Traveling Soul (57 page)

He spent his last years in swift decline. In February 1998, doctors amputated his right leg below the knee due to a complication of diabetes. By many accounts, a diabetic amputee has a worse five-year prognosis than anyone, except those with the most severe forms of cancer. They die piece by piece, suffering. After the amputation, he sank into misery, avoiding interviews.

Early in 1999, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame came calling again, this time to induct Curtis as a solo artist. His spirits lifted one last time, and he began making plans to attend the ceremony. Before he could leave, diabetes struck again. He went to the hospital, where doctors discussed taking his other leg. He refused.

Marv went with Altheida to accept the award. He gave a moving speech, despite the squabbles of previous years—and perhaps as a last olive branch before the nasty fights that erupted after my father's death.
“The honor that you bestowed upon [Curtis] tonight moved him a great deal,” Marv said.

He wanted me to say the following things. First of all, he wants to thank the recording industry … and his fans, who have made it all possible. The artists, through the years, who have recorded his music, that have kept his music alive the last nine years, with the evolution of hip-hop and rap, all of you that have sampled his music, from Coolio to Dr. Dre, Tupac, Puff Daddy, Lauryn Hill, who just mixed and did a duet with Mr. Mayfield—all of you have made his life worthwhile. I said to Curtis, “There's nothing I can say with the circumstances [that] befell you.” He says, “Don't feel sorry for me; it could've happened to anybody. I was just there.” … All I can say to all of you in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame: thank you—thank you for honoring my friend while his eyes are still open.

After the ceremony, Dad faded quickly, one foot on Earth, one in the hereafter. Just before Christmas, he called Sharon and said, “I need you to come to Atlanta right away.” She sensed something in his voice, something urgent and grave.

Sharon says:

I don't know anything about death, but I sensed that he knew he was leaving. He asked me to come, and that always meant a lot to me. He was in bad shape when I saw him. He wasn't well. I remember talking to him the day before we left, and it was gibberish. I guess when his blood sugar got really low, his communication was unintelligible. It was just sounds, and whenever that happened, it would frighten me so much. It would make me cry because I wouldn't know what to do or what to say. His eyes would be piercing me, and he would just be talking and making these sounds and noises, and I don't know if he was aware of it. When we left, on the drive back to Chicago, I said, “I think that's going to be it.”

Three days before Christmas, Dad slipped into a coma. An ambulance took him to North Fulton Regional Hospital in Roswell, Georgia, where he hung on for a few days. The day after Christmas, as dawn crept over the dew, his spirit finally gave out. I had recently relocated back to Chicago and was alone at my mother's house that day. It was cold and overcast, the Hawk threatening outside. The radio murmured quietly in the background, and I heard my father's name cut through. I began listening closely as a somber DJ on V103 announced that Curtis Mayfield, iconic Chicago musician, had just died. That's how I found out. No one in the family had called me yet; I heard it on the radio.

At that moment, I didn't know what to think or how to feel. I knew he had been deteriorating rapidly. The last time I saw him he looked like he was tired of fighting and ready to leave. A part of me felt relief that he was gone and didn't have to suffer any longer. Another part of me felt alone, with no father to be there for me if I really needed something. As the news settled on me, I began thinking of my dad and what he was for me, good and bad, throughout life. I was thankful for all he had done for me and for what he represented in my life. It was truly sad to see him cut down when he was still relatively young with so much more life to live. I felt sad that he would never see his future grandchildren and continue to shape and share life experiences with his own kids as we continued to grow as adults.

I mourned privately, quietly, knowing that his transition necessitated a transition of my own. I also knew controversy and family fights would soon take center stage over the sizable estate Dad left, and unfortunately, that's exactly what happened. Dad was the rock, the glue that kept us all more or less together. Now he was gone.

My dad once said, “As I sum it up, I just want folks to say he didn't do bad with his life in inspiring others.” Of course, he did so much more. In fifty-seven short years, he changed the course of music history while influencing one of the greatest movements for human freedom ever mounted. He triumphed over a system created to keep people with his skin color
in subservience and constant poverty. He catapulted himself to the top of his profession with a mixture of brilliance and dogged determination. He became one of the first African American men in America to own his own record label, and one of the first in music history to retain almost all his publishing rights. He invented his own style of guitar—often copied but never duplicated—and his songs defined the Chicago Sound. Above all, he never strayed far from his commitment to sing for his people, speak truth to power, and give voice to those who had none.

He was similarly prolific in his personal life. He loved his children and his family deeply, and despite his imperfections, he never stopped working to create a better life for us all. He tried to live up to the best sentiments contained in his music, and when he failed, he tried again. He protected and provided for his mother, his sisters, his brother, his wives, his girlfriends, his children, and his friends. Even in the darkest moments, we always knew where he was, and who he was, and how much he loved us. His father never gave him that gift. He made sure he gave it to us.

