20th
Get the Funk out of my Face?
I’ll admit, I’ve been in a bit of one—but rest assured, it’s the good kind. And that’s in spite of the bushel of reasons the world keeps handing me to go emo. It started with this, then this, then—because irony makes the world go round—this. (Oh, and then there was this, but I’ll save that rant for another forum.)
So how have I been managing, you ask? (Or maybe you didn’t? There I go assuming y’all was raised right…) With a little of this, loads of this, and heaps of these lads. So the Anglophile goes antipodean, Zeus might be thinking—but you wanted world music. Where’s Australia if it’s not from the world? These guys might not sing, but they can vamp just as good as they want.
So good, in fact, that it brings to mind an idea I’ve kept simmering on the back burner for a while now—an idea that usually reaches full boil whenever my attention turns to a different kind of beat. If I owned a pro team—any pro team, really—I’d do away with the requisite sound FX non-sense and just hire me a house band, like the late-night guys do (excepting the Scot). They’d have to be versatile, but most importantly they’d have to be funky. I mean, picture yourself for a moment in the stands inside your favorite basketball gym. The visitors have been introduced, and the lights have been lowered. The PA guy starts stirring the pot, you’re on your feet, the pyrotechnics thunder—and this starts playing. Fuck if that place wouldn’t be packed every night.
I mean, my pulse quickens just thinking about it. (I think I may even be drooling a bit, too.) But then again, that’s exactly what a good kinda funk will do to you.
~ Filibuster Rhymes
