Category Archives: Drums are sex

You will get a sentimental feeling when you hear…“No Diggity” into “Flava In Ya Ear”

  Last Christmas, I gave you my heart/But the very next day you gave it away, you JERK! This year, I’m giving you some peach Optimos and a picture of me in my new MG’s McLemore Avenue shirt. Don’t fuck up again, please.

Future husband, please understand that the small of my back is a playground of good feelings for me. (There must be a billion nerve endings there, and I love them all.) I’d like you to be pro-choice, pro-union, and pro-Pro Tools and pro-Pro Keds. I’m surprisingly forgiving when it comes to the contents of other people’s record collections, but yours is no doubt fresh anyway, so the matter doesn’t need to be addressed further. I’d like you to be able to correctly use “screamo” and “sissy bounce” in a sentence, future husband, and I’d like you to understand that 72% of our time spent together will consist of riding in the car, listening to music (we live in LA), and responding with our hands and mouths to all bangers as we hear them. (Hands up high in ecstasy; our mouths singing along, and making out). Please kiss me and tell me It’ll be OK when I talk about how I was born in the wrong era and should’ve been a teenage girl when David Ruffin was seducing teenage girls on the radio in 1966. Although I love my iPod, future husband, I’m in love with the radio–Power 106, where hiphop lives, and Hot 92.3, old school and today’s R&B, 93.5 KDAY, back in the day, of course the Whole Foods liberals on KCRW, and the nonstop oldies of K-EARTH 101, where you can often hear an old Wilson Pickett song called “Mustang Sally,” which, like 30% of Fabolous’ songs, is about a lowdown, unappreciative woman who drives all over town in a pretty car that her man bought for her. Its lesser-known remix is a song called “Prius Logan,” about a music dork with hips and skinny legs who drives all over town, singing along with her car radio.

And now, in no particular order, The Best Songs I Heard on the Radio During My Drive Back to LA from Mom’s House After Christmas.

1. “Two of Us,” The Beatles. 

Because: 1) Spector produced it.
Industry rule # 4,000-somethingorother is that the men with the most unfortunate combination of brain chemicals are always the ones who make the sweetest melodies. Hearing this one also satisfied my Spector hunger in the absence of Darlene Love’s “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).” Fuck off, radio gods, for not playing Darlene Love. 

2) It’s the perfect BPM, the speed of a horse galloping. It’s the musical approximation of riding next to your best friend of a hundred years with whom you are fighting. You’re both sad and bitter, but the tightness in your chest says that the relationship is worth saving. You shared a good chunk of each other’s lives and you know you should talk about where things went wrong but what’s the point, and dammit, there it is, you just forgave all her trespasses in the span of about 3½ minutes thanks to Spector and his 4 little elves playing instruments.

3) “You and me chasing paper, getting nowhere” sounds like a sweet line from a capable MC who is part of a duo, referencing the early days before they made any money from rapping. Maybe Bun & Pimp C? More likely: Mos & Talib since they seem more willing than UGK are to acknowledge there was actually a time that they weren’t rich.

4) the moments from 03:00 – 03:08. The bass outro, too. Paul is really just the worst with his schmaltzy lyrics and big stupid ego, but he’s forgiven here. It turns out a Beatles block was happening on the station when this song ended, and the INSUFFERABLE “Long and Winding Road” came on instead of “Across the Universe,” like baby Jesus, the birthday boy, would have wanted. I glared at my car radio like it had eyes and/or a human brain capable of detecting hatred, then turned it to KCRW, where THIS pleased me because sometimes the radio gods aren’t so bad after all:

2. “Christmas Day,” Desmond Dekker & the Aces. 

Oh goodness, these Jamaican singers and their voices filled with sweetness and light, yet punch-you-in-the-mouth masculinity at the same time (Barrington, Tenor Saw, Lord Creator)! My feelings about the island are always in conflict, as it is a land teeming with anti-gay sentiment and deeply-entrenched misogyny. Rastas also have that whole anti-oral sex thing, which makes them a people that cannot be liked or trusted. All this goes out the window for the moments that Desmond’s voice is filling my car, though. It’s Christmas! And he’s got his barrow in the marketplace! God bless us, every one!

3. “The Third Eye,” Roy Ayers.

