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The action was supposed to be happening onstage. But as soon as the six men and three women entered the doors of the Black Cat, the MC shouted, “Ms. Spice and Malenium Band are in the house!” The crowd threw its hands in the air and screamed—a sound that reverberated off the walls of the packed club. As the group headed backstage, Ms. Spice surveyed the audience and whispered to her bandmates, “How do they even know who we are?”

After listening to a few other acts, the members of Malenium took their positions on the stage—the guys in the back with their instruments, the women in the front with their mikes. The women in the go-go band’s front line could have easily been mistaken for a syrupy pop group: Ms. Spice wore jeans, clear aviator glasses, “stacks” to make her appear taller than her 5-foot-4, and a black tank top with “BOOTYLICIOUS” printed across the chest. The other two women were similarly attired in tight jeans and bright tops.

The band started off slowly, careful not to introduce too much intensity too soon. Shaking a tambourine against her left hip, Spice greeted the group. “Hello!” she said cheerily, before pointing a mike decorated with a pink bandanna toward the assemblage of blond and brown heads before her so the audience could say hello right back. “How you doing, bay-bay?” she asked one woman. “Lil’ mama right there—you know you feelin’ it!”

A few minutes into the set, the band picked up the pace, moving from a soft groove to a hard-core thump. Spice dropped the singsong voice and bright smile and switched to a deep, authoritative growl, instructing her crowd to “Step, step to the front! Step, step to the back!” Then, gyrating her whole body and lowering her voice to a range usually impossible to achieve without the aid of testosterone, she commanded, “Now put your back into it!”

A scan of the crowd revealed a predominance of white women in their late 20s and early 30s dressed in T-shirts and jeans—not your usual go-go audience. Still, they jumped, shouted, and clamored to the front of the stage to shake Spice’s hand. One woman, a frizzy blonde in thick black glasses, thrashed around wildly, her enthusiasm more than making up for her poorly executed dance steps.

“She was my favorite that night,” Spice later says. “She flicked off through the whole thing!”

The event was Ladyfest DC, a showcase organized to benefit the DC Coalition Against Domestic Violence held in August 2002. Other bands on the bill included V for Vendetta, Tribe 8, and Paper Doll. “There were nooo black people there—maybe a few,” Spice says. “I didn’t think they were going to respond to me like that. They treated me like the first lady. I’m not saying my people don’t support me, but that was unconditional.

“That was my favorite show ever, and I know that the band will say it was their favorite, too,” she adds. “[The audience] treated them so well that they didn’t want to leave when it was over.”

That’s saying a lot: Spice has given countless shows during her 13-year tenure in the go-go scene. She has gone from being a dedicated fan in the late ’80s to becoming a member of D.C.’s first coed go-go group in the mid-’90s to being the only lead female rapper, or “talker,” actively involved in the go-go game.

Even with such credentials, however, Spice is still working to secure a place for herself on the male-dominated go-go circuit. By all accounts, she is a smart businesswoman backed by a strong band, and her dedication to raising the profile of women on the circuit is unmatched. Yet many of the male bands she has shared stages and tour buses with over the years have bypassed her in terms of commercial success.

And yet, despite also having to face all the other problems that are standard-issue for the struggling musician—financial woes, a high turnover among band members, conflicts with managers—Spice endures, using a motto from one of her earliest songs as inspiration to persevere: “Slide to the side and let the haters ride.”

“I’m trying to deregulate go-go like the phone company,” she says. “I’m telling people that it’s not going to be all men in go-go anymore.”

The matriarch of the Malenium Band is fond of inventing nicknames for her group members and friends.

“I believe in nicknames,” she says. “Everyone should have one.” Spice gives her own nicknames even to those who already have others, using the new monikers to lay claim to those who are dear to her and to bring outsiders into the fold.

Malenium drummer Anthony Cook, 22, has been called “Ant” for as long as he can remember, but Spice calls him “Socks” because he plays without shoes on. Guitar player Wyatt Brown, 35, has initials that match those of a television network, so he was branded “WB.” But when too many people began addressing him as such, Spice began calling him “my WB.” Singer Gartraile Monroe, 32, is “Traile.” The few people in the scene whom Spice doesn’t know well enough to assign a nickname to are addressed by the generic endearment “Boo.”

