Chris “C-Smooth” Smith wasn’t born… he entered the ring of life like a damn Marvin Gaye bassline: smooth, dangerous, and on beat. Born in 1952 in the sweaty backstreets of Jacksonville, Florida—where the humidity can slap you harder than your daddy—Chris was raised on a diet of cornbread, church organs, and neighborhood squabbles. Folks in the neighborhood used to say, “Chris been fighting since the womb—slapped the doctor, stole the stethoscope, and moonwalked out the delivery room.”
By age 19, Chris was one of the most promising lightweight boxers in the South. Quick hands. Quicker comebacks. And a jab that could make a grown man rethink his life choices. He didn’t just win fights—he performed them. He’d duck a punch, wink at your mama in the front row, then uppercut you into next week. Some called him cocky. Others just called him correct.
But in 1975, during a televised title match against Cuban champ Hector “El Diablo” Mendez, Chris took a nasty hit to the shoulder—and like that, it was over. His dream of being the first soul-singing WBA champ went down like a bottle of Ripple at a backyard BBQ. The doctors said “rehab.” Chris said, “I’ll find a new stage.”
From Gloves to Grooves
After hanging up the gloves (and slapping the orthopedic specialist on his way out), Chris wandered into music like it owed him money. He’d always had a voice—raspy, real, dipped in whiskey and baptized in fire. He started singing in smoky lounges around Duval County, wearing sunglasses at night and open silk shirts that exposed 63% chest hair and 100% attitude.
Producers didn’t know what to do with him. “Too aggressive for ballads, too sexy for protest music.” One even said, “He sings like he’s trying to win a fight and seduce a woman at the same time.” That’s when Chris leaned in, lit a cigarette, and said, “Ain’t that the point?”
By 1980, Chris had gained a reputation as a soul outlaw. No label, no filter, and no chill. Then came the moment that changed everything.
The Grammy Slap Heard ’Round the World
At the 1980 Grammy Awards, Chris showed up uninvited, wearing a powder blue tuxedo, a jheri curl that glistened like a glazed donut, and a chip on his shoulder the size of the Jackson 5. During a backstage conversation with funk artist Will Rock (who may or may not have called Chris a “backup Luther Vandross”), tensions flared. Words were exchanged. Drinks were spilled. Then—SMACK!
Chris slapped Will so hard, Luther himself caught a chill.
Security tried to escort him out, but Chris moonwalked off stage, shouted “I’m the real Soul Train!” and disappeared into the night like a funky Batman.
The Song That Shouldn’t Have Worked… But Did
Two years later, Chris returned with vengeance and a beat. The underground single, “I Feel Like Smacking a N- Today,” dropped like a hot plate of chitlins in a vegan restaurant. It had everything: greasy basslines, thunderclap drums, and Chris yelling into the mic like he was arguing with his cousin at a family cookout.
Now look—it wasn’t politically correct, even for 1982. The title alone made record execs clutch their pearls and hide their cocaine. But the people? Oh, the people felt it. Because it wasn’t about violence—it was about that everyday frustration of being a Black man in America. It was a protest song dressed in a polyester leisure suit. A funk sermon for those who’d had just about enough.
You ever get yelled at by your boss, overcharged at the gas station, and cut off by a Pinto in the same afternoon? That’s what this track felt like.
Legacy of a Slap-Happy Soulman
Despite being blackballed from radio and banned from performing in over 13 states (and two Waffle Houses), Chris “C-Smooth” Smith became a legend. College kids bootlegged the track on cassette. DJs spun it in underground clubs, sometimes just for the ad-libs: “SMACK! POW! NOT TODAY, SATAN!”
He never released a full album, but he didn’t need to. One slap, one single, and a vibe that could knock you off your feet.
Some say Chris disappeared into the Florida swamps in the late ’80s, reemerging occasionally to critique the fade of younger soul singers. Others say he’s still out there, lurking in jazz clubs, slapping sense into mumble singers and whispering, “Sing with your chest, nephew.”
Either way, his legacy lives on.
In every shoulder roll. In every side-eye at the Grammys. In every soulful scream that comes from a place deeper than pain—it comes from Chris.
C-Smooth. The only man to funk, fight, and slap his way into the history books.