Secrets of numbers, secrets of sound/Secrets of numbers, secrets of sound/Secrets of wisdom will be found/Baby, baby, baby, look to the sky/Seeking to find The Third Eye. Don’t tell Roy, but I’m pretty sure Del found the Third Eye sometime in the late ’80s. He turned it into one of the freshest icons in music and never looked back. Ah well. Like Del, Roy’s yet another space cadet dreamboat who lives in the warm depths of my heart. And like Mos Def, Roy enjoys writing songs about the sky and about Brooklyn (“Mylifemylifemylifemylife in the sun-shiiiiine”; “We live in Brooklyn, baby” – Roy; “Brooklyn BK BK blunts, stars nighttime, beautiful lady, champion lover not ease up, ism/schism, NASDAQ, skyline, stars, stars” – Mos). A man named Doug Rhodes plays drums on the album from whence this song comes, which is an adorable musical joke made just for me by the universe – like someone named Bob Zildjian playing keys! I’d also like to point out that Roy’s from LA just like J-Swift, and I bet you only 2 or 3 degrees separate us, friends-wise, just like me and J-Swift. I’d like to meet J-Swift. I really would. Before a bad fate befell him (chemicals), he produced this group the Pharcyde, an excitable bunch of rapping goofballs – including their song “Passin’ Me By,” which samples Roy Ayers’ “The Third Eye.” It’s true. (I read it on a blog.)

4. “Dream On, Dream On,” Ice Water Slim.

When I made it safely back to apt. 680 I could only find the version linked above, which, even while coursing into my ear canal through my precious, finely-crafted Sennheisers, sounds like it’s playing on an AM radio a hundred yards away while I’m standing in a UPS warehouse. Yet the entire MMG squad makes their lousy material on million-dollar equipment – this is the universe’s solemn reminder that sound quality will always trump sound quality.

A 1971 b-side produced by Johnny Otis, who was bosslike and from Vallejo just like E-40, this ain’t nothin more than a melodic wail by a dude who dreams about a pretty lady. But it is a fact that, currently in the United States, the #1 R&B song is “Lotus Flower Bomb,” about grenade-shaped perfume bottles and lady-areas being like flowers. This fact offends me not only as a person who buys perfume, but as a human female and a resident of planet Earth. Ladies should not smell like explosions or wartime, and we have enough to worry about without Wale laying out rules about our nails and handbags and how tight our, um, flowers should be. I wanna be reminded of tightness, I’ll watch Parliament live in ’76 like I did on Christmas Day with my family all on the couch, marveling at the interplay of brass and woodwind and cocaine. 

5. “You And I,” Lady Gaga. 

We gotta a whole lotta money, but we still pay rent/’Cause you can’t buy a house in heaven. The single greatest country banger that Prince Rogers Nelson never wrote (his version would be called “U & I,” of course), hearing this one satisfied my hunger for a Prince banger in the absence of “Another Lonely Christmas” (Of all the ones I dream about/U are the one that makes my love shout, see/U are the only one I care for). Because the Internet is for sharing embarrassing moments: I actually teared up in H&M last week when this came on. I was tired and overstimulated from all the other humans in the store breathing up my air, but also because of this song’s Prince-ian chords and overall lyrical content. It’s been two years since I let you go/I couldn’t listen to a joke or rock ‘n’ roll/Muscle cars drove a truck right through my heart/On my birthday you sang me “Heart of Gold”/With a guitar hummin’ and no clothes/This time I’m not leaving without you. (PRINCE. It’s so very, wonderfully Prince. I see you, Gaga. Also I’d like Prince to do a cover of “Heart of Gold,” turning a bittersweet song about the passage of time into a 16-minute-long burning plea by his guitar to get the ladies in the house to cry and take their dresses off). Master manipulator Gaga plays my girly emotional insides like a piano, and Queen was a really fucking great band, plus I got a really cute bikini at H&M. So shoutout to the combined efforts of producer Mutt Lange, the H&M speaker system engineers, and the people hired by the H&M corporate office to select the songs for the playlists. Non-shoutout to me, however, for a pop song making me get weepy, rather than the fact that I was buying from a company that sells cheap cotton items made by underpaid workers in Bangladesh (not the producer Bangladesh, which would be so dope). Tangential shoutout to Elliot Mazer, who produced both Harvest and Give Me Convenience or Give Me Death, displaying some real Rick-Rubin-esque range.

