Miss You Teddy

Remember when you would go to parties in somebody’s apartment, and all the furniture was pushed up against the wall so people could dance? And after you were all good and sweaty from dancing up a storm, they’d play a slow song and some guy would grab your hand and you’d saunter to the middle of the room full of a.n.t.i.c.i.p.a.t.i.o.n.? You knew it was gonna be an up close and personal encounter—the kind where you smell his cologne mixed liberally with perspiration, and hear some hot, wet love talk whispered in your ear. Could anybody help you sink into that grind—you know the kind where at the end the guy would clear his throat, adjust his pants and say something like, “I think we just made a baby right there,”—could anybody express that better than Teddy Pendergrass?

It has been a week filled with so much profound, immeasurable sadness, that there has hardly been room to acknowledge Teddy’s gift of music. His voice had an ache, a moan, a truth that let you understand the feelings he was singing about, without resorting to lyrics that debased the emotion. There was still love in the longing. We just went to the Amish Market for groceries (we’ve been holed up in the writing cave, working on our next book) and caught the Rhythm Review tribute to Teddy Pendergrass on WBGO radio (http://WBGO.org). We got back before it was over and had to sit in the car and listen until the Teddy show was over-- talk about a tasty dose of dark chocolate—one a day had to be good for you right? Sorry. We digress. His music made you feel—in your heart, in your head AND in your body --even when he was talking some trifling stuff and you knew you had to get a grip on yourself in order to resist the urging he was encouraging. It was a gift. He was a gift. And we wanted to take a moment to say thank you. Rest well, Teddy Pendergrass.