True Prince Stories News
Can you see the woods?
August 21, 2006 | 3:18 pm
CAN YOU SEE THE WOODS?
BY: Alan Leeds
So in 1985 when Prince decided
to shoot his UNDERÂ THE CHERRY MOON on location in Nice, France, I couldn’t
have been happier

Funny where thoughts come from. Watching London’s Sky News coverage of the recent terrorist plot to blow up international flights reminded me of the most tragically overlooked funk musician of the past twenty years. (Hows that for odd thinking). Not that I was insensitive to the tragic potential of such a terror plot, quite the contrary. It was that horrifying thought that reminded me of a song…..which reminded me of its artist…..which reminded me of my own international travel……which reminded me of happier days………which reminded me of how angry I am that the lethal combination of suicide-bent terrorists and the misguided, mis-elected government of ours have taken much of the spirit out of travel for us road rats. Go with me for a minute, this isn’t just another rant about the Bushies. It really is about music….and its about travel too. Let me explain.
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You see I am a road rat. Too many 1940’s movies seduced me into a lifelong love affair with hotels, airports, transient hustle bustle and particularly the intrigue of anything international. Now, before I get too carried away, I need to admit I’ve never ridden camels across the Sahara or hiked through the Amazonian rain forest. Even as a kid, my idea of camping was to find the closest Holiday Inn to the campsite. But I do love going to new places and gradually developed a fondness for much of Europe. So in 1985 when Prince decided to shoot his UNDER THE CHERRY MOON on location in Nice, France, I couldn’t have been happier. For most of our crew it meant several months in a boring hotel on the Boulevard des Anglais, teased by the nearby beach that they seldom had time to patronize. But I was luckier, for me and Gwen it meant three months living in a three bedroom villa with a pool in the hills of St. Paul de Vence - not coincidentally around the corner from the larger villa Prince had leased for our lengthy stay. Gorgeous landscape in the hills of St. Paul but just fifteen minutes from the beach. An hour and a half from Monte Carlo and even closer to St. Tropez. Who could be mad.
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 In 1985 travel was so easy. Security delays were uncommon. Baggage was restricted only by practicality. You could fly Concord to Paris and then a shuttle to Nice. Or take a roomy Pan Am 747 directly from New York to Nice - those still being the days when hospitality was something airlines like Pan Am relished in providing. War and terror certainly weren’t unheard of or very far away. More than once we’d gaze across the Mediterranean and picture Khadafy (the 1980’s terrorist #1) acting up on the other side. But strolling around Nice’s flower market, a town square of sorts strewn with dealers of antiques, brightly colored flowers and fresh vegetables mixed randomly with the tables of leisurely bars and cafes, the realities of war and terror couldn’t have seemed further away.
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With Prince as our leader and unofficial social director, we were assured to quickly become familiar fixtures at all the desirable clubs, restaurants and casinos on the Cote D’Azur, and that we did. Work by day….play by night….all thousands of miles from anything remotely resembling home. Life was good.
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Of course one of the reasons I adore travel is that a lengthy stay anywhere breeds routine. And routine bores me to death. Even in Nice. After a couple of months I found myself gradually jonesing for some things American. I wanted a pastrami sandwich………..barbeque ribs…….or popcorn with salt instead of sugar. I wasn’t ready to leave Nice but I needed a fix. Then I discovered that Kid Creole & The Coconuts were scheduled to perform in Nice. I couldn’t have been more thrilled and rushed to share the news. To my surprise, Gwen and I seemed the only ones excited. I knew others were downright homesick compared to us, so it had to be something else. When Jerome Benton looked at me quizzically and said, “Kid who?”, I discovered why there was no hype. Prince, of course, knew who they were. Susannah Melvoin did too. But all they knew were the couple of old hits the Kid had in the early 80’s. They had no idea what they were in for.
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The gig was at Theatre du Verdure, really a huge tent set back in a park across from the beach. Our entourage wasn’t huge. Prince, Susannah, Jerome, Gilbert (Davison), Gwen and I is who I remember. The show was sold out but it was easy getting tickets once I found their bassist, Carol Colman, whom I had met once in New York. In fact we ended up on a wing of the stage, near an emergency exit that afforded Prince’s comings and goings the kind of privacy that he always insisted on.