Gaga was on American Idol once and coached one of the kids to keep his mouth on the mic. “It’s your girlfriend,” she told him, adding that it’s also his money and telling him to “Make love to it,” which is the most sex-infused piece of technical advice I’ve ever heard. I love it. I love her. I am human and I have ears so of course I love this song. Gaga is a controversial choice, I get it, but there’s no arguing with me on this. It’s just like with Cameron Giles, Duke basketball, and Miracle Whip: you can’t change my opinion about any of those things, either (I hate them). Therefore, I say we stick to less controversial topics, like the artistic merits of Lana Del Rey and the best way to restructure the BCS.

6. “Change the Game,” Jay-Z/Bleek/Beans, into “Mass Appeal,” Gangstarr. 

Yeah yeah, Jay. You. Will. Not. Lose. We hear you, Jay. Easy, tiger. Now please repeat after me – there’s only one rule: RICK ROCK 4 EVS, 4 EVER & EVER. “Change” is one of the few Rick Rock productions with which I am not fully in love. Like “Can I Get A,” it is the very sound of Clinton Administration pop radio, shiny and hand-clap-py, so it’s just dated and that’s not the song’s fault, but it NEEDS MORE SNARE AND/OR BASS, says my soul, which does not understand the limits of space and time and the notion of something being “dated.” My soul does not care. More bass, please. It’s impossible to separate the song from its horrendous video, which features rappers not named DMX trying to convince me they ride motorbikes all around the city for fun (“NOPE” – my eyes, in response, just like back in September). But this one’ll always warm my heart. The boys all look happy and not beaten down by the industry, and Sigel Sigel in the house is fun and sing-song-y. It’s sweet that those 3 dudes could all be in the same room together at one point in history, which is really all a lady can ask for given the amount of crybaby-ness among rap professionals. I also like that it gives me an excuse to post the video of that time Robert Goulet spent the afternoon with Shawn and his coterie of ne’er-do-wells. The mix into “Mass Appeal” was nice, too, for this lady in 2011 driving her vehicle to her apartment in Los Angeles, years after these songs were made by dudes from New York and Massachusetts. “This ain’t just a car,” K.R.I.T. says, “This my time machine.”

7. “Run Rudolph Run,” Chuck Berry. 

“It’s dangerous, because it’s slick and catchy” – US counterterrorism officials, regarding a popular song on YouTube (2011).

“It’s dangerous, because it’s slick and catchy and done by black men and it might make our daughters want to have sex” – white US grown-ups, mostly regarding rock & roll music, but really, all forms of good music (1954-present, & forever & ever).

Promo is promo, meaning promotion, people talking, records sold, i.e., MONEY, and even in the ‘50s labels knew what they were doing when it came to making their stars sound badder than they actually were. Teenagers and their allowance money were a powerful bloc. They were also sullen and disrespectful, and thought they were real badass, and therefore bought the 45s of men whom they believed to be tough. This was mostly because they fell for promo tactics. But Chuck Berry! I’m pretty sure Chuck was/is a truly depraved gentleman, a genuine dirty bird, the real deal, who served actual jail time due to his taste for sweet young things and, years later, with the barometer for what he found stimulating raised higher throughout his life, his taste for odd and really unsexy things. It might’ve been promo, but that’s a hell of a commitment to promo, right? Even though I strongly want “Run Rudolph Run” to be a critique of what were socially acceptable gifts for American children in the late ’50s (the boy wants a guitar; the girl wants a doll), I am able to suspend this desire if I so choose. Just let it ride, Logan. This one’s just happy and Christmassy, it’ll make you stop wondering What in the hell must’ve happened to Chuck when he was a kid to make him so fetish-y? and instead it’ll make you think the much more pleasant How fucking hyped are you if you’re Chuck Berry and Mos Def does his hair like that and plays you in a movie!* Plus you got the essential Marty McFly element, and all those reindeer names sound like they could be A$AP crew members – A$AP Comet, A$AP Donner, and most especially, A$AP Blitzen.

*Not quite as hyped as David Ruffin would be if he knew beautiful human specimen Leon played him in a movie, but still. Pretty hyped.

