MUSICIAN ACCIDENTALLY SHOOT DEAD

Errick Jr. was just 4 years old when his father was killed in 1995. His grandfather, Larry W. Pratt, remembers him as a child with sad eyes at the funeral.

Now, here were PopSmoothe’s friends, red-eyed and weary, some replaying in their minds the January night he was killed, wondering what they could have done to change the course of events. They lined up at the mike in the center of the church, where PopSmoothe’s musical career began in a gospel go-go group called Radical Praise.

“He was one of the funniest dudes of all time,” his best friend, DeLonta Washington, told the crowd, and “one of the most beautiful souls I ever had the pleasure of meeting.” He drew laughs recounting the reaction to PopSmoothe’s eccentric style: “We would be on the avenue, and people would be making fun of that kilt he was wearing or the tail or those ‘Jesus sandals.’ It’s a real trip to see my brother in this casket.”

On a big screen above the stage, PopSmoothe appeared in a prescient video clip, talking about how he wanted to be remembered.
Errick Jr. was just 4 years old when his father was killed in 1995. His grandfather, Larry W. Pratt, remembers him as a child with sad eyes at the funeral.

Now, here were PopSmoothe’s friends, red-eyed and weary, some replaying in their minds the January night he was killed, wondering what they could have done to change the course of events. They lined up at the mike in the center of the church, where PopSmoothe’s musical career began in a gospel go-go group called Radical Praise.

“He was one of the funniest dudes of all time,” his best friend, DeLonta Washington, told the crowd, and “one of the most beautiful souls I ever had the pleasure of meeting.” He drew laughs recounting the reaction to PopSmoothe’s eccentric style: “We would be on the avenue, and people would be making fun of that kilt he was wearing or the tail or those ‘Jesus sandals.’ It’s a real trip to see my brother in this casket.”

On a big screen above the stage, PopSmoothe appeared in a prescient video clip, talking about how he wanted to be remembered.
 ‘PopSmoothe was an artist of the future. He was legendary,’ ” Pratt told an interviewer last year. “I’m trying to start a new wave of freedom and positive swag.” He explained what inspired him: “Trees, water, human beings, just hearing good music.”

As the memorial video and his music played, some people rose, performing “the PopSmoothe,” a dance Pratt had created. “Stamp,” they repeated, a phrase of approval he often recited.

One by one, barefoot praise dancers in white flowing gowns and red pants took to the stage, spinning and raising their arms as if flying. The music throbbed, giving the funeral the feel of a concert.

Pratt’s mother, Taneisha Johnson, 40, wearing a black dress trimmed in white cuffs, swayed in the front row. Photos of her son, sporting a nose ring and a full beard, flashed on the screen.

PopSmoothe’s grandfather got up from his pew and began pacing around the church as pastor Tony Brazelton, PopSmoothe’s uncle, preached a long sermon about the questions raised by an untimely death.

“It bothers me,” the grandfather said later. “What were they even doing with a gun?”



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