record got taken and opened. Luke Adcox soon traded for it: his Velvets completism was clearly more powerful than what good sense he had (if any). Karen’s Brothers Johnson record was taken as well with much hilarity as we marveled at the helium afros and attempted to replicate the climactic blissed out grimaces of ‘Lightnin’ Licks’ and ‘Thunder Thumbs’. Rachel Fox maybe had it or was it Rachel Blumberg? When Karen’s turn came around, she slyly and quietly took a gift from the dwindling pile, handed it to Rachel, and reclaimed the Brothers Johnson. The exchange wound down to its end. Hot chocolate. Egg nog. Dr. Pepper. After setting the wrappings ablaze, the albums were test run on Matthew’s stereo. Cale did not last long. But when the funk came on, we got the fuck down (at least as well as a bunch of pseudo-hippy college rock white kids could, which is to say, not that well). Blissed out grimaces achieved.

The Brothers Johnson, 'Get The Funk Out Ma Face'