8. The Outfield, “Your Love.”  

OHHOLYFUCK, screamed my whole body when this came on, my inner Drunk White Girl showing all of a sudden. My hand could not physically move fast enough to the volume knob, and even though I didn’t get to proclaim Josie’s on a vacation far away (I caught the song halfway through the first verse), I still got to participate in some great sing-along parts (Stay the night but keep it un-der-cover) and savored the delicious wrongness of a song about a dude wanting to sleep with, and then sleeping with, someone other than his live-in lady. I have a fair amount of self-respect but even I would probably fall for I ain’t got many friends left to talk to; may I please cry upon your shoulder? (aww!). The proper feminine response to this is a wide-eyed Would it help if I took my dress off?, which I have ON LOCK because I’m softhearted and have a compulsive need to soothe others. In closing: sorry if you were in the lane next to me on the freeway last night and I almost killed you with my swerving 4-wheeled piece of Japanese machinery.

The Internet and my brother tell me that the best outfielder was probably Rickey Henderson, whom I’ve heard of despite my lack of interest in the stupid sport of baseball, because my dad always liked the A’s and because I always liked dudes who can self-promote in a verbally stylish fashion instead of a Kanyesian (“I’m 34 but inside I’m still a 13-year-old boy who is sad and mad that none of the pretty girls in class are looking at me”) fashion.

9. “No Diggity,” Blackstreet (I refuse to type BLACKstreet, because I am a grown-up), into “Flava In Ya Ear (remix),” Biggie Smalls & a bunch of people not named Biggie Smalls.

Perfect mix, whatsyourname who matched these two up on KDAY. They basically have the same BPM and I guess I never noticed it before. Hearing Craig Mack reminded me that I only drink the finest breast milks, and hearing Teddy Riley inspired me to proclaim “Finna bring back no diggity in twenty-twelve, along with vainglorious and honey dip” out loud to myself in my car. Let’s just skip over that unfortunate video with the puppets & Dre in a fucking Emmitt Smith jersey, and ignore Teddy’s sad attempt at hitting that note in “by no means avvv-raaaaage,” sounding so wobbly, like he’s crossing a stream and stepped on a rock that looked secure but, oh no, oopsie!, it’s loose! He might fall down! Shaky-voice! Let’s just focus on the greatness of this song, the story of a honey dip who drives a nice car and has dudes open all over town, probably because she is witty and knows a lot of musical trivia and has a blog in which she writes about Blackstreet and Bill Withers in equal measure. Let’s also focus on finding out why exactly Teddy moved his studio to Virginia in the early ‘90s. There must be a story there, right? TEDDY, WHAT HAPPENED? And did you know this hideous Clams beat completely boosts your ’87 sound? And where is Timbaland? Just heard “Are You That Somebody” and it holds up so well.

Like me, the young lady in the song has all kinds of hustles and isn’t satisfied with a man unless he makes tons of money. So if you are poor, you and I will never have sex or even go on a date. However, because I’m nice, I’m providing you with the criteria for getting hired by UPS. (Don’t be mad!) Like being my lover, a job at UPS is no walk in the park (except, of course, when you and I go for actual walks in the actual park). “It may be fun and exciting, UPS warns, “but it’s also physical and fast-paced” (just like being my lover!). “Package Delivery Drivers must have excellent customer contact and driving skills, including the ability to operate a vehicle equipped with a manual transmission. Qualified applicants must have a valid driver’s license issued in the state that they live. This is a position that involves continual lifting, lowering, and maneuvering of large items,”  HEY-O, that sounds familiar, doesn’t it? No? Last night, in the bedroom? Remember? PS, a physical exam is also required (for both jobs).

10. “Rhythm Changes,” The Counts. 

Unpleasant facts of life with which I must make peace include:

that there are actual human females who brag about giving their precious inner-thigh parts to charisma-free yet famous human males Fabolous and Juelz;

that Wiz Khalifa makes his living as a professional musician (side note: EAT A CHEESEBURGER, CAMERON);

that “Maneater” preceded “Part Time Lover” by 3 years, so it would appear Stevie boosted the bassline from Hall & Oates, not the other way around, WTF;

and finally: I have big fat trouble coming to terms with the fact that I live in the entertainment capital of the world, yet “Rhythm Changes” is not on a constant loop on at least 2 of the 4 R&B stations in this city. I only heard it on Christmas night because programmers were given a little more leeway than usual. I believe it was Minaj who said something like, “This song just remind me of/Everything radio deprive me of.”

