Last time it was Mos cooing Puuuure hearrrrrt/You’re suuu-per cool.
You’re super cool
You’re live and elemental
You’re sweet and you’re true
You’re so true
You’re plain and yet so special
It’s nothing like you
Wearing black on the outside because black is how you feel on the inside. Corona, which goes down smooth and easy. Beer that doesn’t taste terrible (most beer does). Beer that makes you think of the phrase In Corona, it’s better to take than to receive.
“I don’t get high as I used to; Vince Carter.” This week consisted of that new Don Trip mixed tape, 57 Minutes of Tennessee Accents Over Fiery Beats.
Oh Jay Elec, with the aura so contrived, the voice of a physics teacher that makes me want to sleep the day away (Mr. Hahn, 11th grade). After giving him two chances, then a third one because I’m a nice person, I have yet to be impressed. And he never talks about his mouth meeting up with ladies’ private parts, so why should I give him a fourth or a fifth chance? First person to email me a lyrical snippet of his that I find touching or skillful gets to make me breakfast in the morning after giving me a nice go ’round the night before. I’m familiar with allllll his lyrics so the odds are really in my favor here. Dudes get SO mad at me about this! Teehee. Settle down,
Jettttttt Liiiiiiife. Mistakes that somehow make a thing fresher than it already is (Currrrrrrrrren$y).
BUTTON-UPS LOOKIN LIKE CHRISTMAS. Bowing your head in reverence, averting your eyes. Just fucking needing, and taking, a moment to yourself when the right stuff is in your headphones.
Notebooks. Outfit changes. Looking really fresh. Dodger blue, which is a shade somewhere among “cerulean,” “Dumile’s t-shirt,” and “LA street sign.” Annnnd once again, I’ve reached my ogling capacity.
The casting of that Rae biopic is on point. Mostly I’m looking forward to lots of Champion sweats.
1. Ron’s 6’7″ so Celine is apparently 6’4″? 6’5″? She needs to bend forward like that to fit in the frame? Celine is a very skinny shrill-voiced Canadian GIANT. Unreal. (Ohmygod/why don’t I check Ron’s Twitter feed more often)
2. This isn’t real; it’s a picture of the inside of my brain (ARTEST X CURREN$Y, 504 X 718, life is wonderfulllll, lalalalaaaa), via the LA Times.
3. John Carpenter being interviewed by RA is not really that unreal, if you think about it. It really makes complete sense, if you think about it. What’s really unreal, though, is the fact that apparently John Carpenter is my father-? (he talks how my dad talks and that’s why I am the way I am). (GrandGood)
4. “Nostalgia is a seductive liar.” – George Ball.
“How’d you come up with the concept for ‘Sleepin’ On My Couch’?” “Uh, it’s about people sleepin on my couch, Dre.” Del is probably a difficult interview, though, so I shouldn’t be too hard on
Dre. Anyway, Baby Del and his WOOLY DOME and his complaints about people coming to his home and not wanting to step are not real. It’s seduction; not a real thing. I am not familiar with this man’s work but from the strength of his speaking voice I feel like he might make a great MC and beat artisan (but only on his days off from reading me the phone book out loud).
I just discovered that first album was recorded here, in what is now a sad little AT&T store. 20 years later, here’s me, a girl on planet Earth, typing this post on a laptop I purchased in a store across the street from that location. The Boogiemen used to make coffee runs at that very Starbucks, which first came to LA 20 years ago. Mindfucks aren’t real. They’re just not.
5. “Dyslexie, a Typeface Designed to Help Dyslexics Read.” This is real, and it feels good.
I don’t get You’re beautiful emails; I get Nice blog, nerd emails. That’s the way I planned it and that’s the way I likes it; I know my visitors come to read my Fripp dorkouts, my Gibbs dorkouts, my ramblings about that moment when I realized K.R.I.T. means King Remembered In Time (pretentious, but I still like him). My visitors don’t even notice or care that I have hips (right??) because the pleasures of language overpower any romantic feelings between us. My visitors eat words up. I do too. And I take it for granted that I can do it so easily. So I’m taking a break from complaining about rappers, both because I’m still exhausted from yelling about WTT and because it’s not good for my psyche to be so focused on the negative, to do a little fawning over a typeface designer who’s doing some good for the world.
Boer compares Dyslexie (example above) to a wheelchair. He has dyslexia, and “followed his own instincts about optimizing typography to fit his own eye, then recruited eight other dyslexics (whom he didn’t know) to help him iterate through four rounds of design to refine the letterforms…” One of the key features of Dyslexie is the extra visual ‘weight’ it adds to the bottom halves of the letters.” Boer says this is to help “pin the letters to the baseline, which helps make them easier to read.”
