I died/cried when I heard that new DOOM/Starks. A big fat thank you thankyouthankyouuuu to fellow Doom-minded types like my blipster friend here, for it is with their electronic help that my Doomsy-ness is all that it can possibly be. Until I finally break down and accept the offer to join the Future Foundation, the best way I can think to serve humanity’s future is to post helpful breaks information such as this.
Dannie Belles. I will never cease to praise him for the good he’s sent my way, she says, And I know he will continue to bless and lead me to a brighter day. Well, yes, because he’s been doing that since around ’88-9, Dannie! Pay attention.
Mr. World Peace has gotten soft over the last couple years – and yet, in a move I could not possibly have seen coming, I love him more with each passing day. (This never happens, since I prefer ’em during the dirty n’ inappropriate years. Upstanding adults who’ve outgrown teenage-boy behavior are boring. Sorry, MCA, Ice-T, and Mike Tyson).
Driving around during my government-job shift earlier this week, I heard a podcast on my local pretentious public radio station featuring Ronald talking about Lenny Williams, the O’Jays, and Mobb Deep like it ain’t no spectacular thing, NO BIG DEAL, DUN (I managed to retain control of the vehicle, though just barely). Listening to Ron Artest talk about records is intense daydreamy material – that accent! that voice! – and erases the pain I felt when I missed his autograph sesh at Living Spaces a couple months back. Thank you for the make-up gift, universe!
– Ron can’t listen to rap before a game (gets him too emotional. ME TOO, Ron! Me too).
– He likes to listen to Alberta Hunter before a game. But if I may be so bold: based on his performance in the Mavs series, I would suggest that this ritual be re-tooled a little bit. Maybe bring some UGK in?, I don’t know. Also, keep practicing less, because that seemed to agree with you.
– The host (Jason Bentley. Don’t get me started.) is shocked at Ron’s taste. “Ron shares his surprising pre-game soundtrack – soulful songs about love – and more in his Guest DJ set.” Because, you see, men who handle their disputes in an effective manner, which may or may not be with angry faces and fists thrown in rage, cannot possibly like songs about romantic triumphs and tribulations. Mr. Bentley believes that just because Ronald’s mentality is what, kid, that he doesn’t have a muscle the size of his fist thumping away in his chest. Ugh. The stereotypes.
– Ronald and his mom listened to good music before church. Just like every other professional athlete during the last hundred years.
– Ron has an auntie, and the children of that auntie are, guess what, his cousins (he explains this in a charming and innocent fashion during the “Killa B shot in the head” portion of the interview).
– Mary J. got Ron through some tough times. This is developmentally appropriate; Ron was a teenager in the ’90s and in college in the late ’90s, and those were some prime Mary years.
– Ron’s a Dude Who I Wish Would Read Me the Phone Book out loud, he’s also a dude who can tell me stories any goddamn time he wants about Killa B’s self-inflicted gunshot wound. (This actually happens in the interview. This is a thing that he actually talks about. Because that’s just Ron for you). And Ron likes good old soulful music, dudes pouring their hearts out (Lenny Williams, the O’Jays). ME TOO, RON! Me too.
The Lenny Williams song is a Laboe classic, as well as an Original Kings of Comedy defining moment.
You take Steve’s reaction to the Lenny song, along with that of all those ladies in the first 10 rows, and you have successfully created a composite of me and my bodily responses in the Civic when “Cross My Heart” comes on. Throw in some Minaj,
and you got me in the Civic when anything Toomp– or Mannie- or Spector-produced comes on.)
And The Best Thing:
Well obviously it’s the Mobb Deep Mention, of course.
Yesterday in the paper there was a review of a new collection of essays by Edward Hoagland.