11. Emilio Santiago, “Bananeira.”

Bananeira não sei/Bananeira será/Bananeira sei não/Isso é lá com você/Será no fundo do quintal/Quintal do seu olhar/Olhar do coração (“Banana tree, I don’t know/Banana tree, maybe/Banana tree, I don’t know/That’s up to you/Maybe deep in the backyard/Backyard of your stare/The stare from the heart”). I mean, right? Exactly, Emilio! You nailed it!

Hypnotic and hip-friendly and more about the backing track than the lyrics, just like everything Jay Elect releases into the world, this is probably the best song about bananas since Dwayne Carter rapped over that one about being the best and fucking the world. This one also makes me forget about the banana trade in Brazil, an industry that’s a symbol of the income disparity that’s existed for hundreds of years. Bananas go bad really quickly, they can be racist, and their namesake spiders will kill you if you’re not careful. But at least Afro-Brazilian men can sing silly songs about bananas while still retaining their masculinity (it helps if you, like Emilio Santiago, have a deep, Scott-Heron-esque tone to your voice). Huddled with my family on the couch on Christmas Eve, “Cosmic Slop” on the TV, I was reminded of the sad reality of Black American manhood needing to disguise itself in fluffy hats and diapers in order to be less threatening. Um…merry Christmas?


It’s you and me against the world, YouTube.

YouTube can’t give me good back rubs or tell me I look pretty, but his recommendations make my heart beat faster and that’s all I need (other than, you know, a good back rub. And an adoring glance in my direction 2-4 times a week).

Above, look at what YouTube says I like. YouTube knows me. I like Laboe oldies, Jimmy Smith, Bay rap, and various riddims. This seems obvious because you guys pay attention when I start running my yap about snares and wobbly basslines, but you’d be surprised at the lack of attention-paying out there. Sometimes people email me links to Portland drone-rock band websites and I’m like What the hell and Why did you do that; everyone knows I only listen to old stuff (mostly Stax and Rawkus), Full Clip, ’93-’96 rap from the state of New York, a little Trick Daddy, and current rap from the states of Georgia, Louisiana, and California.

I could do without the Keith Emerson video where he shows off his backwards tricks, even though I can appreciate his use of Moog. Rick Wakeman is still the white-man-on-keys god, though. And that Santana one is kind of a lazy recommendation. Everything else in this group is pretty on point, however–Cellski, Heatwave, Jimmy Smith, that Simpleton song. Dancehall is good for your self-esteem if you are a hip-blessed woman; I mean they really do love those coke-bottle*, sweating-in-the-bashment body shapes. Dancehall is not good for your self-esteem if you’re a gay man, however. This is a conflict for me. I wish both of these groups could be cherished and respected on the island. But then, Jamaicans also frown upon oral sex, so overall it kind of feels like they are a people that cannot be liked or trusted.



In a rare misstep, YouTube recommends an awful Cleveland gimmick rapper (no, not Krayzie Bone. Or Wish Bone. Or any Bone, actually). Apart from feeling hurt that YouTube doesn’t realize I hate terrible rappers, I am confused–I’m not sure how you can make the leap from Cellski to Cudi. How ridiculous and dumb, this connection. Should’ve recommended Ray Cash, YouTube! He’s my true Cleveland love based on that song (RICK ROCK) where he talks about what he’s listening to and rapping along with while driving in his big-bodied 2-door.

Horace Silver, “Message from Kenya.” Nice save, YouTube. A successful redemption, and a logical next step when someone watches a Sonny Rollins video. I like that Whitefield Brothers push, too–because I watched that Blackrock video with the “Deadly Medley” break. SWOON, 00:28 – 01:28. Oh my goddddd, I said out loud to nobody else in apt. 15 when I first heard this. Oh my dear sweet Jesus. Then I said fuck about 10 times.

Whitefield Brothers. I am so fond of this recommendation that YouTube and I are now going from 2nd to 3rd base about a week sooner than I had predicted.

Sometimes I can’t remember doing the thing YouTube said I did, just like in any romantic relationship.

“You said you liked Depp’s performance in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” Really? I did? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I didn’t. What I said was, “Depp was never hotter than in Donnie Brasco, holyfuckinghell, would you look at that, how did my panties just come off like that with no warning.” Then I turned to look at you in hopes that you would start dressing and swagging like that too.

“You watched P.A.” I did???? I mean, I appreciate the Outkast and Goodie Mob and 8Ball recommendations, but prove that I watched such a thing. Show me when and where, because honestly I think you’re making it up. I like regional rap but I’m not cool enough to have sought out such a semi-obscure group from the greater Atlanta area.

