CYNTHIA ON THE THRONE
Wednesday, November 25, 2015 at 03:46PM Cynthia Robinson 1946-2015
Martha Reeves and the Vandellas were so reticent, so well mannered. They knocked on your door like 7th Day Adventists and said they were seeking worldwide unity. Could it be possible, they asked politely, that you might be ready for a brand-new beat?
Not Cynthia Robinson. Cynthia was not polite. Cynthia hollered. Not a church holler or a mountain holler or an R&B holler. She wasn’t Levi Stubbs hollering for Bernadette. Cynthia’s heart was not broken. Cynthia’s heart was ablaze. She had one call to action, one message that kicked down the door: “Get on up and dance to the music!”
The rest of the lyrics are self-referential doggerel, Archie Bell & the Drells on LSD; each Family member tells us what they’re about to do. Then Cynthia belts out the parameters: “All the squares, go home!” If you don’t go home you’re not a square, but only if you get on up and dance to the music. And in case you missed the point – that you better heed Cynthia – Sly shouts it out: “Cynthia on the throne, yeah!”
Where else would she be?
Did any voice ever come out of the radio like Cynthia’s? Did any song ever start with a statement like her’s? That holler – so strained, so ferocious. No song with a feminine imperative equaled Cynthia’s until Patti Smith introduced Gloria. No other woman in R&B took on Cynthia’s roles: Drill sergeant, evangelist and moral center.
Prior to Dance To the Music, the only signals of a life worth living that reached my redneck hellhole hometown were Otis Redding and James Brown. I didn’t know much – that is, I didn’t know shit – but I knew there weren’t any girl trumpet players in the Famous Flames or the Bar-Kays. The Family Stone was the first mixed-gender band I ever saw. The women weren't backup singers; they were bandmates!
Cynthia ‘s holler was so incongruous with her appearance. She looked schoolmarm-y and earnest, stoop-shouldered and focused, myopic and contained. Yet she was always the second-most visually interesting person in the band. Sister Rose, for all her silver/orange wigs and Space-Is-The-Place mini-dresses and knee-boots, always seemed invisible. Jerry Martini was a non-entity. Cynthia’s remove proved the necessary counterweight to Sly’s beaming, inclusive insanity. Even in her incongruity, though, I recognized Cynthia right off. I’d seen girls like her in Jr High on July Fourth.
July Fourth my hometown hellhole held a parade. That was when I saw students from the black high school on the other side of the tracks. Our band uniforms made us look like Captains in the Army of some cartoon republic from a Peter Sellers’ comedy: Red pants with a white stripe, red double-breasted jackets with gold buttons and white braid and ridiculous red pilot hats with shiny black brims. I played snare. We started up the street with our pathetic, militaristic, 4/4, rat-a-tats.
Then came the E. E. Butler High School Marching Band, resplendent in purple and chartreuse with foot-long fake-fur shakos. They had the single greatest cheer I’ve ever heard: “Hooo-Ray for the Purple! Hooo-Ray for the Chartreuse! Go! E. E. Butler High!” Their drum section was otherworldly, with non-stop polyrhythms and movements to match. The bass drummer played both sides of his drum (forbidden to me) and twirled his sticks over his head (ditto). The E. E. Butler band didn’t march. They danced, strutted, twirled. Their music had a quality I’d never associated with band: Joy.
But no matter how difficult the choreography, no matter the effort it took to breathe and blow their complex arrangements, no matter how ecstatic the sound, nobody smiled or changed expression. They were focused, determined, in the moment. Their joy remained internal. Their mien, disciplined.
And that’s how I recognized Cynthia. To me she was always the earnest, dedicated, quiet girl in high school band with a home-polished cornet and a heart full of hidden fire.