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The show was just what the doctor ordered…..90 minutes of rompin, stompin, but intelligent New York funk. Jerome was flabbergasted. Gwen and Susannah couldn’t stop dancing and, while he’d never admit it, Prince was shocked. When the band stretched out on a nasty version of “Table Manners”, threatening to tear the tent right off its moorings, Prince turned to me and said, “they vamp too long”. Yeah, right. It was just two years later that Prince wrote “The Sex Of It” for the Kid and his band that vamps too long.
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Prince can’t be blamed, though, for not knowing where to put this band. Most of the world, with the exception of France, the U.K. and a couple other parts of Europe, never figured them out either. Kid Creole & The Coconuts, despite their international appeal and make-up, was a band that could ONLY have been hatched in New York.
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August “Kid Creole” Darnell is from the Bronx and most of the band lived in New York but their heritages included Danish and Swedish Coconuts (singers), British horn players, a German keyboardist, a Jamaican guitarist, a female Jewish bassist, along with a couple of brothas from ’round the way - just the sort of mix we’d find back home at a loft party in Soho or Tribeca.
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Kid Creole & The Coconuts had come together in 1980 when jet set and playa-playa clubs like Studio 54 and Xenon were on their last legs. Groups like Chic and Change were out. Grace Jones, Talking Heads and, yes, Prince were in. Punk rock, funk, break dancing and even street art were coming together in a whole new way. Bored with disco, Blondie, Basquiat, Keith Haring and early hip hop-inspired bands like the underground J. Walter Negro & The Loose Jointz walked the same stages. It seemed funk was suddenly the common denominator on the downtown scene. For some it was merely flavor of the week. But for August Darnell, unhappy with his secondary role in the fading DR. BUZZARDS ORIGINAL SAVANNAH BAND, funk was hardly a revelation. Darnell had grown up on James Brown just as sure as he had Tito Puente, Bob Marley, those same 1940’s movies and his own unlikely icon of style, Cab Calloway.
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KID CREOLE & THE COCONUTS might have been a downtown band but their funk was as uptown as the Kid’s childhood in da Boogie Down. That their legacy of three or four absolutely brilliant albums is largely overlooked, is a crime. It was disgracefully unfair for radio to ignore them simply because they were a United Nations of a group that had been blessed with exposure to a world bigger than Harlem or Philly. Their gigs were attractively staged, creatively choreographed and excitingly paced. They were a band of outstanding musicians with a one-of-a-kind blend of funk, salsa, jazz, calypso, reggae, New York tin pan alley melodies and the cleverest lyrics this side of George Clinton. “Onomatopoeia” in the chorus in a funk song?? If that ain’t peein’ on the funk, I don’t know what is.
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August was ahead of his time - a visionary without boundaries. He wrote about the world at large……..personal relationships………and SEX…..all from the vantage point of hard earned urban sophistication. But as heady as his lyrics were, he always let you know he was no trendy snob - he knew what side of the street his funk originally came from and was as comfortable in the hood as he was on the Champs Elysses. Are you starting to see why I relate to him so easily?
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Which leads me to the reason I’m thinking about the Kid lately - his quasi tribute to an infamous Paris dance club, “Dancin At The Bains Douches”. Included in the Kid’s 1987 album, I, TOO, HAVE SEEN THE WOODS, the infectious jam might tempt anyone to sample (owner) Claude’s bacchanalian atmosphere on the other side of Les Bains’ velvet ropes. BUT the song wasnt about that!
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The Kids lyric says, “What if the world were split in two, Cut between the reds and the white and blue! And Americans were thus denied, All rights to travel to the other side!..What if the world would subdivide, Right while you were groovin’ on the other side! And Americans were all forewarned: Less than a week and you must all be gone. What if the world would come undone, Black out the glory of a foreign sun! All Americans put in a squeeze, Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea” (c. 1987, Perennial August Music, BMI).
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Ahead of his time? In a sense - terrorism….and its effect on our (the Kid’s, my, yours?) love of travel. The Kid just wanted to celebrate our differences. His celebration of choice was at Les Bains Douches. Mine might be a cafe in Nice’s Flower Market or a loft party in Soho. Yours might be the International foods department of your neighborhood grocery. (You like Burritos? How do you feel about our immigration issues?).
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I don’t have a cutesy, love your neighbor ending here. Some neighbors don’t deserve love. All I know is when you lower your standards to mimic your enemies, you’ve already lost. I, too, have seen the woods….just like Kid Creole. Maybe a day spent checkin’ their records might be a day we could all see the forest for the trees.

You lost me at the “misguided and mis-elected government” statement. It’s all so routine now to bash the US and Bush. Oh well, I’ve better things to spend my time on.
Thanks anyway.