Ain't No Stoppin Us . . . Now?
The sound of Philadelphia is, to a large extent, "The Sound of Philadelphia". After a 1971 Harvard Business School report told the major recording companies of the day that they needed to make linkages with savvy R&B producers if they ever hoped to capture African American record buyers, CBS gave start-up money to Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff, two Philadelphia songwriter/producers who'd had a string of hits in the late '60s on indie R&B labels for Jerry Butler, the Intruders and others. Gamble & Huff christened their enterprise Philadelphia International Records, and proceeded to make pop music history.
Philadelphia International was to the '70s what was Motown in Detroit was to the '60s: not just a hit-making machine, but the soundtrack of the young, optimistic African American middle class. "The Sound of Philadelphia" was trademarked by lush orchestral arrangements, propulsive rhythm sections, uplifting lyrics, soaring melodies, and strong, confident vocals on top. In an era dominated by self-produced artists like Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye, the Gamble & Huff factory churned out hits for a stable of core artists and occasional guest projects. Many of their extended forays served as the first records of the disco era, back when the scene was still mostly underground in African American and gay dance clubs. Their songs exuded the confidence of the rapidly growing middle class as it extended from the 'hood into the 'burbs, from mom-and-pop enterprises into leadership positions in corporate America and public service.
The first Philadelphia International hit, the O'Jays' 1972 "Back Stabbers", was written by the team of Gene McFadden and John Whitehead. McFadden and Whitehead, already veterans of the local music scene by the time Philadelphia International got rolling, penned various songs for other Philadelphia International artists, but didn't step into the limelight until 1979, with their anthemic rouser "Ain't No Stoppin' Us Now". As it happened, that was the last major hit from the stable, but it encapsulates everything that made the enterprise legendary. In the years since, "Ain't No Stoppin' Us Now" has survived as a snapshot of a moment in time, before the limitless sky for African American professionals was cut short by a glass ceiling, before Reaganomics, crack and AIDS turned the 'hood into a wasteland of death and decay, before rap music began to remind all those who'd moved on up like the Jeffersons of what they'd left behind.
There is a new musical scene in Philadelphia, inspired by the Gamble-Huff years (and with some of the same players), but taking things in a new direction — or several. The iconoclastic hip-hop band the Roots, the Broadway performer-turned-soul jazz diva Jill Scott, the neo-soul duo Floetry, the poet and educator Ursula Rucker, the in-demand production team of Andre Harris and Vidal Davis, and many other Philly natives have helped shape progressive black pop in the new millennium. There are several spoken-word nights around town, and deejays spinning every manner of hip-hop and dance music in the clubs on any given night (at the expense, to a degree, of a thriving jazz scene that birthed the Heath Brothers and McCoy Tyner, and nurtured the likes of John Coltrane and Sun Ra).
But "Ain't No Stoppin' Us Now" is as much a part of the Philadelphia character as cheese steaks and soft pretzels. So it came as a shock to wake up the morning of May 11 to the news that John Whitehead — yes, that John Whitehead — had been shot and killed in his West Philadelphia driveway.
Whitehead had gone through a rough stretch after the hits stopped, but he still had a foot in the business and had made a few comeback attempts. On the fateful day, he was working on a car with his nephew when three men came up and started some sort of dispute. Why this happened is unclear, but after the argument, someone pulled out a gun and left Whitehead dead and his nephew wounded.
In 2004, gunshots and police sirens form the new sound of Philadelphia. The murder rate is on a pace to eclipse last year's tally by a wide margin. No one knows why. Perhaps it's the lack of economic prospects in the 'hood, perhaps it's the lack of a premium on bettering oneself Philly native Bill Cosby railed about in his controversial Howard Law School address on the 50th anniversary of the Brown vs. Board of Education decision, perhaps it's the easy availability of cheap guns, perhaps it's all of that and even then, we're not scratching the surface.
Whatever it is, it's taking its heaviest toll on our children. Thirty-five youths were murdered in Philadelphia during the 2003-04 school year. All of these killings were sad, but one in particular ripped out a piece of the city's heart.
