PHOTOS BY MY WIFE VICTORIA MINETTA
As it was, Chaka Khan was my David Cassidy of celebrity dream dates, a castle in the sky to my queer teenage suburbanite reach. It wasn’t just her magnificent vocal instrument and original interpretation of music that tearfully almost therapeutically transformed me. Romantically she made my budding Sapphic heart race. An interview on The Johnny Carson Show with Joan Rivers sitting in was the first time I’d heard Chaka speak. Inching closer to the screen, I soaked up her frank viewpoints and enjoyed her accelerated rhythm of speaking - enabling her to share a multitude of thoughts in a minimal amount of time. Her nonchalant confidence reflected this worldly yet introspective, unassuming aspect to her, a humility that reserved the limelight for the stage exclusively, apparently just as content nestled in bed with a terrifying Stephen King book. It was within her musical stories that I found a depth of emotion that speaks from the gravity of hardship and the raw ache of first hand experience. In my struggle to find peace in the world and my gay place in it, I often found comfort in Chaka.
BOOK OF PHOTOS BY NICOLE MALONEY "RARE"
During my freshman year at B.U. in 1983, before her multi-platinum album, “I Feel For You,” I purchased a ticket for my first Chaka Khan Concert. Since she hadn’t yet hit her mainstream stride, we benefited from the intimacy of her track act in a popular dance club environment. As the last of the crowd filed their way in, the lights dramatically cut off and out Chaka came singing, “Ain't Nobody” in the most perilously spiked stiletto boots ever designed.
Desperately trying to maintain her equilibrium, she would take mini steps to the left then to the right in an attempt to catch up with the sway of her body that appeared in pursuit of the trails in her mind. In her inimitably funked out style, Chaka strutted her sultry stuff, while her voice majestically soared, channeling a creative versatility beyond my comprehension. The infinite dimensions of her vocal gift vibrationally transported us so far beyond what we knew as realism that when she approached the edge of the stage, I couldn’t help but place my hand upon her leather thigh high boot. Any number of contributing variables could have explained my desire to gently caress her leg, but when Chaka didn’t seem to mind or notice, everyone in close proximity reached out to her like a Messiah, wanting a piece of musical divinity to bring home and preserve forever. Traditionally a male rocker’s domain, but I could think of no sexier visual than a female entertainer who isn’t afraid to enjoy an audience’s communal touch.
Those of us lining the perimeter of the stage swayed our hands in the air, and she bathed in our devotion as if she was as in awe of us as we in her. A dose of Serotonin shot to my brain at the breakneck speed of a treasured find in Filene’s Basement when Chaka keyed right into me, making a swift beeline in my direction. Extending her hand out from the low stage, she weaved her fingers through mine and waved our connected hands back and forth to the beat.
In my non-televised Springsteen/Courtney Cox moment, I could feel her sensual roar beating right through my hand, a conduit to nirvana no doob or Jane Fonda aerobic routine could ever provide. It was in that brief moment that her touch instantly made me feel less invisible, less of a dot from a high altitude. She could have chosen any sycophant, but her impulse to connect with me was reassurance that even in my insignificant tortured little world, all things “unrealistic” were possible. You just had to reach out and fondle them.
Years later I caught Chaka again, in NYC (following her multi-Platinum Grammy winning solo album “I Feel for You”) at a much larger outdoor venue on the Hudson Pier, still first come first serve, still an Olympic sprint to the front row. In true Chaka form, she came off stage during the set to sit in the lap of a quadriplegic gentleman strapped in a wheelchair in the isle by my seat. She didn’t appear to know him, but graciously requested his lap while she sang us a ballad. I was pretty certain that when she rose to stand so would he.
All throughout my years employed at CNN Entertainment News, I looked for opportunities to interview Chaka, but once classified living legend status, one-on-one interviews were assigned to the on-air reporters only. She did begrudgingly grant one red carpet interview with us and evidently regretted it. Her irritated reaction to one of our field producers who referred to her as “The Diva” was priceless. Chaka detested the term and bluntly told her so, creating an awkward moment of silence I found amusing. Who would have known? But seeing how “Diva” (originally defined as a distinguished woman singer, especially one who sings in operas) has been gratuitously bequeathed upon every unworthy twat in the business, you can understand her position.
Last year upon undergoing surgery and feeling the end was neigh I hoped Make A Wish Foundation would grant me a visit by Chaka. “Ha!” My facebook friends snickered, assuring me that Chaka Khan wouldn’t get outta’ bed for my ovary removal. “White Light” medical bud would have to suffice.