“(He) is a writer who has spent more time observing with gratitude than opining,” says reviewer Susan Salter Reynolds,
“‘Life is moments,’ he writes, ‘day by day, not a chronometer or a contractual commitment by God.’”OH SHIT, TIME TO DO AN E-40 POST was of course my response to this.Moments like the song above coming on the radio, perfectly-timed and making my car’s tinny speaker system seem like something ten times more expensive? Those kinds of moments, you mean? Basically I’d just like to take a moment say Thank you, LA Times book review, in conjunction with Power 106 programmers. It all came together perfectly. I read that Hoagland sentence, then got in the Civic and heard that E-40 and I drove off into the sunset. Which brings me to the week’s first award –
1. Best Use of Bass (week of 06/12 – 06/19): “My Shit Bang,” E-40.
For achievement in convincing me that my shit bang even in a 13-year-old Honda coupe, I had to start the list with the English Professor (I attend Baller U – class of 2014, cuddie). 40’s also my Favorite Story-telling Cool Uncle and has a permanent spot on the List of Dudes Who I’d Like to Read the Phone Book to Me Out Loud.
My shit bang My shit thrub I’m a motherfucking beast I’m a motherfucking hog Pull up with the slump Or should I say black truck soundin’ Like I got an alligator in the back Paint wetter than melted ice Rally and hockey stripes burning rubber at every light mean muggin’ like fuck your life. Best Use of Alligator. And, without a doubt, Best Use of “Thrub.”I’d also like to recognize 40 as having this week’s Outstanding Non-Perfect Vocal Moment (the way he gets out of breath at 00:51, when he says hog – PERFECT; thanks for keeping it in the song, producer ToneBone from Los Angeles, CA).
2. Best Nonrap Appreciation that Translates Perfectly as a Rap Appreciation:
“The Magritte work that I always return to is The Treachery of Images, because we have it at the LA County Museum. It’s a kind of touchstone of his. He’s affirming the slipperiness, or as he calls it the treachery, of images, of language – that a word and an object have no necessary connection other than that we collectively assigned that word and that object to go together. I really appreciate his word play.”
Is this me talking about 40, or Baldessari talking about Magritte in The Guardian? Aha, I have posed a difficult question, because it could be either. Except we didn’t collectively assign “gouda” to mean money or “elroy” for cop – 40 did, and we just followed along because he’s got that charisma. Signifiers and the signified can be a frustrating concept; it takes me back to my days as a co-ed. If my Lit 101 teacher had just used the example of an alligator to illustrate how the same thing that describes the knocking-ness of speakers can also describe a scaly thing that comes from a swamp, I would’ve had a much easier time with the whole concept of structuralism.
3.Best Hat; Most Blatant Display of Love for Eric Wright; Most Effective Pandering to Elderly Rap Fans; Best Use of Typeface; Best Use of Los Angeles Design Archetype When It Comes to Hats: Jeezy at the Hot 107.9 concert in Atlanta over the weekend. (That hat. LOOK AT THAT HAT, HOLY CHRIST). Outstanding Achievement by a Non-LA Resident in Making This Blogger Smile.
Normally I insist that a gentleman wear his hometown somewhere on his person. I do not care for fluid allegiances, dudes who forsake the home team because the division rival’s got better colors. REP YOUR SET, PLEASE. Have a little conviction. And yet I do not have a problem with a Georgian wearing the name of a city to which he does not belong. I’m complex like that, I guess. Or just in a really good mood.
Jeezy also gets Best Historical Tie-In, as this week is the 40th anniversary of upstanding moral human being Richard Nixon’s completely logical and well-planned “war on drugs.” If Nixon were here today he’d argue that coke raps fund terrorism. I’m pretty sure he’d hate Palin, though, so he and I would at least have that in common.
“Ha, look at that dude’s funny-lookin stoic smiley-face on his hat! I don’t know what it means but it’s cuuuuute,” I said to myself, before realizing I’ve gotten slightly off-course in my mp3 habits. Been listening to too many 20-year-old MCs and worshiping at the altar of Georgia rap. I need to get back to my cranky-old-90s-reminiscing Cali roots sometimes. Plus I just love a black-on-black fitted, thank you and good day.