Wednesday, 11 February began as any other school day at T. M. Peirce Elementary School in North Philadelphia. Parents were kissing their youngsters goodbye, and kids were lining up to file into the building. One such adult happened to be a member of a notorious drug gang. When members of a rival gang that happened to be in the area spotted him, shots rang out. Ninety-four of them, to be exact, from six guns. Terrified teachers and parents rushed the kids inside, or got them to duck for cover. When the battle was over, broken glass was everywhere. A crossing guard was shot in the foot. The gunmen had long since scattered. And Faheem Thomas-Childs, all of 10-years-old, was helpless on the ground, somehow clinging to life, after taking a bullet in the head.
By all accounts, Faheem was a special kid. He had the respect of his entire school, from the principal down to the class clowns. He was already displaying the essence of leadership, the stuff you can't get in an MBA program: a carriage that spoke of uncommon wisdom, self-respect, reverence for rules, humility, compassion for others. And even at that early age, he displayed the intangible quality that separates the called from the aspiring: somehow, he was able to tell the first people to reach him his name and address; those may well have been the last words he spoke. His school picture, with his wide eyes, neat cornrows, and lips neither smiling nor frowning, became a staple of the local news.
Faheem was on life support for five days. During that time, police captured two of the suspects, and donations and prayers came pouring from every corner of town. But information about the other shooters did not. Neighborhood residents, even if they knew who did it, even if they could direct a stranger to every gang's hangout and turf, went silent. Faheem, you see, was not the first random victim of Philadelphia ghetto violence. In an earlier case, someone fingered the culprit - and his family was harassed by the culprit's crew. Everyone in the 'hood remembered that, and no one trusted the city's witness protection program.
The previous murder of children barely raised an eyebrow beyond the affected families. Faheem's murder shook Philadelphia's conscience. Men in the school's neighborhood organized safety patrols. Politicians eulogized Faheem as a martyr, and implored that his death mark a turning point for the better. In some ways, it did. North Philadelphia is only a short drive from Center City, but a universe away from the trendy boutiques and coffeehouses. It is that part of every city where you don't want to be lost after sundown. Out of outrage and grief, on 10 April thousands of Philadelphians convened in a park across from the church that held Faheem's funeral to march through the neighborhood, a "March to Save the Children".
The still-grieving relatives of Faheem and the other slain children were there, wearing T-shirts memorializing their loss. They held pictures of young people having fun in happier times. Mothers for Change led the march, and Men United for a Better Philadelphia handled the logistics. The mayor and the CEO of the schools were there. The march was originally scheduled for Palm Sunday, but was postponed by rain; the palms to be carried by children then were used on the make-up day. Children attending the march would receive tickets to a special performance by the UniverSoul Circus, which was in town that week.
The streets of the march were filled by a sea of people, some carrying signs, some chanting slogans and beating drums until they were reminded that this was to be a silent march (how anyone figured that a marching throng of thousands could remain silent is a mystery to me). TV stations got footage of the beginning of the march, while bemused residents shot the procession from their porches with their camcorders.
The procession moved in fits and starts, past the corner store with eight beer ads in the window, past the well-kept rowhouses closer to the church and the main business strip. At several points along the route, signs were nailed to telephone poles:
WARNING
CHILDREN AT RISK
GUNS DRUGS FEAR
THREATEN ALL YOUTH
Further ahead, a couple of shady characters were hanging out by a stop sign. They glimpsed the presence of police, media and thousands of strangers, and felt a need to be somewhere else at that moment. An observer remarked that Philadelphia isn't the only city going through such pain these days. She cited Atlanta, Georgia and Baltimore, Maryland, but she could have included Washington, D.C., where 13 children were killed between New Year's Day and Mother's Day. It's an East Coast thing, a fellow Clevelander remarked to me a short time ago. Actually, it sounds to me like it's an American problem, but at this moment, only Philadelphia was grasping for a way to deal with the pain.
The march concluded at Faheem's school, where important people gave speeches that few of the marchers heard. I was never particularly clear about the purpose of the march. Was it to tell the wrongdoers that people were mad as hell and weren't going to take it anymore? Was it a protest march against the very community they were marching through? Was it a targeted message to politicians for a better economy in the 'hood? Was it a way of supporting the families who'd lost so much? Was it Philadelphians crying for help?
Whatever it was, it didn't stop the killings. Twelve more children were murdered between the march and the end of the school year. "This was a good turnout," somebody on the sidewalk near the end of the march route said. "It should be better next year".
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