At the funeral, Jerry, Sam, and Fred carried Dad's casket. They sent him off with a somber performance of “Amen.” The song connected Curtis to his beginning. It spoke of the spirit—the same spirit he met as a child in Annie Bell's church …
Amen, amen, amen, amen, amen
… the same spirit that suffused songs like “Keep On Pushing” and “People Get Ready” …
See the little baby wrapped in a manger on Christmas morning
… the same spirit that infused the movement with hope and courage …
Singing in a temple, talking with the elders, tomorrow there's wisdom
… the same spirit that compelled him to warn about Hell below and the Pusherman …
Down at the Jordan, John was baptizing and saving all sinners …
the same spirit that gave him strength to endure tragedy and calamity at the end of his life …
See him at the seaside, talking with the fishermen, and made them disciples …
the same spirit that new generations still find in his music …
Amen, amen, amen, amen, amen
.

The same spirit that makes him impossible to forget.

“I still feel as if I'm here, but I'm gone.”

—“H
ERE
B
UT
I'
M
G
ONE
”

H
is music still lives
.
Like the movement that inspired him—and that he inspired—it is woven into the fabric of today even if it seems the stuff of yesterday. Hip-hop and R&B stars still sample him, eager to connect to his branch on music's evolutionary tree. That branch gets stronger with time, putting forth countless flowers—from Erykah Badu to Kanye West, Jay Z, Eminem, Ludacris, Rick Ross, Drake, and dozens more.

Yet, just like the movement, his social mission remains incomplete. The problems he sang about persist. Late in 1992, PBS reconvened the roundtable discussion they'd televised nearly thirty years before featuring James Farmer, Wyatt Tee Walker, Malcolm X, and Alan Morrison. Of the four, only Farmer and Walker still survived. Their views on the movement had lost the rush of optimism shown in 1963. “There's the illusion that progress has been made,” Walker said in 1992, “but the reality is that what progress has been made has been more cosmetic than it has been consequential.” Farmer concurred: “Racism is here, and now we've got to exert the same kind of energy and diligence in fighting against racism as we did in fighting against Jim Crow.”

Since then, as my father once said, everything has changed and nothing has changed. If he were alive today, he would surely be knocked out by the direction music has taken. Hip-hop dominates the world, and many black artists have continued in his footsteps of owning their own labels. He would have rejoiced at achieving the once-impossible dream of electing an African American president. Indeed, though he was never a political man, he once hosted a fundraiser at Curtom in Atlanta for Jesse Jackson's 1988 presidential bid, hoping to see that dream come true in his lifetime.

He would also find much to feel despondent about. Poverty rates for most minorities in America remain more than double that of whites, the US Supreme Court has continued dismantling the legislative gains of the movement, and racial violence remains an ever-present danger for those who are darker than blue. From the killing of an unarmed Florida teenager in 2012 to an instance of police brutality that ignited riots in Ferguson, Missouri, in 2014, to the slayings of Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, and too many others, America's problem with race continues to rear its ugly head. A new generation must now deal with the same old issues, ask the same old questions, and fight to find new answers.

Though he isn't here, my father is still part of that fight. His music speaks as powerfully to the times we live in as it did to his own. His songs remain vital, uncompromising, and true. His message endures—a message he refused to abandon even in the darkest of times. If he were alive today, he'd urge us to keep on pushing, to never give up, to get ready for something better. He wouldn't be able to help himself.

After all, as the man himself once sang:

Pardon me, brother
,

I know we've come a long, long way

But let us not be so self satisfied

For tomorrow can be an even brighter day
.

I
'd like to extend my most sincere thanks to my mother, Diane Mayfield, my grandmother Marion Jackson, Uncle Kenny, Aunt Judith, Aunt Carolyn, Eddie Thomas, and Jerry Butler, without whom this book would not be possible.

Big thanks to Travis Atria, for his dogged determination, thorough research, and creativity, all essential to this book.

Special thanks to Sharon Mayfield Lavigne, Tracy Mayfield, Herb Kent, John Abbey, Craig McMullen, Lee Goodness, Martin Markowitz, Lebron Scott, Marv Heiman, Michael Putland, Jim McHugh, Steven Ray, David Ritz, Thomas Flannery, David Vigliano, Adam Burns, Tyler Francischine, Ashley Belanger, Annie Niemand, the staff of Alfred Music/
Warner/Chappell Music, and Yuval Taylor and the Chicago Review Press staff for their time and contributions.

Finally, I'd also like to say thank you to all my friends, my wife, and my family, who have supported and encouraged me in this endeavor.

Travis Atria would like to thank:
Kathy Atria for teaching me to write. Drew Atria for introducing me to the music of Curtis Mayfield. Kyle Donnelly, Eric Atria, and Collin Whitlock for love and support. Ashley Belanger for skills and advice. Everyone in the Mayfield family who made me feel welcome in this momentous endeavor
.

AMEN

Words and Music by CURTIS MAYFIELD and JOHNNY PATE

© 1948 WARNER-TAMERLANE PUBLISHING CORP.

All Rights Reserved

Used by Permission of ALFRED MUSIC

CANNOT FIND A WAY

Words and Music by CURTIS MAYFIELD

© 1974 (Renewed) WARNER-TAMERLANE PUBLISHING CORP.

All Rights Reserved

Used by Permission of ALFRED MUSIC

CHOICE OF COLORS