A Different Drummer
Back at Whole Foods, the fishmonger fan appears at last, a 20-something white kid. “I love you guys, man. Keep doing what you’re doing.” Ahmir gives him a fist in thanks. He knows that for all his bitching about his modest success, part of him — and you know which one — wouldn’t know what the hell to do if Cribs showed up at his joint on St. Albans Place (which is more famous than its owner since appearing as a stoop where Bruce Willis and Haley Joel Osment chatted in The Sixth Sense). With all the hustling from gig to gig, artist to artist, genre to genre, Ahmir is still the kid in the street gutter who doesn’t quite fit in, not in neo-soul or rap, not even at his record label.
Chances are he’ll never be in the middle of another steaming-hot scene, but as long as his electric stays on, he’ll keep doing his thing, hits be damned. His family, his CAPA classmates, his idols — they’ve all programmed him to follow his artistic voice, not the bandwagon. Ahmir has fans like the guy in seafood, devotees for life. If that’s enough to keep him making music of the relevant kind, he’s cool with that. Hell, Whole Foods is just a couple blocks from where he once played for spare change, and now he gets hooked up here. Even a B.R.O. the R.’s gotta eat, man.
Every dork must have his day, and Ahmir’s final exam is administered by a professor known for wearing assless chaps. Hidden along the spaghetti twists of Mulholland Drive sits the wondrous lair of Prince, where women greet you with champagne as you walk in, and the symbol that was once your host’s name looms in the foyer. The VIP afterparty for this year’s NAACP Image Awards has filled his cavernous, candle-lined living room to capacity, including the cast of Ray and, as Ahmir puts it, “every actress from the UPN.” That’s his shorthand for who’s who in black Hollywood. Plus Christina Aguilera. This being Prince’s house and all, the entertainment is, of course, Prince. He’s backed by longtime percussionist Sheila E., and this Philly kid on drums. To warm up, they tear off a 10-minute rendition of, yes, a Prince song, called “Housequake.”
Once the band and the guests are in a lather, the Purple One calls someone up from the audience to sit in on keys. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome … Stevie Wonder.
The drums aren’t miked, and Ahmir channels all his adrenaline through his arms and legs as they put him through “a prison workout,” as he’ll later call it. There’s his girlfriend, Nancy Jimenez, beaming. And wait … holy … that’s Lil’ John Roberts! From All-City Jazz Band! Who’s first chair now, bitch?