The time he spent perfecting the thing is the best, most fawn-worthy part of his story. “I can tell you that I have worked on the comma for four hours,” he says, “and the letter ‘a’ for more than 12 hours.” Nice work, Christian, but does it make Watch the Throne any more tolerable? (FastCoDesign)
You gotta let me read just a page of you, baby. Frank Ocean – “Bedtime Story.” Frank’s got car-sing-along Power 106 Chris-Brown-levels beautiful pop melodies, minus the no-holds-barred bitchery and absolute hatred of women that Chris tries to make us all forget about when he flashes his perfect white teeth. Plus Frank’s got some musical blood running through him, being Billy Ocean’s son and all. J/K! Shabaam Sahdeeq and Raphael Saadiq are cousins, though. (J/K! Stop believing it just because of my trustworthy face!)
Pro tools confiscated as evidence by the crime
Lab spyin, ain’t even have to do em like that
Knife work on the track
Many I cut and slash
At the neck like a sash
Blood on my hands, me and my killin bag
Raw shit, kill a gram
High spinnin ceilin fan
You ain’t never seen a man til you seen the man.
The Wizard of Rad, his belly, his red polo, and his light halo, along with the Robert Glasper Experiment, in a scene I really really want to call “Swiss Beats” (ST). I’d like to point out that he’s wearing an actual fitted so it turns out snapbacks aren’t really as back as you all thought. (Fools.)
HE DOES. MUST BE THAT RUSTBELT FLOW. – my brother, number 1 brother in the world. He’s just a good dude, even-tempered, Witty with the texts, obviously. Might not mean much to you but to me exchanges like this are everything.
My ears and I spend our time bouncing from rapper to rapper, breakin hearts, collecting mixtapes. I’m loyal but I also need sweet love (good songs). I’d like always to be swimming in sweet love (good songs) – witty rhymes, bouncy cadence, some kind of delivery that stays with me, thick bass that makes my brain fuzzy and happy and cloudy while I’m at work. It occurs to me that from time to time on this blog I come across as groupie-ish for MCs, I guess because people think that someone with long hair and hips and breasts that are unusually large for a skinny frame cannot appreciate the skill it takes to just tell a really good story and separate that appreciation from wanting to undress for the storyteller. A good story does make me want to undress but that doesn’t mean I’m going to offer myself to Erick Sermon. breath control, delivery,
2. I only like rappers who once sold stimulants or the bodies of women. I think I’m reallll badass sometimes because of this.
But that’s only because 10-year-old Libyan kids haven’t started rhyming yet about daily life. Pink scarves, rebels, ceasefires, kevlar helmets, etc.
3. One of these things is not, in fact, like the others.
Take your rap unserious like your movie roles
Don’t smile when the Doberman Pinscher finishes bad work on your sneaker soles,
all V.I.P. material – don’t pay me to hype your lyrics
Tear you a new ass, go pay Jay-Z to write your lyrics
(Kool Keith, “Robert Perry”)
Shut your face, shut your mouth like pigeons floying south
(Kool Keith, “Get off My Elevator”).
Either way, YES. Thank you, Keith (as always).
4. Of course Reatard wore Vans and no socks. I could’ve predicted that. And of course he was fragile since he was a carbon-based life form. But yes, this picture is just nice because of the red/red motif. Settle down if you thought I was making some kind of statement about his psychological state. How pretentious.
5. All girls like the stunning Earthling named T.I. All girls – straight, gay, bi, questioning, intersex, transgender, transsexual, asexual, and ones who wish they could physically make love to the Stalag riddim bassline, like somehow find a way to express affection for it in a grown-up way and maybe agree on a “safe word” ahead of time so nobody’s comfort levels get disrespected.
(From the Stripper Song of the Day, the remix of that Killer Mike one)
6. The Internet giveth wonderful presents sometimes, like the booking info for rap’s Kool-Aid Man which I intend to use to stage an elaborate prank, yes I do. And new/old Doomsy (thanks, Rafi!). And photos from the Class of ’89. God yes.
7. “We are welcoming people that appreciate street art but we hope they are not inspired to show off their work on the buildings outside,” Kito (the owner of a business near MOCA) said, “WE HOPE THEY ARE NOT INSPIRED TO SHOW OFF THEIR WORK ON THE BUILDINGS OUTSIDE.” Jeffrey Deitch added that he had that tingly feeling when he was curating the show that it would bring “unwanted and unauthorized ancillary activity from ‘some of the young taggers who are anarchic.'”