I can remember watching that Whatnauts video, which I do almost weekly because of the way Doomsy used it and the way RZA bent and shaped it into some rap finery a few years back. Ha, just kidding! There was little bending/shaping. He was super lazy with it and basically just put on the record and let it play while he and Deck said what they had to say. No way to eat, so I dropped a half a G on a rented SP/1200 Sampler, and a Yamaha 4-Track/The bass from the lab used to blow the fuckin door back. I love raps about raps (meta-hop), raps about white girls in any form (narcotics, actual white human girls), and raps about struggles during the come-up and descriptions of the first equipment somebody’s rap music was made on. By the way, RZA is in Due Date. Prepare yourself; otherwise you too will emit an excited loud cry in the theater and spill your popcorn and everyone will turn and look. We’ll get into why I actually spent money to see Due Date in another post. His scene is at the beginning and he is charming and hilarious even though I wish he would always be in ’70s garb like in American Gangster or like Depp in Brasco.


YES, I watched “I Luv It,” OKAY? I was having a moment. A 2006 moment. Then I felt corny so I cleansed my soul with some Wayne Shorter and then Jackie Moore’s “Precious Precious,” which is what I hear in my head every time I see Depp in Brasco.

You been with every girl in this town/You been dealin in dirt (just wallowin in dirt, yes you have)/But I look at love as a 2-way street/You get the good with the bad, you take the bitter with the sweet. Kanye’s loud boring ass, DJ Drama’s stupid cocked fitted like he’s a 15-year-old, Drake’s haircut (his whole hairline, actually. Anything Drake’s-head-related is bad), and grown people who use the word “naughty”: Jackie Moore makes all the things I hate disappear from my brain with her lovely vocals.

Fucking Galt MacDermot has arrived, YES. Bout time. And then YouTube says Here’s more Whatnauts for you, Logan. I know you’ve been looking for this one on vinyl for years because of, you know, this. Enjoy, my precious darling smart beautiful girl. And more breaks (Buddy Baker’s “Sign Song” = “Off the Books”). Applause the Lighthouse, yep. And BOSCOE, who I’d never heard of before but who are my new paramours.

(He doesn’t really keep me down; don’t worry. But he can make my dress come off if someone presses the little forward-direction arrow button down there.) (!)


The 3 things on the Internet that have invaded my heart today.

Cherry + Rollins, Milan, 1963. [Roberto Polillo]

Sonny Rollins is the saxophone colossus,

that Duck Sauce song and its corresponding video* will never stop ruling,

Lil Jon is too old to still be making songs like that, and

anything produced by the good people at Organized Noize is fucking FUN, like music and life are sposed to be. I had forgotten about this; it’s from ’99. “Gold teeth and heavy Chevys, and talking slow/Afros & loud-ass Italian clothes” is the winner here, but that little shuffle in the drum pattern gets (a very impressive and nothing to be ashamed of) 2nd place.

#1 – Memphis bleak; there’s a good piece at the Village Voice about the trials and tribs of Three 6 Mafia and 8Ball & MJG, penned by goofy looking white guy Ben Westhoff. (They always make the best writers, though, so it’s OK, Ben.)

#2 – E-40, Clyde Carson, Husalah, “Lightweight Jammin.” It’s no “The Server”; let’s just get that out of the way right now. But oddly, in defiance of the Lil Jon rule, E-40 will never be too old to make songs like this. And the way he talks about the beat while the beat plays is like a lightweight, Solano County version of James Brown talking to Fred and Maceo as “Doing It To Death” takes shape–describing the drums coming in just before they come in, talking about the effects that the groove has on his private parts, and stating with frankness the fact that he needs to be in the key of D in order to really get down there, in touch with his private parts. I tell you. People, it’s bad.

#3Nappy Roots, “Ride.” I thought this was gonna be corny and feel-good, and then I realized I’m pretty corny and I like feeling good. And when I let it play for longer than 45 seconds, I figured out that the song isn’t corny. Ignore the corny white guy strumming while leaning against the car, though; focus instead on the cute doggy and Skinny’s delivery, and of course the chorus, which makes me feel good. (XXL, thanks.)

