It was one of those conversations nobody wants to participate in. I consoled myself with the fact that Mr O’List endures these talks every day. For me, it would be once or twice a lifetime. “In my opinion,” he said, an unnecessary clause as he would not be offering anybody else’s, “this operation is the only option for your wife. But nobody does it here. You’d need to go to the United States, or there’s a talented chap in Seoul, though I believe he’s only done a couple.” My heart plummeted.A few weeks later, Jemma and I had plumped for Florida, God’s waiting room for old goats like us. But the operation would cost about $145,000. Money we did not have. So, we decided to sell our home to one of these companies that buy any house, even yours, and look at the state of it, it’s full of records, you have a problem, pal. Soon, we pitched up in Miami’s historic Lemon City.We’d been aiming for the Deco District and were told it was nearby. I’d been warned to avoid the vibrant Little Haiti, supposedly dodgy for naïve English codgers to roam at night. It turns out Lemon City and Little Haiti are one and the same; never trust a real estate agent. But I thought we were unlikely to be roaming much after Jemma’s operation. We put my record collection in storage in London and rented an apartment almost big enough to accommodate another one. I’d always liked Miami soul, even KC & The Sunshine Band’s Get Down Tonight, never mind Clarence Reid, so I felt I’d be alright, assuming Jemma was. Maybe we’d stay.A few weeks beforehand, the chief surgeon cautioned us: the operation carried caveats. Jemma might start gambling, or her accent or more personal aspects of her personality might change. “There is a risk of developing obsessional behaviours after this operation,” Mr Parmar told us. He turned to me: “You will need to keep a look out for obsessive tendencies. These can be very serious indeed. But we are confident of a positive outcome.” Gulp. I felt woozy. I distracted myself by trying to remember the track listing on The Chosen Few’s Night And Day album. As ever, Jemma smiled beatifically, accepting what life had thrown at her, hoping for the best.While I lingered indoors updating my Discogs wants list, Jemma spent seven hours on the operating table, fully conscious while the surgeons probed her brain. Mr Parmar and his sidekicks Dr Emersohn and Dr Lake declared themselves satisfied with how it had gone.There was an immediate improvement. Jemma’s clenched fists were freed. She walked without sticks. She could speak clearly, and once her shaved hair grew back, curly now, which was a first, she began to dye it again. We even slow-danced a little to OV Wright’s Let’s Straighten It Out; perhaps she was thinking of her hair.
Miami was a vinyl goldmine. I’d picked up OV’s album at a yard sale along with Little Beaver’s Black Rhapsody on the original Cat label, for three bucks apiece. Little Beaver was a fabulous guitarist, gracing the greatest Miami records; those are his chops on Betty Wright’s Clean Up Woman, and his debut, Joey, is a bluesy soul gem from ’72. But an entire album of jazzy soul flavours in Black Rhapsody? That’s something else. I played it repeatedly. Mellow, sunny, shimmering, it represented our new Floridian life. We were invited to our neighbour Jean-Jacques’ house parties, munched BBQ on Key Biscayne, and felt somehow feted as token Brits in Little Haiti.I’d always liked guitarists. Chinna Smith with Augustus Pablo. Charlie Hunter’s weird axe-organ. The virtuosity of Wes Montgomery, acknowledged in Black Rhapsody’s A Tribute To Wes. As a teen, I’d even bought Black Oak Arkansas’ Hot And Nasty, figuring three guitars must be better than two. It put me off learning to play. Now, I sought out guitar soul-jazz across Miami-Dade. O’Donel Levy’s Simba and Dawn Of A New Day; so crisp and fresh! For the price of a cappuccino, I found Dennis Coffey & The Detroit Guitar Band’s Evolution and heard anew the breaks behind Public Enemy and Young MC. I secured replacement copies of Phil Upchurch’s Upchurch and The Way I Feel and imagined the latter’s Wild Wood helped inspire Paul Weller. If a record didn’t boast prominent picking, I didn’t want it. I bought little else, thought little else. I filled the apartment with guitar vinyl.One morning, a text from the bank burst my bubble. I’d blown $25,000 in three months. Would I like help with budgeting? Suddenly, I realised Jemma was always hanging out with Jean-Jacques. I’d barely seen her for days. I confronted her. “What is it with Jean-Jacques?” I raged. “You’re obsessed with him. Mr Parmar warned you about that.”“JJ’s gay,” Jemma snapped back. “But at least he talks to me. And look at this apartment. It’s a vinyl hellhole. When my surgeons warned about obsessiveness, they must have meant you, not me.”A mental door swung open. I’d been in shock; at Jemma’s illness, her operation, how our journey together had taken a turn and we’d wound up living a strange life in a strange country. I’d hidden myself in vinyl, seeking comfort from the familiar. I slumped to the sofa and wept like a baby.To my surprise, Jemma was sympathetic. “Honey. I know it’s been hard for you,” she murmured. And in her recently re-found voice, she sang Benny Latimore’s lyrics for OV Wright: “Instead of layin’ out cryin’ your eyes out, baby/You and me oughta be getting it on. Let’s straighten it out.”
Ian McCann is listening to The Chosen Few in the rain.
