The Facebook pages of my older friends all had messages about Gil Scott-Heron this morning.
He died Friday. He was my age.
Youtube videos.
Quotes from his lyrics.
Memories.
In the mid-70s, if you were politically active and were at a party, Gil Scott-Heron was on the turn-table.
If you mentioned the South African city of Johannesburg it just felt natural to follow with, “Tell me, what’s the word?”
“The revolution will not be televised,” became a catch phrase.
And as the 80s arrived it did seem like winter in America.
And now it’s winter
Winter in America
And all of the healers done been killed or sent away
Yeah, and the people know, people know
It’s winter
Winter in America
And ain’t nobody fighting
Cause nobody knows what to save
And ain’t nobody fighting
Cause nobody knows, nobody knows
And ain’t nobody fighting
Cause nobody knows what to save
While Gil Scott-Heron may have been on the turn-table, you didn’t dance to his music. You drank from your glass of wine. You talked quietly. You listened.
And then as the evening wore on, you changed records.
You put on Love Train.
Or War.
The Cisco Kid was a friend of mine
The Cisco Kid was a friend of mine
He drink whiskey, Poncho drink the wine
He drink whiskey, Poncho drink the wine
And you danced.
War was for your body.
But Gil Scott-Heron was for your head.
Fred Klonsky 