Watts though he is, "known to the world, and those who love me, as Longtree Gnoua." Which is fair enough and an hour later we’re taking turns playing $1 scratched black music albums in the apartment he shares with a girl called Molly, now safely arrived (she says on the phone) in Florida where her folks, the proud owners of her, five brothers, two sisters, and eight kosher restaurants in New York and Philadelphia, live in semi-retirement. Molly calls him on her cellular when Aretha is taking her turn on the decks after Bumps and Bruises by Joe Tex where Joe is doing Ain’t Gonna Bump No More No Big Fat Woman and Willie Was Dancing With a Sissy. He looks very much like a Huxtable. Very pretty. If he were a Huxtable he’d be Lisa Bonet. "Mom and dad both work in the State Department. Mom’s a doctor and dad’s a lawyer. They’re stationed in Caracas these days." "So what exactly is it that these good people of yours do for the State Department?" I ask with maximum sarcasm, for I’m always on the lookout for them CIA guys. "Oh, OK, Irish. You’re not entirely out of line there. Dad handles some tricky situations for sure… sticky tricky situations are his line of business. Now… what mom does," he says throwing his jacket onto a tasty black futon, "is something of a mystery. Nothing much to do with medicine, that’s for sure. I asked her once exactly what is was that she did and she just said that she collected gossip and crime statistics for the American Government abroad." "I see." I say. I sure do. Now he takes off his sweatshirt; under his jet-black skin muscles ripple in modest profusion, serving no purpose other than to keep him moving while adding to the poignancy of the situation. By way of explaining the occasionally poor sound quality on my spoken word Malcolm X album, recorded in 1963 using Sony and Tandenberg gear, the diligent sleevenote writer wrote: "At times you may hear a squeak from the Sony unit but a pearl dragged from the deep by unorthodox methods is still nonetheless a pearl — a gem worthy to be cherished." "I have never had this experience before," Longtree says like I’m suggesting a good restaurant that I’ve read about in the colour supplement, "but I would love to try!" He is so dead calm about it that I wonder if we’ve gotten our wires crossed. I apply a drop of Clarins moisturizer. Next year, the bitch in Duty Free told me, they’re introducing a "wicked" Clarins line for men. I told her I could hardly wait because some of the stuff they have at the moment — such as Beauty Flash Balm — is scented way too much for us hairy guys. I tell Longtree a white lie, that in The Arabian Nights it says that a black pearl dragged from the deep by unorthodox means is nonetheless a pearl — worthy of lust and laughter. And he says, anxiously enough, "Huh!" though he is the most
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