Spice has had many nicknames of her own over the years. The name on the birth certificate of the woman born June 17, 1972, at Northeast Washington’s Providence Hospital reads “Margaret Tina Turner.” But like Anna Mae Bullock before her, Spice thought “Tina Turner” more fitting. Growing up among five siblings in Oxon Hill, Md., and Southeast D.C., she thought the name made her stand out—and even when there wasn’t enough money for new sneakers, she made sure that her clothing and hair reflected the esteemed title. Spice was miserable being confined to a small desk at school each day, but that name reassured her that bigger things were in store.

Soon enough, though, Tina Turner morphed into the more regal “Lady T,” a title that she had airbrushed onto T-shirts, jeans, and pretty much any other dye-absorbent material. As a young teenager, Lady T quickly became a fixture at go-go shows around the city. But that identity was retired in 1987, when, as a gift from her favorite go-go group, Junk Yard Band, it was declared that henceforth, Lady T would be known as “Spice”—for her ability to spice up the crowd.

Of the many monikers Spice has held, however, her most favored is “Queen of Go-Go.”

It’s a name she uses to refer to herself, and few in the industry dispute her right to the throne, even though there are other women who might deserve it, too: keyboard player Cherie Mitchell of Chuck Brown’s band, Maiesha Rashad of Maiesha and the Hip Huggers, Ms. Kim of Rare Essence, and, most notably, Michelle Peterson of Pleasure. Spice, who started her first band, the Nasty Girls, in 1989, may be slightly less visible, but she has been active on the circuit for longer than any other woman in the music’s history.

Maiesha and Ms. Kim are currently the most recognizable female names in go-go, but they are conventional vocalists whereas Spice is a “talker”—the cocky mouthpiece who is charged with rapping and keeping the crowd hyped. It’s a role that has traditionally been held by men. Peterson is probably the best-known female talker, but her groups, Pleasure—the District’s first all-women go-go band—and Precise, both disbanded by the late ’90s.

“I tell everyone, I never claim to be the first female talker in go-go,” Spice says. “Never. Because I know that Miss Michelle Peterson is the first. But I say that I’m the queen of go-go because the definition of a queen is one who reigns over her domain—reigns over what she believes in. She never says that four-letter word ‘quit.’ I never quit.”

Kevin “Kato” Hammond, editor in chief of the online magazine Take Me Out to the Go-Go, says that this drive is what has allowed Spice to survive in the go-go business longer than other women. “Spice is one of those who are going against the grain—she refuses to stop,” Hammond says. “She’s a fighter. She doesn’t worry about what people think she should be doing. There are few that go like that—she goes hard.

“She’ll say she’s the queen, and you may have some people who want to debate that,” he continues. “I say she’s doing her thing. It’s only difficult to say [she’s the queen] because she’s not up there where she should be yet. There are so many groups out there that are excellent, but they don’t get exposure.”

Indeed, few young go-go groups stand much of a chance to reach the level of visibility and success enjoyed by Backyard Band, Junk Yard Band, and Rare Essence—the trio of big bands that, along with the godfather of go-go, Chuck Brown, currently have the city’s fan base on lock. And women seem to take this fact of the scene harder than their male counterparts: Over the course of her career, Spice says she has seen more than 60 women leave groups she has been involved with. Some go on to do other types of music, and others leave to start families and get 9-to-5 jobs. But most simply grow frustrated waiting to break through the industry’s glass ceiling.

Women in go-go are charged with gaining the respect of discriminating male fans and colleagues—who don’t always treat the women’s ambitions with the same seriousness as their own. And they are often forced to vie for attention from managers, who often handle several other bands—most of them predominantly male.

Soldierette!!, a music writer and a host of the local television show It’s About Time, says that the male ego is a difficult obstacle to overcome in go-go. “I recall writing a lot that the guys need to get off of their egos and let the girls do their thing,” she says. “Men in go-go take ownership over this music. I guess it’s because it’s all that they have that isn’t controlled by women.

“When you talk about Spice and listen to her band, hear her show, I don’t know why—other than bullshit—she’s not bigger than she is,” Soldierette!! continues. “Maybe people say, ‘Because she’s a female, I’m only going to pay her a certain amount.’ I don’t know; she just needs support. People want what they know and have always heard.”

