In 1975, I took my first love to the Carter Barron Amphitheatre in Washington DC. I was 18 years old, a senior in high school and had dreams too big to contain.
Nestled in the woods of Rock Creek Park in Northwest DC was the picturesque venue, although an outdoor setting, it had an impressive enough name that any teenage ingénue would be impressed. Performing that night, in late August, was vocalist Paul Williams better known as Billy Paul. Mr. Paul was ultra-cool, sophisticated, dapper and gifted with a soothing jazz rasp to his voice, that could make even the coldest heart warm with thoughts of romance. The Carter Barron had lawn seating and following an afternoon rain, earlier that day, my girlfriend and I sat on a blanket in the moist grass, fingers interlaced watching the sunset and praying for a rainbow.
Prior to Billy Paul, whom the crowd was giddy with excitement to see, the opening act was a new band that had a minor hit from a covered version of a song written by Pete Seeger, Where Have All the FlowersGone. The band was led by a talented, big afro wearing soul singer who had made a living as a drummer and song writer, named Maurice White. The group was Earth Wind and Fire. I remember my girlfriend, prophetically saying, “they’re pretty good, I bet they become big someday,” I replied with one word,” solid.” She had great taste, another reason she was so special. After a rousing version of an instrumental entitled Power, the crowd pleasing band was done and we were ready for Billy. The sun had set by this time, the klieg lights dimmed and a spotlight focused on the single mic left onstage. The prelude music began and the master of ceremonies, a local DJ named Bobby Bennett who used the nickname the Mighty Burner, began his introduction. “Out of Philadelphia P-A, the one the only, Mr. Billy Paul!”
The night air was thick with humidity as most, late summer nights were following a thunderstorm in DC. My girlfriend, despite the oppressive humidity, snuggled up close to me, because she was ready to be mesmerized. I smiled the biggest grin inside but was careful not to give away my obvious excitement, not only by maintaining a straight face but making sure to keep the end of the blanket tucked between my legs to cover the other part of my excitement. Mr. Paul sang a few covers, some material from his past album, released in 1972 and finally, the intro chords of, Me and Mrs. Jones began. The women in the crowd squealed the men got sly smiles of anticipation and Mr. Paul stepped seductively to the microphone. This was the end of an extended tour and Mr. Paul’s voice quality was obviously worn from travel and the humid night air did not help, but he was great.
The lights from above the stage made the wet blades of grass gleam, the artificially lit faces of the crowd took on an ethereal quality and romance was literally in the air. “We meet every day at the same café, six thirty….” My girlfriend leaned over and kissed me, like she had never done before. I was the most important young man in the world. It was not true, but in the moment, she made me feel that way. At the end of the performance we sat in the grass waited patiently until the crowd around us dispersed and stood on the quickly emptying grassy knoll and walked from the area. My stomach was churning, my heart was beating out of my chest and my girlfriend glowed, the lights had been turned up so we could see the exits, but the glow was truly from her face, framed like a portrait by her afro. I kissed her goodnight at her front door, with her dad peering through a slightly bent slat in the venetian-blind. She whispered in my ear that she loved me. I walked blocks from her house to mine stomach still churning and it finally hit me, the churn was really butterflies in my tummy, the kind I had read about in dime store romance novels. Thank you Mr. Paul for introducing me to love.
From that point, “when the jukebox played our favorite song,” I think of Mr. Paul. Rest well