4. Best Use of Weezy: Jay Wayne Jenkins having Dwayne Carter come on through to the live show to perform his verse, AKA Jeezy at the Hot 107.9 concert in Atlanta over the weekend – specifically, this moment in his set, which got him so many cool points. And have I mentioned that HAT?
The best BEST part of this whole thing is the fact that there is no Wayne introduction, no stopping the music for maximum drama, even though that would certainly be warranted since Wayne is the most hugest rock star in the galaxy (Internet) right now. Wayne just starts in. Unheard of! I screamed, out loud, sitting right here as I type this, when he came out on stage – literally, this eruption of pleasure from my throat the moment I saw Weezy, even though the video is calledJEEZY BRINGS OUT LIL WAYNE HOT 107.9 B-DAY BASH. Weezy and I, we have our ups and downs; he’s a man who sometimes falters (those pink shorts, working with Travis Barker, hanging out with Dirk, putting all those babies in women). But he knows how to redeem himself through sheer charisma. It translates to success and incredible likeability. That’s how when he was 16 he bought his first Mercedes-Benz, somethingsomething thousand something and their girlfriends. You gotta make the money first. Then when you get the money, you get the power. Then when you get the power, you get the women (the blogging women, to scream in response to you showing up and kicking your verse on Internet video).
I love this moment so much, it’s like I orchestrated the whole thing. I’m the puppeteer. I’m the Bill Graham of 2011 southern urban radio birthday shows. “Places, gentlemen,” I said to them, “Readyyyy, annnnnnnd AMAZE THE CROWD.” These radio station shows are so consistently dull, and the sound on the videos so consistently bad, that I don’t hardly ever watch them. Once every 8-10 years, though, you get some magic. Like me with this website. I don’t post nearly enough, but when I do, I pretty much come correct every time. (I’m the Terrence Malick of rap blogging.)
5. Best Set Claim: Jeezy in “I’m Ballin.” (song #2 above)
Summer’s mine, winter too I’m poppin’ bottles in the club, that’s what winners do.
40 balled outta control; Jeezy’s just ballin. Just doin a lil ballin, that’s all. You know. NBD. Gotta start small. 40’s got 10 rap years and 50 lbs on Jeezy; don’t wanna step on The Scrillfather’s toes. Plus he’d make fun of a Compton hat on someone from Atlanta.
Jeezy bypassed repping a block/neighborhood/city/state and went straight to an entire season. “Keep your Hollygrove, your Cedar Block; I’m claiming an entire 3-month section of the calendar year,” he says, “Now who’s fuckin with that.” (“PS: yeaaauuughhhh”)
6. Most Amusing/Stubborn Trend: What I like to call “brain raps.” But not just brain raps – braggy, one-upping brain raps. This’ll be the summer of rappers increasingly outdoing each other with descriptions of places a girl went down on them, if songs like “Racks on Racks” (YC: while talking on the phone), “Ballin” (Jeezy: in the backseat of the Phantom), and “Session” (Tyler: while watching The Berrics – plus the giver is someone’s parent, for which he earns extra credit) are any indication.
7. I got that Dilla, Premo, Swizzy flow. Most Sacrilegious and Delusional; Most Infuriating to Anyone with Taste and Good Sense: Wale in “I’m on One.” IN FACT, HIS FLOW IS NOT WELL-SUITED TO ANY OF THOSE PRODUCERS. Well, maybe Swizz.
Most Incorrect too. Replace the “I” in that sentence with “T3,” “Guru,” or “DMX,” then come back and see me.
I find Wale to be so intensely unlikeable as a human being that it’s hard for me to admit this next thing, BUT: I do like that N—s George Foreman grillin’/Shit I spit that rope-a-dope line. Everybody wanna hear a good Ali rap now and then; Wale knows. He’s got some good sports references. I can appreciate that. He also gets points for using “geechy” in a song circa 2011. However, this does not detract from the fact that he just seems like such a rude person. He’s the dude that says “AY. (pause) AY!” as a flirtation technique when you walk by and when you don’t respond he calls you stuck up or goes psssshhhhh (which means “She’s stuck up”). I’m speaking for all ladies with that one.