Even faced with sexism both blatant and

subtle, Spice is a “mackmomma.” She has taken the term, which denotes a female player, and given it a new definition. According to her, the word describes a driven woman who is willing to fight to get what she deserves. Mackmommas “know when to overlook, when to address, and how to recognize bullshit.

“[A mackmomma] is an independent woman who can accept help, but can also take care of herself,” Spice continues. “I don’t want to be a man, but there’s nothing that a man can do that you can’t do. Missy Elliott is a mackmomma. Sheryl Swoopes. Eleanor Holmes Norton is a mackmomma to me. Hillary Clinton—if she’s not a mackmomma, I don’t know what she is. I wish I knew her address,” she says, laughing. “I’d send her a CD.”

“I wish all of us could be mackmommas,” she continues. “But keeping [women from leaving the band] is hard. I know that women are creators—they bring life. So who am I to tell someone, ‘You better stop getting pregnant’? I have aunts with eight, 10 kids—I can’t knock that. You want an army, hey, create your own army. I might have some babies and create my own band.”

Spice has two telephone lines in the one-bedroom Brookland apartment she shares with her boyfriend. One serves as a business line and band hot line, and the other is her personal phone. Call the hot line and you’ll hear her “business voice.” It’s soft and lilting, and sounds strange only to those who know Spice well. Call the personal phone and you get the trademark throaty growl that dominates Malenium’s stage show.

One afternoon in November, Spice is performing the impressive feat of talking on both her phones at once. In each ear is a different band member—she’s putting them through “mental practice.” Because of conflicting work schedules and other personal obligations, the members of Malenium can’t always arrange a physical practice. So Spice sometimes calls them up and drills them about details from recent shows.

Today, however, she says that “her guys” are distracted. They have only one thing on their minds: the upcoming Northeast Groovers reunion concert, the go-go event of the year.

“That’s all that these guys have been talking about for weeks—Groovers, Groovers, Northeast, Northeast,” she complains. “They’re acting like we act when Maxwell or somebody is coming to town.”

Although go-go has street credibility to spare, its fans are just as eager as Trekkies or Star Wars nerds to collect memorabilia and follow the careers of their heroes. Young men paper their bedroom walls with collections of the bright posters that advertise shows, engage in endless conversations about the best bands of all time, and have extensive archives of P.A. tapes—the soundboard dubs that capture the live essence of the genre.

But, as in other types of music, young women who demonstrate a similar level of fandom are often unfairly branded as groupies. Within the scene, there is a clear distinction between “women in go-go” and “women of go-go.” Women in go-go are those who have managed to infiltrate the male-dominated industry since its beginnings in the late ’70s. Women of go-go are the fans.

They are the ones who have pictures taken with their girlfriends in front of the luxury-car- and champagne-bottle-painted backdrops that are present at every show. They flirt, make eyes at band members, and devise schemes to get closer to the stage or, in some cases, backstage. They take care to come out dressed to the nines—only to have their outfits soak with sweat and their hairdos fall when they get caught up in the beat and dance with abandon.

Spice started out as one of the women of go-go—a supporter who relentlessly tracked her favorite band. “If there wasn’t a Junk Yard,” she says, “I wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing.”

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Spice moved out of her mother’s house in the late ’80s, when she was just 15 years old. She moved in with a friend and started working to support herself. As an employee of the Peoples Drug at Thomas Circle NW, she used to hang out at the nearby Golden Dome arcade after work to unwind. It was there that she met three girls who befriended her and started taking her with them to see Junk Yard Band and other go-go acts.

“We would sneak in to see Chuck Brown, but we were too young to be there, so we had to keep a low profile,” Spice says. “But when we went to see Junk Yard—they would say ‘Nasty girls, work the stage!’ and we would work the stage.”

Spice and friends Sugar, Body, and Soul were the “Junkettes,” zealous fans whose enthusiasm for Junk Yard Band made them stars in their own right. Although the group went to see many bands, Junk Yard was their undisputed favorite.

“You don’t need a drink, you don’t need a buzz—back then when you went to see Junk, you got naturally amped,” Spice says. “They had originality, versatility—[their music] was like an addiction for us. If we couldn’t go see them, we’d cry.”

“We would all dress alike,” Spice recalls. “We’d go to the go-go and all have on the same thing. We’d do our hair, because all of us did hair. And I don’t care where Junk Yard was at. Even if we had to catch a cab to Waldorf, Maryland, we were there. We were so pressed! [Former Junk Yard Band manager] Moe Shorter would say, ‘The club owner isn’t even here yet!’”