(Why yes, I heard and saw that new
Fashawn too; it leaves me underwhelmed and longing for the Mighty Mos rhyming/coal-mining original, despite Blu’s presence. Can’t win ’em all, Los Angeles. Unless, you know, it’s the NBA we’re talking about.)
* “I-can-doitanywaythatyouwantiiiiiit” is usually my line, but it’s OK for someone else just this once.


Dude I totally got a white Members Only jacket today, no lie.

I hear that Ironic ’80s Jackets are doin it real big right about now, plus there’s a new Jay-Z album out, a Democrat in office, and Brett Favre is putting all his heart and sweat into being an excellent QB. Ringin in ’97 in style, kid!

Because I like Bass as well as Drum, I’ve decided to incorporate a little of both into this here post. Nine-seven, nine-seven. Swoon.

roni size – “brown paper bag”


By the time we got to Woodstock, we were half a million strong.

This one time Russell produced a movie about hip-hop shows. It was called, uh, The Show, and it had footage of your favorite rappers and my favorite rappers in concert (oh but then they sneaked in some Warren G footage for some reason, be careful of this when you watch it). People screamed and carried on at the shows; it looked like fun. There were scenes of Russ visiting The Ruler at Rikers in ’85. That looked like fun, too. Not to make light of it. Sorry, Rick.

If they made this film today it would have to star Drake and Slaughterhouse and a bunch of sparkly little guys from Georgia. That’s who the people scream and carry on for now. So, in order to save my life from this excessive amount of pain and sorrow, and remind me that in life there’s sunshine and fluffy bunnies and excellent hip hop music, I need to be in NYC on 9/25, thanks.
I also need it to be ’97, right when or right before or right after The Equinox is released. Thanks.

We are stardust/We are golden.

Plus I need to be at this show in Berkeley since basslines are sex and I’ll follow basslines anywhere. I’ll need to bring various kinds of pills and a little powder, 3 changes of clothes and underthings, some towels, handcuffs, a turban, probably my passport. And a camera to record it all. It’s going to be a long evening filled with ecstasy, twists/turns, and moments of clarity; I’m like one of those muddy kids in ’69 on Yasgur’s farm except I’m not mad at my parents. I’m pretty sure I’m getting pregnant by 2 AM. Plus I think I might lose my mind slightly and always be a little off for the rest of my days. It’s been nice knowing you guys.

’72. This was before I was walking the earth but really, how hard could it be to get me there? I mean, it’s not like I’m reaching for the stars here, people.

War – “Slippin‘ Into Darkness,” AKA Poor Righteous Teachers try to seduce me into becoming a Five Percenter by looping a classic from my Caucasoid childhood.



2 Greats: Noncommittal sexytimes

Sometimes, I have found, people just want ass.

(“People” good girls such as myself, of course. Hi Mom!
People = Elliot Spitzer and Vince Neil)

Your problem is that you desire naked relations with people who you don’t care to spend time with otherwise, and my solution is this: make your proposal sound like either of these 2 songs.

If/when you pull a skinny girl with a master’s degree, hips, and a super vocabulary as a testament to how successful this technique is, you’ll have me to thank.


I ain’t got many friends left to talk to/No one’s around when I’m in trouble, sings Dude in Band Whose Girlfriend (Josie) is Out of Town. Aw, he needs a friend! To talk to! OH, and I almost forgot, to see naked. And to not hang out with after that, ever. Also, I think “your love” might not be code for “your couch” or “your phone” like we always thought.

Anyway, give in to the delicious, dirty, guilty pleasure ear candy of the song (the drums coming in just after minute 1, yessss, please and thank you and may I have some more) and it’ll teach you how to get a commitment-challenged special friendship. Initial steps include: Be able to come up with a riff at the beginning like that, a melody like that, and be able to harmonize with your boys like that. Reverse the earth’s rotation so that it’s 1986 and your outfit and hair and “come home with me” game are the coolest. Voila: ass.


Funkadelic – “Hit It and Quit It”


Be Bernie Worrell. If you’re going to heed one thing I have to say, if you’re going to follow just one piece of my advice, make it that one. Also, play keys. Moog, specifically. Be in a band with George Clinton, Bootsy Collins, Bigfoot Brailey, Eddie Hazel. Have your synth loop be the backbone of “Mothership Connection” and “Flash Light” and basically therefore be directly responsible for the creation of Digital Underground and the musical tree known as Dr. Dre and all its associated branches. Do music things with Talking Heads, Mos Def, Les Claypool, and Prince Paul.

