Geoffreys Inner Circle

Geoffrey Pete is the kind of public figure who is easily shrouded in mythology. He’s been described as a power broker, kingmaker and city boss—lofty titles he chalks up to “urban legends.” Through the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s, up to the present, Pete has kept his finger on Oakland’s pulse. Much more than a club owner, he’s an organizer and advocate in the African American business community. At times, a political insider and confidante, but also—most notably, during his face-off with OPD—a name no insider wants to drop. To understand Mr. Pete’s story is to understand a bit more the history of Oakland.

Oaklanders know him well. Renee Moncada was a cocktail waitress at Geoffrey’s Inner Circle, the memorable Oakland club and community venue that was THE go-to spot for people of color in the late 70’s and 80’s.   “Geoffrey’s was more than just a club,” Renee recalled. “There was this vibe and this class and this element of ‘everybody wants to know your name’ and who’s who, and it all came from him, from Geoffrey. Everyone was there: Wynton Marsalis, Phillis Hyman, soul musicians, politicians, actors, basketball players, hustlers, just a little bit of everyone. He managed to create this atmosphere where everyone felt special but also, you know, it felt like family.”

Geoffrey Pete is a tall, elegant man with an easy gregariousness. When I introduced myself as Liza, he called me back “Minnelli” and referred to me that way thereafter. He speaks deliberately, suspending the conversation with long pauses rather than cluttering it with ums and you knows.  You ask him what he ate for lunch and you might get a response that involves a quote from Casablanca, a reference to the Taft-Hartley act, a list of everyone on Oakland City Council in the year 1984 and an anecdote about Bill “Bojangles” Robinson.
Other times, he’s serious and hard to unlock, and there isn’t much telling why. He abruptly ended our second of three interviews only twenty minutes in.

During the time we spent together, his phone rang, according to my calculations, every seven minutes. We didn’t make it down a single block of Downtown Oakland without someone trying to stop and say hi. “Mr. Geoffrey,” they called him, or else, “Uncle Geoffrey.”