That’s right. This is happening. I’ve talked a lot of shit over the past few weeks, threatening to set aside this and riff about that. No more talk. I’m done bullshittin with y’all. To quote my man Kevin Hart: It’s about. To go. DOWN.
Why I abandoned perhaps the greatest collaborative writing space I’ve ever inhabited this side of OnHoops I’m not exactly sure. Yeah, life got in the way. I work a lot, I travel a lot and, when I’m done, I gotta have my Pops. It’s just that lately I’m finding that I’m listening to a lot of Luther during those vegged out chow sessions, and I don’t know what it means. But I sure as hell know where I can talk about it.
The aforeposted song in particular has had a knack of worming its way to the top of the playlist every time I reach for the refridgerator, enough times to make me wonder whether my PC might be trying to tell me something. You know, other than “Stop fondling me!” So I’ve spent the last couple days sifting through the Vandross discography for answers. You know what I found? Some really good shyte. The live sessions in particular. Mercury must have an empty tub of hair product for every time I’ve ranted and railed against the alfresco listening experience. I guess it’s because in a perfect world all experiences would be as transcendent as this one. (Or when we all trooped to see the Dan a few summers back, at the height of the Yacht Rock craze.) All performers would be as game as Luther who, in his croonversations with band and audience, makes Sinatra’s stage-speech sound like a Brando impersonation. He’s trying to stump his backup singers, he’s making fun of his weight and turning all Cosby while cracking about his own talent. He is owning the moment. Who wouldn’t want to be a witness to that?
And that got me thinking: maybe it’s time to reconsider my position on the live show. No, Luther Vandross isn’t walking through that door. (Friday would have been his 60th birthday. Sad.) Lord knows, you’d probably see and hear him coming if he were. (And then once he’s in—BOOM!—he grabs ya.) But even a 10th of that stage presence would be enough to blow my doors off. So it’s settled: I’m going to consume more raw music, and what better time than the summer to start my beat-ox. I’ll be home over Bastille Day for my best friend’s wedding. We should catch a show.
Unfortunately the lovely people at Universal wouldn’t let me embed the song I originally wanted to, so this will have to do. When Obama won the election I rocked this song, when I try to exercise I rock this song, when my pleasure bucket is filled to the brim with pride I rock this song. But I digress.
Today is probably the last day I’ll rock a Saab, and I want to give a shot out to the blue bomber. That was it’s theme song from back when I used to hold down the block. The following takes place after the sale of car and before a King Cobra was opened, now let me get my Eggers on from Aka’s perspective:
The FCK and I stood outside on this balmy uneventful August evening. There were no crickets and barely any birds, it’s the first time I’d noticed this since I’d been back and it made me sad and a little depressed, kind of like discovering the bad section of a college town. The FCK was excited having just sold an oversized foam rubber cowboy hat to what appeared to be an overenthusiastic Latin man, he made five dollars.
Wind: Stagnant
Trees: Thirsty
Aka and the FCK: Hungry
Alright I’ll stop, so we decided to make tonight a fried chicken and 40 night. So we pick up the fried chicken and park the car and we see a man jogging, which happens sometime. We get out of the car and this man is jogging in place, talking to the man in the car behind us. We only hear the tail end of conversation, but the jogger thanks him for his support and proclaims that he’s still fighting for his innocence, that man was none other than our neighbor and former Governor Rod Blagojevich. So aka suggested the the Jay-Z-R.Kelly collabo, but it didn’t happen so I had to go with some of the beautiful tortured sould of Donnie Hathaway.
In the brief span of our last dalliance a lot has gone down. The Financialocalypse has caught up to my ass, puffy tacos were discovered & dark and stormy evenings developed in a weather system isolated to northside of the Chi. In the wake of these events I have been left ponder. So like our fair blog I’ve taken a break while I ride out the turbulent times as smoothly as possible.