8. Best Closing Salutation: RZA in an interview by The Guardian.
It also gets the honor of Least Cynical Moment of the Week, and it slowed the world down for a sec and reminded me what’s really important. I have a tiny bit of a problem with the sentence that precedes his goodbye (RZA’s need to announce that he’s our collective daddy figure. It turns me off.) but I still find this quote amazingly comforting. RZA says Wu-Tang forever right before he walks away from you. What a freaking superhero. I imagine that having a conversation with him would result in me being so happy, my enthusiasm would make me lose control of my limbs and my ability to speak clearly. I’d want to go in for a hug but I’d lose my nerve. The result would be an awkward handshake/dap combo.
9. Best Use of Curren$y. Curren$y of the Week. Best Curren$y I Done Heard Since I Last Did a Curren$y Post: Curren$y, “You See It.”
Marvel at my stance at your girl What she think, she can’t even respond Cause her mind is now mine, fool I ain’t lying, let’s just cross the couch Sleeping with my shoes on just in case I haveto wake up and be out Once again it’s on Mama bring my bong to the game room With nothing but some panties on And them Bape socks that I gave you Never once on probation but your man’s on his papers Spendin’ them, stackin’ them, feelin’ them Wrappin’ em, lightin’ em, never passin’ em.
That bong/panties part! Curren$y thinks he’s bossed up, like I’m going to respond to an order to be a sex robot. STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO, CURREN$Y, but really I mean please continue telling me what to do please. The song as a whole is forgettable, lacking something I can really swoon over – like the fuzzy THC bass of “Montreux” and that drum pattern of “Success is My Cologne.” But this week’s Best Curren$y has that nice power dynamic in its lyrical content. Bring my bong to the game room in just your chonies. Rakim’s the soul controller; Curren$y’s the mind controller (i.e., the soft-female-body-parts controller. That’s how this soft female operates, anyway). Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go take my boyfriend his medicine, which he will need in order to get relaxed yet focused for his upcoming billiards game. He promised he’d read me some more of the phone book tonight (he’s on “J” already!).
10.Best Use of Horns Since Trick Daddy’s “Shut Up”: Big Sean & Kanye, “Marvin Gaye and Chardonnay.”
Kanye’s not a Dude Who I’d Like to Read Me the Phone Book Out Loud (he’d go to the “Dick” section for last names and try to be funny, true to his 11-year-old boy tendencies). This week he has the honor of earning Best Impression of Waka by an 11-Year-Old Trapped in a Prissy Adult Male Chicagoan’s Body. I should say Best Impression of Drumma Boy too, since that beat is so severely jacked I worry that Kanye has trouble sleeping at night. His conscience just terrorizes him. Anyway, the song is lazy and cliche-ridden, Kanye West is the least sexy person in music, and why the fuck would I listen to a song about listening to Marvin Gaye when I could just put I Want You on the hi-fi and lounge around in my panties and Bape socks. Duh.
Best Excuse for Me to Post My Marvin Gaye Denim Photo Series: Big Sean and Kanye West, “Marvin Gaye and Chardonnay.”
Let’s Get It On (AKA “the denim-shirt session”) was recorded here. Jesus knows I don’t go west of La Brea if I can help it, but I have made a special trip to honor Marvin. The ghosts are still around, I can feel ’em when I walk by.
Also if you are a Marlboro smoker you are that much closer to being like Marvin and maybe we should go on a date.
11. Remember when everyone used to say Nas’ shortcoming was picking post-Illmatic producers who couldn’t provide a good enough canvas on which to paint his verbal pictures? Yeah. I had a feeling you would. Me too.
The whole point of that sentence was to compare today with 10 years ago as I say “I’D LIKE THE INSTRO OF ‘NASTY’ FOR THIS WEEK’s SECOND-FINEST* LOGAN-WALKING-DOWN-THE-STREET ANTHEM PLEASE.” No lyrics; just Salaam Remi. I can do without the lyrics, and it’s a Nas song. Never thought I’d see the day. Today’s world is an odd place. Nas can still read the phone book to me, though, in that sandpapery Queens drawl.