Once the band arrived at the venue, the Junkettes danced, shouted, and put on their own show on the side of the stage. “We were the life of the party,” Spice says, “Girls with the badonk-a-donks wearing skintight outfits, looking nice. People wanted to dance when they saw us.

“After [the band] played, they used to come over our house and we all hung out,” she adds, stressing that sex was never a part of the equation for her and her friends; they were simply fans who livened up the party and loved the band and its music. “It was fun back then,” she says. “It’s not like that anymore. I still love them, but back then there were no families, no girlfriends—it was all about fun.”

Soldierette!! says that men at go-go shows often see young women as opportunists who are there to meet men. “A lot of men have the mentality that women are there just to take their clothes off,” she says, noting that there are indeed some women of go-go who fit that profile. “To dance is one thing, but to put your hands on the floor and put your butt in the air…

“Some women do go to meet men,” Soldierette!! continues, “and there’s nothing wrong with that. You meet the same people at the go-go that you would at the grocery store—but you don’t put your hands on the floor at the grocery store.”

Spice says that despite the inevitable presence of a number of women who are on the make, she sees the go-go as more of a female space than many people believe it to be. Traversing the go-go scene during difficult times has provided her with lifelong friends, and she maintains that other women have had similar experiences.

“People focus on the negative, but so many girls I’ve met at the go-go are my friends,” she says. “It’s where you go and meet the woman your man is cheating on you with, and the two of you plan to set him up. Women come to get their minds off of their man troubles—it’s not all negative.”

As Junkettes, Spice and her friends were essentially unpaid performers. So in 1989, using her status as a Junkette as a springboard, Spice decided to intensify her role in the scene. With Sugar, Body, and Soul, she started her own all-female go-go band: the Nasty Girls.

Spice says that the Nasty Girls practiced together for nearly two years but never performed publicly. She was a conga player in the early stages of the group, but, prompted by lead talker Steven “Buggs” Herrion of Junk Yard Band, soon decided to become the lead talker instead.

“Buggs and them said, ‘You should be the lead talker because you’re writing everything, so you know how it should be said,’” she recalls. “I was like, ‘Well, who’s going to play the instruments?’ That’s when I said, ‘Let’s just get some guys.’”

With the addition of the men, the Nasty Girls became the Nasty Band in 1991 and were later renamed yet again—becoming the Nasty Gang in 1994. The group was D.C.’s first coed go-go band with an all-female front line, and it helped Spice develop the formula that she still employs today with Malenium—in-your-face feminism tempered with winking sexuality.

“‘Nasty’ wasn’t because we took our clothes off or anything—it was more like a frame of mind,” she says. “I would tease people and wear body dresses, but I was doing N.W.A, Eazy-E, Dr. Dre, and Snoop Dogg. That was the only stuff that I listened to. I just wasn’t one to come out and sing—I was strictly rapping back then.”

Although the casual listener might be fooled by album and song titles such as Tramp for the ’90s and “Lickey, Lickey,” Spice says she used the Nasty Gang to project the image of an aggressive woman who is always in control and never objectified.

“My bands have always been girls in the front, guys in the back. Always,” she says. “There was one keyboard player I remember—he was awesome. The women loved him. I used to strip him at the shows: ‘Come here! Take your pants off!’ And I mean, the girls loved it—they really, really loved it.”

The band amassed a sizeable local fan base and released two albums besides 1994’s Tramp: World’s Longest Tongue (1991) and Resurrected for the Millennium (1998). But Spice claims that the band members never saw a single dime of profit.

Frustrated by its lack of financial success, the Nasty Gang split up in August 1999. But despite the group’s ups and downs, Spice regrets nothing about her time in the band, and says that all of the members are still on good terms.

“When I created that band, it was my first child—that’s my baby,” she says. “I wouldn’t be here today if I didn’t go through the fire with them. I’m not going to say it was a bad time in my life—it was the best time of my life. I’m still Nasty at heart.”

Whereas Spice is all loud jokes and wide smiles, her boyfriend of four years, Traile, Malenium’s sole male vocalist, is more quiet and reserved. The two met in 1998, when Traile spotted Spice walking her pit bull, Spicey, down the street of their Northeast neighborhood.