In tough moments I find myself tripping back to a time when Freddie Prince Jr. was the shit and the Millennium was to be feared. During my high school years, like Mercury I too found myself hungering for music from across the pond. I was a musical Anglophile only my love didn’t align me to fuzzy guitars. Cold lovely mechanical Drum & Bass was my calling. Metalheadz, Grooverider, Roni Size, Photek, etc. were the shit to me. Hell I even bought Mixmag and Jockey Slut for the exclusives mixes. I dreamed about mythical place called Ibiza though I had no clue where the fuck it was. DNB was my gateway drug to the whole of Electronica (except Moby) and for a time I was Fatboy Slim’s Funk Soul Brother.
Well eventually 2001 happened. Freddie Prince Jr. and his lot fell the fuck off and I broadened my palette. But occasionally I still go back to the old jams. So here is some Peshay, my favorite Metalhead, whose cuts felt like the came straight out of late 90’s Namco game. Now if you don’t mind me I gotta use my stimulus\unemployment dolo to get to a lil Balearic island where I can roll on.
Interesting choice of phrase, that. They are words I found myself screaming often whilst matriculating my way north up I-95 this morning. And none of my breath made a bit of difference. The traffic still snarled and snarled as I seethed and seethed. But then this number came up on the XM radio. Now, I know we’ve already spent a bit of space giving this epic Spiral Staircase jam it’s well-deserved due. But whereas that one is all pop and pep, this one is all breeze, jazz and light. (Oh, and long as well—so long, in fact, you’ll lose track of time. But in a good way.) As it played, I could feel my jaw relaxing, my veins receding, my anger abating. And wouldn’t you know the traffic was soon easing up too?
Did I make it to where I was going on time? No. But it’s the first time in a while that I can remember where being very, very late felt so very, very right.
We all need breaks. Summertime just begs for breaks to be taken. Some need breaks from school. Some need breaks from the NBA season. (SEAson!) Some need breaks from the city. Fili sounds like he’s needing a break from planet Earth. I need breaks to jam to. And this cut from Layfayette Afro-Rock Band has ‘em in spades (I really don’t know what that means but… it has ‘em).
Check the list of songs that have sampled from Hihache. Impressive - like a Mortal Kombat finishing move. Each song could and very likely might end up on this blog at some point. Well, only if we pick up the pace. But I’ve got no problem with taken breaks.
I’ll even italicize and hyperlink for reinforced effect: it’s been so long, lads. Too long, if I’m honest. Much hasgoneon and little has been said about it—but that’s alright. A world gone wrong shouldn’t keep us from our busy summers. Still, even though I’ve (improbably) seen all of you in the last two weeks—and was even gifted by one of you (you know who you are…FCK…) yet another epic mix CD that will take me a good 2 1/2 years to fully listen to—I miss your wayward thoughts on music terribly. So in the spirit of those good times, an attempt to break the silence and a nod to recent events, I have posted what I have posted in hopes that it might provoke a little of that chatter that I miss so dearly. Well, that and the more event apropos version of this Po-Po classic is unembeddable. Well, that and the Erin Andrews peep hole youtubage had been scrubbed from the interwebs by decree.
We’ve been gone for a minute but with the US’s upset victory over #1 ranked Spanish team well it just had to be done. Clint Dempsey aka Deuce and The FCK’s favorite rapper Big Hawk (RIP) get it in on this 2006 World Cup Classic.
The weekend is nigh, lads, which means one and only one thing: I will either be texting or receiving slivers of lyric from Lush Life, our reigning party anthem. And I think we can all agree that it is in this, the iteration birthed by Johns Coltrane and Hartman, that the anthem is truly at its most regal. Whether buzzing or flailingly drunk, happy or withdrawn, bored or being pursued by an army of Fonzi clones, the damn song just flat-out fits the mood.
Every mood, that is, save for the harried, headbanging one—and wouldn’t you know now we have a rendition for that. I heard this track a couple months back while slaving away at the tablet and was instantly enthralled—though, fair warning: it’s a way better track for wheeling around London in an AMG Black than contextualizing the Connecticut dynasty inside your lonely suite at the St. Louis Renaissance. (Overall the album is solid, especially the “Game of Love” track; since it’s unavailable, make due with this equally classic N-Cole/Esco collabo.) After three plays of the aforeposted, believe you will be looking for trouble.
This is meant to break up the flow. Figure this will be a musical filler post cuss it’s just cool. I will do this from time to time until I get some street beef.
