Somethin' Somethin' Grapevine

SOMETHIN' SOMETHIN' GRAPEVINE

     A few months ago I went into a record store, looking for a Diana Ross CD. When I couldn't find one anywhere, I asked the twentysomething store clerk if she could help me. Her answer jarred my brain:

     "You must mean JACK Ross, the rapper."

     Maybe I said it wrong. I repeated, Diana Ross, she was with Diana Ross and the Supremes, you know, the Motown group.

     She said she'd never heard of her. "She must not have been very big," she explained.

     I sputtered before I could answer and even then it was hard to find the right response. "She's bigger than big," I began, "She's..Diana Ross." The girl received this information with a blank look.

     So traumatized was I by this exchange that my mind went into frantic cut and paste mode, rearranging the facts to make a less hurtful sense. It could not be possible that she'd never heard of Diana Ross. Maybe she knew her songs and just wasn't recognizing the name.

     "You've probably heard her songs a thousand times," I told the girl. "Stop In The Name Of Love?"

     "No, never heard it."

     "Love Child?"

     She shook her head.

     I felt dizzy. "Baby Love? You MUST have heard Baby Love?" And because this was starting to really matter to me, I started to sing: "Baaaaaby Love, my Baaaaaby Love, I need you OH how I need you."

     That's right, I sang both lead and backup. And yes, I was snapping my fingers and yes, there was a little hip swaying involved. Because it's Motown. Because it's what you do. I don't make these rules.

     "Sorry," the clerk said. "Was she hot?"

     And my answer traumatized her right back: "Michael JACKSON had a crush on her."

     She blinked. "Whoa...wait, Michael Jackson?" Bewildered. Impressed. Beginning to understand.

     And it got worse. Further questioning revealed she kind of knew who Stevie Wonder and Aretha Franklin were, although her answers "Superstition" and "Respect" sounded disturbingly like guesses. She drew a blank on Smokey Robinson AND on James Brown, who I don't need to tell you is the Godfather of Soul.

     How could I explain to this girl how vital Motown was? How every artist her store carried owed Motown a debt? How, without it, we'd still be Americans, just not cool ones.

     How, without it, every song on the radio would be a car song or a surfing song or a song about love sung by a girl who sounded like she'd never had a date.

     How dancing used to involve the arms and legs, ignoring the butt area entirely.

     How, without Motown, when you thought about sex, your mind would have no soundtrack whatsoever because the only music would be The Beach Boys and Peter Paul and Mary and Little Susie Who Gives A Crap.

     You'd never adjust the bass in your car because there'd be no baseline worth listening to. Why even have electric guitars? We might as well go back to washtubs and banjos.

     Maybe I could take this girl by the shoulders, and shake her, and tell her: LOOK, when Diana Ross sang she swayed her hips and batted her lashes and gave a look to the camera and you listened with your ears and heard it with your soul.

     Oh what words could I use? I could say Gitchee Gitchee Ya Ya Da Da but knew it would be useless. She spoke no Patti LaBelle.

     And then the girl did something that gave me hope. She said she'd heard a really good song one time. "It went 'Somethin' Somethin' grapevine'...was that Motown?"

     Baby steps.

     The store had no Diana Ross but it did have Marvin Gaye. And when I bought that Best Of CD and gave it to the girl, it might not have solved the problem, but it was a start.

Amie Ryan is the author of 3 essay collections. This story is from her first collection, GREEN SHOES MEAN I LOVE YOU. To learn more, please visit https://www.amieryan.com