12. *Finest Logan-Walking-Down-the-Street-Anthem (week of 06/12 – 06/19); Outstanding Achievement in Animation: Buddy Leezle, “Drug Dealer” (via GrandGood). This one’s such a delicious headphone banger, you’ll see, though it might take a couple listens.
Do I automatically like a rap video if it’s animated? Am I that easy? Other self-questions this week (i.e., things I stated, out loud, to myself in disbelief):
13. Juicy J, read me the phone book please! Also what does Anwar do exactly, other than be attractive, charismatic, and have perfect dreads? At least Waka puts out mixtapes and shows up on TMZ sometimes. Anyway, this week’s Best Use of THAT SOUND: “Make It Happen,” Juicy J & Casey Veggies.
That liftoff sound. 00:26 – 00:30.What is that sound called? It’s on every mixtape from the states of Georgia and Alabama. It’s gotta have a name, right? Email me, somebody. I’ll send you a dirty picture* as a big fat thank you.
Aya is the landlady at my home, apt. 680. She did not give this to me because she has a crush on me and admires how I’m thicker than a Violent Femmesbassline; rather, she did it to “welcome me to the building.” Also, I’m pretty sure she wants to take a shower with me. To welcome me to the building.
I take a photo of her gift, and almost caption it KEEPING IT 100 before I come to my senses. My god, that was a close one.
I sport a t-shirt tribute to my second-favorite human with a dollar sign in his name. I wait and hope and wait for a Curren$y tribute song to Jason Terry. Neither of these events seems as important to others as they are to me. Story of my life.
2 weeks ago: the new way for me to entertain myself becomes listening to Curren$y talk about different denominations of bills over an old soul record. Five dollars, one dollar, six dollars for a plate, a lady needed a dollar, but guess what, Curren$y didn’t have a dollar, he had a $10 bill. WHATEVS DUDE JUST KEEP TALKING IN YOUR SYRUPY ACCENT WHILE I CLOSE MAH EYES AND LISTENNNNN.
The weeks fly by. I’m still thinking about him and his denominations-of-money story and that song over which he told the story. I cherish my gift certificate, worth a large denomination. I daydream at work about what I’m going to buy with it. There are so many choices. I also learn that Curren$y’s an Alpha (hence the handsign). Nice hat, by the way. Hey, what does Ghosty call dudes who shop on Fairfax? SUPREME CLIENTELE. Unrelated: I also realize that only 1 letter separates dope friends from dope fiends. I wonder if I get an American flag bikini like I’ve been craving, is it a tribute to blind gross jingoism, or a nod to Jasper Johns. This is a typical daydream pattern for me while at work, thank you.
I find the song! You still with me?
Even better, I find the song in real life*! (*online, in round black acetate form, suitable for purchase)
“New”/”still sealed”! This throws me off, as people using quotations for emphasis always does. It makes everything sound fake, or like a joke. Air quotes.
Wiz has a “sick flow.”
I “don’t” spend too much time pondering the poststructuralist use of language in rap songs.
Nice to meet you, Logan. I’m a cop, and I’d like to “help you find the person who broke into your car.” (have sex with you)
I also find that other record with the break for that other song online. I don’t rap on beats; I spit pictures,Curren$y says. God I love him. It too is ready for purchase. And shipping. To apt. 680, where I live. Upstairs from the landlady who has a crush on me. Curren$y Currently the search is on for either, or both, Curren$y breaks. Gang, that settles it. I’ll see you at Amoeba this weekend (after a shower with the manager).
27 of my favorite things in one thing. This image is pure sex and the most pornographic thing I’ve seen ALL WEEK, cuddie.
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.
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.)
Brilliant corners. The video was directed by Casual!
