![]() Strolling down Lenox Avenue on a Sunday afternoon, I’d tuned my Walkman radio to DJ Hal Jackson’s legendary Sunday Morning Classics broadcast on WBLS: a slow-burn funk groove with an extended intro, hula-hooping bass, creamy electric keys, and mellifluous vocalizing stopped me dead in my tracks. Jays), soul-food joints, and no-nonsense African hair-braiding centers. In the late summer of 1996, Harlem was a loopy place to live-a mix of everyday strivers, storefront church-folk, street preachers, and bugged-out crackheads, buttressed by sneaker shops, streetwear emporiums (like Dr.
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