Some people say that this song’s title is about nothing flesh-related; it’s just George Clinton being cute. It’s really about hitting drums and it’s really about playing music, or perhaps moving one’s body to music. UH, except that hitting drums = sex, playing music = sex, and moving one’s body to music = sex. Every song is about sex. I mean, it is 1971 after all, let’s not forget.


“My strength is tenfold, girl”

Jack White’s birthday! 07/09/75.

Jack White doesn’t really do it for me. (Email me if you need an explanation as to what “it” is; I’ll put it in plain terms, and maybe draw a diagram).

He’s kind of fragile-looking and I don’t care for that. Still, although it would make sense if I hated a Caucasoid midwesterner co-opting elderly black man music (yawn) and making it less scary for the kids with the help of a major label conglomerate, he somehow gets away with it and makes me want to remove myself from my dress. It must be because he gets major weirdo points from me. Good LORD I love a weirdo.

If I weren’t such a good girl I might think the singer is describing his desire to see me naked!
I like having a ball and I most definitely like biscuits, so let’s DO THISSSS.
Sexual innuendo game proper.

Let’s have a ball, girl
And take our sweet little time about it
Tell everyone in the place just to get out
We’ll get clean together
And I’ll find me a soapbox where I can shout it

This was from back in May and the guitar solo is still in my head…

PS, it would be slightly corny, but don’t we think that Jack would make a far better Red Stripe pusher than that awful Sean Combs? The label on the bottle fits in so nicely with that White Stripes color scheme. Just sayin.

Sunday morning with Fela & Lemi Ghariokwu.

Nigerians have the best names in the whole world, no? Chinua Achebe, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Babatunde Olatunji, Nnamdi Asomugha, Christian Okoye, and
your ex-girlfriend Oluchi, She of the Amazing Rack.

Nigerian artist Lemi Ghariokwu has designed 2,000 album sleeves thus far, 26 of which were for Fela albums.
PS, this was just some of his discography, cuz Fela had
more than 26 albums; I see you, Weezy.

Shook Mag: How did you end up designing sleeves for Fela?

LG:I said to my mum (that a journalist who had seen my work) wants to take me to Fela’s compound, and that why I always remember my mum supported me throughout, she wasn’t reluctant to let me go, she said ok, I should go with him. So when we got to Fela’s place and he saw the portrait he really loved it and he used two words that I’d never heard before until that day and I will never forget them, he said, “Wow! Goddamn!” So he actually offered me money, in those days I used to earn 30 Naira for my portraits, he didn’t know this and he wrote out a cheque for 120 Naira! But I gave it back to him and said no Fela, I give it to you from the bottom of my heart, I don’t want any money. He was really surprised, and so he tore out a sheet of paper and he wrote out a gate pass, he wrote ‘Please admit bearer. Free of charge.’ So that was my pass to Kalakuta (Fela’s compound).

A couple of weeks later, Fela’s house was attacked by the police; it was headline news on the radio, television everywhere. So I was naturally eager to find out how he was, the journalist came (to the bar) and I said to him how is Fela? Is he ok? He said he is ok, he is in the hospital so he took me to the hospital. When we got there, the room where Fela was had maybe 20 or 30 people and he was talking, so we inched our way closer to the bed so he could see us and then Fela said “the artist!” and those words ‘the artist’ I felt it deep in my spirit. Then he started talking about a song he was going to write to lampoon the police called ‘Alagbon Close’ so that was the first sleeve I designed for him in November 1974.

I don’t know if Lemi designed this one (the Internets failed me in my research efforts);
but, really, who cares? This whole post has been one big excuse for me to post the track below.

I need more of a 1971-type situation in my headphones these days.
Fela & Ginger Baker – “Let’s Start.” Life is wonderful.


at Rich Mix gallery.

Sunday morning. Edwin Starr.

Yay for the removal of clothing on the Lord’s Day!

(Please please check the sexy-parts area on your person if this does not amp up your swagger and fill you with inspiration to fornicate.)

In other news, holy hell, Edwin Starr album cover designer, you’re all the rage in my K-town apartment right now.

In other other news, dear lord how I love a chorus-less rap music gem from Los Angeles!
Rak’s delivery feeds the children and turns water into wine!

i trip on microchips and ponder transponders
and feel the radio waves and satellites upon us
zoom on the earth, zoom on california
zoom on los angeles, zoom on me warning ya…