The beautiful bodies of ladies are fetishized in rap music/all music/America/HeightFiveSeven/the street when I walk down it. The bodies of cars: also fetishized. Players (the rims); players (the people) – fetishized (every gangster movie, every UGK song). The concept of things being “deeper than rap” (a statement which holds no meaning, it’s not real, since that’s like saying something is “deeper than everything” or “deeper than life,” which is to say that rap is a thing that can be quantified which of course it cannot). Of course that’s a fetish. Nearly everything I love is fetishized but I’ve mastered the ability to separate that from my enjoyment of those things. When I hit a relaxed mood and I’m just coasting on good feeling, I don’t mind so much that women and cars are usually described/beloved/criticized in the same way by straight men. I mean, who cares, because the beautiful paint-glisten in the pic up there resembles sweat, like that of a human female.
The Politician, whose heat is in the trunk along with that quad knock, also happens to have the face of Huey Newton on his tricep. (Black revolutionaries: also fetishized) I am listening to this song over and over, because that’s how my particular form of OCD (the flood of brain chemicals! fetishized) works.
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.)
1. People, it was the chopping off of the “I” in “imagination” that did it.
This week in 1971, “Just My Imagination” was at #1. Eddie Kendricks was the main man, the glory-grabber, the point guard on this one, plus I heard Kendrick Lamar was named after him*, but Paul Williams was the assist leader with those gravelly vocals on the song’s bridge.
In ’71 it was Vietnam and Manson all over the place. I bet pretend womanly love was nice to think about, a dreamy distraction, if you were driving around back then and it came on the radio. Yesterday it came on at CVS and I got a few minutes to myself for pretend time, imagination time–no stupid fears about radiation levels or keeping up with coke slang. Just my ‘magination on the hook, Eddie Willis’ guitar, or the whole string section: not sure which one jabs my warm beating heart the most, but all together they made the best valentine ever to looking and wanting.
*I did not actually hear that. But I feel like it might be true.
2. Am I a bad person because I like that Weezy/Game song more than I should and that Lil B/Grae/Phonte song way less than I should?
God no! I’m a bad person because I just heard about the time Fear was on SNL (“It’s great to be in New Jersey”) and that’s no way to retain my nerd championship belt, because I think my sweetie pie Curren$y looks stupid in BBC gear (although I’m too nice to tell him, which I believe makes me a pretty good person), and because I crave rewards just for being born–kind gestures and material items. I want all these things for my birthday (03/29), starting with item a above. I am requesting an adapted version of the shirt, though–a girl’s cut, please. I need one that hugs a too-skinny-but-still-curvy ladybody.
b. Just like my beloved Ghosty doll, this is something that I would make fun of if you had it on your bookshelf but it’s something I’m totally allowed to have and be braggy about. (I’m adorable!)
(I couldn’t wait on you to get me the poster.)
fancy-lunch-in-Santa-Monica attire is similar to “church clothes” except I’m a heathen so that phrase means nothing to me. (The invitation actually said “ladies must wear stockings,” because it’s 1948-?)
c. A nice high-res version of that photo of James Baldwin and Nina Simone–individuals whose combined presence in a picture on my bookshelf shall, I hope and pray, bathe me in epicness each day. Get up out the bed, turn my somethingsomethinglalaswagswaggolfwanggolfwang/Take a look in the mirror and say whassup, then kiss my first two fingers and press them onto the Baldwin-Simone photo for luck as I run out the door. Framing of the photo is not necessary, because I’m not greedy and I’ll be happy with the photo alone, and because frames are expensive. Why are frames so expensive? (I’d like the answer to this as a birthday present). They’re made of, what, wood and glass?
Spice 1, Avey Tare, Jay Reatard and Hodgy on the remix.
e. Roberto Bolaño, The Return. Vibrating Porn Stars and Two Chileans Arguing about Knives is the name of your next mixed tape.
f. A new Curren$y collection of carburetor/naked flesh/sticky & citrus-smelling raps, now rather than later. NOW PLEASE.
g. Derek Lam’s ram-head-clasp bag. Even though astrological signs, like Jesus and message boards, are just another attempt by humans to make sense of the world and judge each other*, the fact remains that Aries is my sign/I know that I can rhyme. Additionally, sometimes I rhyme in riddles/Plus I make the honeys** wiggle.