“I was walking my girl pit and I had her on a leash—a pink leash—and she was wearing a pink dress,” Spice says. “[Traile] raises pits, so he stopped me and asked me about her.”

The two quickly became friends, bound by their common love of dogs and go-go—even though Spice is a die-hard Junk Yard fan and Traile is more of a Chuck Brown man.

Their apartment showcases pictures of family members as well as shots from Malenium shows. But there are also stacks of CD singles for the group’s latest song, “Specialty,” and fat keepsake books stuffed with band memorabilia and letters of appreciation to Spice for her community work—coat drives and “kiddie cabarets,” the family-friendly go-gos that she puts on so “children will know about the music their parents are into.”

Sharing the quarters is an assortment of animals—a couple of pit-bull puppies, a turtle named L.J., a lizard whose name Spice and Traile have forgotten, and an orange-and-white cat named Mo-Mo.

“We used to have two cats,” says Traile. “The other one was named Go-Go, but he had to go.”

“He was just like a go-go,” Spice laughs. “Rowdy.”

“He got into everything,” says Traile.

“He’d get in the kitchen and try to eat doughnuts, bread,” says Spice.

“He had to go,” Traile finishes.

Spice says that Traile comforts her if the band is in a rough spot, fries up chicken and fish better than most people’s mamas, and has even been known to braid her hair on occasion. “He’s really good!” she says. “People always say, ‘Who did your hair? Can I get their number?’ and I say, ‘Uhhh…’”

Traile is used to living with people involved with the music industry. His father played bass for Chuck Brown, and his mother was the front woman of a local gospel group for many years. “It’s like working with your mother,” he says of Spice. “You get cursed out, and she’s going to get on you a lot of times, but it’s all good.”

Traile helped Spice through the difficult time after the Nasty Gang broke up in 1999. “I would cry all of the time,” Spice says. “[He] would say, ‘You have to stop crying, you get so upset.’ But this is my child. I care what happens to it. I don’t own the drums, I don’t own the keyboards, but it’s mine—I put it together.”

It was with Traile’s encouragement that Spice decided to start putting together another band in September 1999. In addition to herself and her boyfriend, she recruited her old friend Shifty, 28, who rapped with her on the front line of the Nasty Gang, and then set out to find the rest of the musicians for the still-unnamed group.

After running band names by everyone she knew, Spice decided on “Millennium.” But, as always, she felt a need to add her own stamp. “I didn’t want to spell it like the dictionary, so I sat down at work, and I started trying to spell it,” she says. “So I spelled it M-A-L-E-N-I-U-M. Malenium.”

The beginning of Malenium marked a change for Spice—personally as well as professionally. Spice says that her image in the Nasty Gang was more provocative, but with Malenium, she has mellowed.

That transformation shows in the music—Malenium plays “gogomatazz,” a blend of several different styles built upon a strong go-go foundation—and it’s evident in the image. “My first band, I was more raunchy,” Spice says. “People would say, ‘You need to change.’ I’d say, ‘I ain’t changing nothing—fuck you.’ If something was wrong with my sound, I’d jump off the stage and cuss the sound man out. And if you said anything bad about go-go to me, I would take your head off.

“But you can’t be a mackmomma walking around cussing people out,” she continues. “I don’t really curse anymore—it doesn’t come out. That’s the difference between Malenium and Nasty. I’m so serious about what comes out of my mouth now. I already have an aggressive voice—with curse words, it’s scaring people away.”

After her discouraging experience with the Nasty Gang, Spice has tried to make sure that things go differently with Malenium. She’s involved with all aspects of the band, including its management. She sees to it that everything she does is copyright-protected, books all of her own shows, and gives her band members input in decisions both minor and major.

Malenium, like many other go-go bands, does not yet bring in enough money to allow its members to focus solely on their music—most in the group also have 9-to-5 gigs. In addition to her roles as musician and band manager, Spice holds various odd jobs to bring in additional income: “anything that is honest and can make me some money,” she says. She designs fliers and Web sites for other bands, and she works part-time with Young Achievers of Washington D.C., supervising school-aged kids peddling candy.

But, she says, “My full-time job is Malenium. I haven’t found anything recently that has made me want to drop my band for eight hours a day.” And though controlling everything having to do with her band while at the same time trying to make ends meet is exhausting, Spice says it’s better than entrusting someone else with the job.