Unbridled irony running loose on the streets of Los Angeles doesn’t get a YES, but
* Your favorite awkward ladyblogger shaking the hand of THE GOD QUINONES today as she walked past the Geffen at lunch gets a yes. ZORO. YES.
Nobody back at work would understand. They are a simple and dull group of folks. So I just tucked it away inside. And when I came down from my high, I found this, from back when Lee was younger and more anarchic and insisted on showing his work on the buildings outside:
“Let me see you. Let me see your tight wire come alive. I just want you to get up” – The Dramatics, on being young and anarchic. No drips.
Crates n’ crates n’ dresses n’ books bring me joy every day of the year, except for this particular day and the next few days that follow since I am moving. I am moving to a new apartment home in the city. I’m moving, again, just because I enjoy it so much. Soon there will be posts emerging from “apt. 680,” which I know, I knowwww doesn’t have the same catchy appeal as “apt. 15,” (Deck didn’t go to jail at the age of 680, sadly) but it’s a much better place, you guys! You’ll see. I’ll stand in my living room, probably holding a record and most definitely wearing something my mother would not approve of, take a picture of it, then post it. I know this girl with her own crib, in isolation, Keith said. That song’s about me. Sometimes I need to alter my surroundings. The background changes, but the overall themes of my life (bathing suits, ice cream, breaks, science stuff*, venom directed at bad/lazy rappers) never will. And yes, now I’ll be living up in the treez, but my heart’s still down at street level with all of you.
* The most powerful influence on women’s appreciation of their bodies is how they believe others view them, science says, to which I can only respond No fucking way/Yes, perhaps you have seen my blog.
Moving songs to give me energy while I drag crates and to, well, move me of course, include
1. V White and the Politician’s “Sixes on My Seven Deuce,” a song that’ll make you forget about the damage you’re doing to your car’s suspension with your heavy round chrome darlings. (Not to be too preachy. Sorry. They look tiiiiiight.)
2. I know nothing about these individuals other than a) fixies and b) drums. Warm-sounding drums. I don’t know if you’ll have the same love for it; I had to share, though.
(The greatness of an already-great song is slightly distorted, amplified, when I put on my precious expensive headphones. That’s the Sennheiser Effect. The sound is crystalline, booming and emotional. Hearty and fulfilling. My brain’s reward center needs it every few weeks – a song not about hookers and ki’s. This one’s like the musical version of steel-cut oats.)
The only people you should trust to teach you about the general history of the world are Chomsky and Zinn. (Everybody else is either on the payroll at Fox or is trying to get website hits by making up dumb outrageous facts.) And the only person you should trust to inform you of important events in the Allman Brothers story is the girl whose middle name is Melissa.
On March 12 and 13 in 1971, the Alllman Brothers Band’s At Fillmore East shows were recorded–40 long years, but put it on the platter and I swear it throbs like it was made yesterday. (For the record, “Live at the Fillmoe, East” is a Rappin 4-Tay/San Quinn collab song that has yet to be made, but it exists in my heart and in my fantasies.) Anyway, before Duane Allman’s crying guitar played over the montage of everybody from the Lufthansa heist getting theirs, the wreckage of past sins finally coming to light, his crying guitar played in the living room on the platter while I lay on my stomach and colored. I’m a grownup now but I have a thousand pictures of him on my laptop because I still love him. Sometimes I swear I see him at Trader Joe’s (nope; it’s just all the boys in the neighborhood go 7 months between haircuts and wear nothing bigger than an M in t-shirts). He was quiet in real life, they say, and he was usually high, plus he died when he was 24; these are qualities that usually make me fond of a musical individual. And before I wanted to ride with the kid, and before all I wanted to pretend my name was Sally so I could ride around with abandon (ride, Sally. Ride.), before I was down to ride and definitely before I was prepared to ride or die, before I fully committed to the hoo ride lifestyle, before I begged the sweet chariot to swing down, stop, and let me ride, before I loved breathless ladies’ man Toney Knight Rider, way before I wanted to ride the plain bow in flare gully yellow rain coat, before I Ruff Rode and really believed in the Stop, drop, shutemdown-openupshop mantra (which is what I will forever think of any time I hear “Free Earl”), before I obeyed when a Gulf Way Blvd g told me to pop the trunk, get it crunk, it’s time to ride, show them boys I got that front back and side to side, baby, basically before I ever wanted to take that ride, and way before I asked myself how should I ride?, I knew running away and riding was the way to go ’cause Duane and the last 12 frets on his guitar were like honey, let’s ride.
King Curtis – “Games People Play.” Duane’s guitar on this isn’t really a standout performance, but still. So lovely (01:20). And the original is kind of like “Ether” but directed at half of humanity, and with harmony and a la-la-la chorus.