*astrological signs are also useful when it comes to naming OutKast albums.
** just myself. I make myself wiggle–haven’t you seen my driving-in-the-Civic dancing? (yesterday it was Snoop’s “Gangsta Luv”). There’s no room for anything but wiggling in a Japanese compact.
h. THE JAGGERRRZZZZZ. All those z’s are because 2-3 times a week I feel like I’m dozing through life, drifting along in a haze of Power 106, oatmeal and tea for breakfast every morning, rent checks, cops asking me how my day is going in obvious attempts to get me to have sex with them. The people across the hall playing cumbia on Sunday mornings is pretty nice, but it’s not enough to save me from the daily sleepwalk. I need this round black piece of vinyl to feel alive again. And to feel closer to Curren$y.
i. Soft furry pelts and boots (not made from anything that once had a face, obviously; I’m not a monster), and a room that’s sunny all the time–and empty except for a bed. I’d prefer not to have to trick for any of it but who am I kidding. Sorry, Mom.
My ideal man gets me cruelty-free fur and lets me be Frank Lucas’ side piece in my spare time. Here’s Diane Kruger, livin the dream.
Bobby Womack – “Across 110th Street.” Just found out Bobby’s got a brother named Friendly and that’s real funny ’cause friendly is what I’d like to get with some sheets and fur in a room that’s sunny all the time (and empty except for a bed).
Who posted this on a guitardork message board? Was it you? And if so, why haven’t you called me? Christ I’d like you to call me, please–I am daydreaming about you. I’d also like you to warm those hands up, chief, ’cause you’re bout to give out lots of backrubs. Not to brag, but I’m down in all the best possible ways and my love is heavenly when my arms enfold youuuu, so I think you’ll be very happy. I like discussing weird factory mods, and how Eddie Willis is known for his signature style of muted riffs. And I’ll call you the don before during and after _______ (various things we take part in together).
I do not know what this is, or what it does or what it means, but I like it.
• I’m not one of those girls who takes her pants off for a dope car but oh hey, these jeans sure do seem terribly constricting all of a sudden. Superb human Jesse Valadez, founder of the Imperials car club and owner of the Gypsy Rose above (’64 Impala, Detroit heavybodied craftsman finery), died over the weekend. In most bloggers’ hands, stating that this event meant they had to listen to a lot of Malo, some Delfonics, the Persuaders, and throw in a few plays of “Slippin Into Darkness” would come across as crass and jokey; since I’m me, you recognize that putting records on, my own form of mourning, was the best possible way for me to show respect. This would have worked out nicely, a perfect private little funeral in apt. 15, were it not for the coverage by local news on this story, and the focus on Gypsy Rose–LA anchors have been saying it Im-pal-a (“pal,” like friend, buddy) instead of the obviously correct Im-pal-a (“Paul”). Also on the playlist: “Duke of Earl” ’cause of the romance it just spills out of the speakers even though it’s weirdly about British royalty, and because of the Muggs connection years later. And The Elgins to bring it home, ’cause I need something with a little heartbreak in it, and then a song with a whole different feeling the next morning to take away the gloom, remind myself to dust myself off since, after all, I can still stand tall.
• When the hell is this Random Axe business going to come. Sean and Guilty provide the slightly unkempt facial hair I need from every blue-collar rapper, and Milk is their pretty, svelte friend with all the cool electrical toys. Oh and “Zoo Drugs” and “Shirley C” sound like Kool Keith song titles.
• Love this. I just love it. The final frontier.
In the future, when I have a cubicle at Wax Poetics, I will ask to have this pulled from the archives so there’s no stupid bar code on it. Then on my lunch break, I’ll go to Aaron Brothers and have ’em frame it.
