That myth that hard dudes from the ’hood don’t succumb to gayness - he’d subscribed to it. But by the time he’s sitting there in one of this country’s primo landmarks of improvisation, innovation and artistic introspection - of incandescence and intensity - Carmichael no longer seemed to be doing a routine. He appeared to be thinking aloud, doing a kind of jazz, playing quietly through the changes, and all of that.

The mere crossing of legs felt like a deeply felt gesture of relaxation - of release. The people in that room are witnessing his masculinity shift from shield to sponge. Carmichael had come to them with stories that are still unfolding around and within him. He’s already told his devoutly Christian mother and doesn’t know, for instance, whether she’ll ever warm to this part of him. His candor here certainly elevates the degree of that difficulty. Why, he wonders, is she so cold? And some unidentified person in the ambient dark of the Blue Note asks, why not give her a little time to absorb his revelation? He considers that.

“Now you guys are too much like my family.” #Gay sex black hood compilation crack#Įarlier, he absorbs a different spectator’s crack timing after he tells the room that he’s not hiding anything and someone blurts out: “But your name.” “Whoa,” he says.

That was the evening’s other remarkable detail.