R.A.D
By the end of this story, there s nothing that will convince you that heaven on Earth exists anywhere else than on a Sunday afternoon in Southeast Los Angeles, at Colman Domingo s mid-century modern home pool outside, laughter inside, drinks everywhere where the host is hard at work making…
brunch. Though he might as well be making pixie dust. Or liquid gold. Something spectacular, shaking and frying and baking a feeling damn near inconceivable nowadays, far beyond bacon, eggs, mimosas.
“I know how to set the tone,” Domingo says during the second of two interviews with me throughout December. ”It should all feel like… you want to
Harmony is melody’s bitch, with no life of its own. Hearing a melody a cappella, divorced from its harmony and expelled from its sound-world, is a kind of test. Does it still sound like music when it’s sung, just like that, by a civilian (an amateur)? The ultimate test: How does it sound when sung by your mother?
If it passes this test, the melody indeed becomes the whole song music’s synecdoche. All lullabies have passed this test; they’ve survived for centuries. They’re still here after capitalism, sleeping pills, and the invention of recording, never outgrowing their original purpose.
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