“I’m the one who fronts the money and is behind in bills. I’m the one who hasn’t bought a new outfit because I’m trying to get this CD out,” she says. “I’m the troubleshooter—I do everything. But I refuse to let these people sell me dreams anymore.

“The best manager I’ve ever had is me.”

Bernella Williams, 53, hasn’t always been thrilled about her daughter’s chosen career path. A Jehovah’s Witness who now lives in North Carolina, she has sometimes worried about Spice’s nasty image—after all, The World’s Longest Tongue, playful though it was, didn’t exactly rate a mention in the Watchtower.

These days, Williams says, she hopes that when her daughter is on stage, she “has her hair done, uses proper English, and doesn’t curse.

“And,” she adds, “tell her to stop sucking on those fingers!”

When the message is relayed, Spice, who is sitting on the edge of her bed sucking her thumb, takes the finger out of her mouth and says, “Oh my God!”

Williams says that even as a little girl, Spice was “always messing around and singing in something. She would sit in the mirror and sing, and she always thought she could dress.” She was thrilled when Spice and the Nasty Gang got their first shot at opening up for Chuck Brown, a show arranged by an aunt of Spice’s who tended bar at clubs where Brown performed.

“She was so proud of me,” Spice says of her mother’s reaction. “She was like, ‘How did you do that? Oh my God!’ I was like, ‘I don’t know how I did it! Oh my God!’

“My aunts and my mother and them liked to die,” she continues. “They dolled me up like a doll baby. They put all this weave in my hair; they made my face up. My hair was like this big [she hold her arms up high above her head]—it was serious. I tell you, I felt like Janet Jackson that day. I had on this all-black outfit with these big gold buttons on the front, like I was in ‘Control.’”

The Nasty Gang earned itself a regular gig opening up for Brown at the Kilimanjaro nightclub in Adams Morgan. But the weekly engagement ended when Brown stopped playing at the club and the Nasty Gang broke up. Still, even though they weren’t playing together any longer, Brown became something of a mentor to Spice.

He is one of the few people in her life who does not get a nickname. Spice refers to him only as “Chuck Brown,” as if breaking up the set that is his first and last name would be unforgivable and disrespectful to a performer with a personality even more dominant than her own.

“Chuck Brown believes in me,” she says. “And his belief in me means a lot.”

She hopes that one day, like the Godfather of Go-Go, she will attain a level of commercial success that will allow her to take go-go to people around the world. “I don’t want to burn myself up doing shows every night,” Spice says. “I want to be touring—giving y’all CDs and traveling.”

As an adolescent, Spice says, she couldn’t wait until she was old enough to go see Brown in concert, but Brown remembers things differently. “I’ve known her since she was a little kid, and she used to come to my shows with other young ladies, and they snuck in because they weren’t old enough,” he says. “Watching her grow up was a lovely experience.”

“I always listened to Chuck Brown,” Spice says, “but he wasn’t someone who I idolized. I never wanted to be like him, because I thought he was out of my league.” Now that she considers herself to be the queen of go-go, however, Spice is beginning to believe that she and Brown might not be so different.

In 2001, she and Brown were reunited through a master-musician program sponsored by the D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities. Spice entered and won a competition to work with Brown once a week for 10 weeks at the HR-57 Center for the Preservation of Jazz and Blues, culminating in a show at Howard University’s Cramton Auditorium.

“We met him every week, and we were crunk—OK?” Spice says of the experience. “There was another band, too, but I don’t think that band is together anymore.”

Although Brown gave Spice and Malenium hours of advice on polishing their sound and working a crowd, she says that the most valuable thing she learned from the legend was more practical.

“I’ve been performing all of my life. I’ve been doing this 13 years, and I never stop,” she says. “Chuck Brown told me: ‘Spice, it’s gonna get so rough, but there is one thing I don’t want you to do—you better not quit. I said, ‘OK.’ He said, ‘Don’t give up—just don’t.’

“Every time it gets rough, I hear his voice in my head: ‘Don’t give up!’” she says, imitating Brown’s deep, gravely baritone. “‘Don’t

give up!’” CP

Art accompanying story in the printed newspaper is not available in this archive: Photographs by Darrow Montgomery.