• 1 of the 3 best songs played on LA radio today was “Mr. Telephone Man,” produced by Ray Parker jr. (!) who just happens to have been born and raised in Detroit. (the second song was Them’s “Gloria,” a song about getting ass at midnight and longtime white-girl anthem for when we need to feel a little foxy, even if you’re 5’7″ instead of 5’4″).
•“Cutie Pie” by One Way (from Detroit) was the third best song played. It’s perfect that I heard it because of the lowrider connection and because I dorked out a little bit when I got home, looked up its history, and discovered it was co-produced by a woman! A lady! A person with hips who has an innate sense of timing and the proper application of bassline (not named Logan, I mean). Irene Perkins, I had no idea you existed and I’m sorry. Your tune is a longstanding certified banger. Nice job, mama.
• CELEBRATE BLACK HISTORY MONTH AND SAVE, flashed the Walgreens sign when I drove by this afternoon. SNICKERS BARS $0.49. This is the exact same feeling that I get from that Chrysler commercial with your boyfriend Eminem.
Whenever you see a black gospel chorus in an ad, run ’cause that’s how you know it’s emotional pandering. Just a good rule of life. Listen, nobody loves Detroit more than me–the Voice of Ruffin, Isaac Hayes’ Eldorado, the Dilla siren, Axel Foley’s jacket, the mighty superfine bass playing of James Jamerson. I do not appreciate being marketed to by that dude who made that album about working the Steps and holding hands, however. (They’re also using the instro of a song that’s 8 years old–not something from the current terrible album. Hm. If Chrysler wants to court me they should put into every commercial the fact that Marley worked in its factory in Delaware for a brief time. And even then I’d probably roll my eyes and say Welllll, it’s not like it was Dennis Brown or something; then we could talk.)
• I am a mystery to myself at times, I am an alluring sly fox of a woman, because I can’t understand why I felt the need to save this picture on my hard drive upon seeing it on the Sports Illustrated site a few months ago. I think I liked the energy in it, and Parrish is kind of cool-looking in the moment captured, but why would I save a photo of men who played for the two teams I hate? What do I care about a couple of basketball reps for Boston and Detroit, the squads that annoyed the Lakers the most during my development years? Hate on top of hate. At least one of the dudes I hate is having something bad done to him, though. This is like me posting a picture of Rawss calmly dropping Drake to the floor: though it would be nice if Ricky could get dealt with too, it’s still Drake getting knocked out! (WE DROP BOWS ON EM IN MIAMI, Rick would say as he gathers his belongings and walks out the door. The do’.)
• Ruffin and Robinson and Kendricks and 2 Williamses get it tight and right while wearing cardigans, backstage at the Apollo in 1965. (Motown in Photos: Then and Now) Today’s version would be who, exactly. WHO. WHICH SINGERS. I welcome any ideas, as they will pull me out of my “Old things are better than new things” sadness fog.
Wangechi Mutu, Before Punk Came Funk, 2010, Mixed media, ink, paint, collage on mylar. (just seemed appropriate for a post about Detroit)
• Correct and true, but I don’t know, it’s all semantics I guess. Before the sound of guts screaming into a microphone came those other sounds of guts screaming into a microphone.
Like what the fuck is this hey look at this what kinda luck is this. Shout to Harper’s mag for making my 2 hours at the laundromat all heavy with emotion this afternoon. Between the piece above (p. 15) and the collaborative poem written by early-stage dementia patients (“Sun,” p. 25 – “I guess I have to wake up earlier/Tastes like orangeade/The sun at noon is bright as fire…The sun tastes like death”), it was exceptionally pathos-filled. Right before I left apt. 15 I watched that Dilla thing and saw Badu and her beautiful wide eyes say the words, “His house was like a lab, in the basement…(and) he was definitely the scientist.” And Questo would like to remind you all that Dilla always said Keep it sloppy.
Bobby Hebb – “Sunny.” Ha, you thought I was gonna post French Montana & Curren$y’s “In The Sun.”