Saturday, October 31, 2009

I'ma die harder like my kid Bruce Willis

You wanna know why? Because I'm -
October 31, that is my date of birth/I got to the party, you know what I did? The Smurf.

King Ad Whammy, it's the anniversary of your birth and despite the years we've known each other, words have yet to express my hot throbbing love for you and the way you make my heart soar up up and AWAYYY, and not only because of the way you have rendered your hegemony within the world of Nasal Caucasoid Rap or because you're in the pocket just like Grady Tate, you're fuel injected/rhyme connected/running things, and you got more bounce to the fucking bumpin. What's happened is that everyone in rap-ery these days is either a lunatic, in jail, Canadian and dumb, getting punched in the face by a '90s god, or making Jimmy Fallon way doper than he deserves. There's only a handful of good dudes - Doom, Masta Ace, Black Milk, Guilty, Mos, and mayyybe like 3 others and they're all on Duck Down. So I think I love/appreciate you now more than ever.

And here's the update on my list of OG Hot Older Judaic Man Crushes: you're still way high up there, right between
your dad and Rahm Emanuel; congrats.

PS, Licensed to Ill is 23 years old tomorrow! Nov. '86! And no, dudes at the bar aged 24-40, you and your boys still can't make something like it just by "fuckin around in the studio with 3 Zeppelin records and some 808."


Straight to the chest like Primatene mist.

Costumes are only for Doom, members of Funkadelic circa '70-75, and Shock G, but years ago I got a pass to take part in the dress-up tradition. Aside from Strawberry Shortcake in 2nd grade, my dopest & greatest, the best I ever had, was Felicity from Austin Powers, with the blue onesie and the boots. It was '99 and I mean I really shut it down (it being "the bitch"), costume-arily speaking. All that time I spent '60s-fying my hair, smoothing it and adding curl at the bottom and volume at the root, was not in vain, 'cause I got lots of Fun Size Snickers for my efforts plus free booze at the bar. Thanks, America and your diluted pagan traditions! Also, I feel that enough time has passed that I can now say to the 1999 version of me with great certainty: YOU'RE CORNY and STOP THAT. (Oh and: Rawkus will go downhill soon, fast and hard. Prepare yourself for the heartbreak. Rifkind isn't the dude you think he is!)

PS, even my mom knows I'm gonna do a Gravediggaz post on the day of ghouls and witches. No surprises here. Hi Mom!

(And just in case he reads HeightFiveSeven: HI RZA! Loved you on Tavis, babycakes! That part about ODB not understanding the meaning of his life - I sighed and almost cried. I have so much to tell you about chess and the former Soviet bloc! And what about Karzai's brother getting paid by the fucking CIA? CALL ME.)

The death trap, Rizzy says, is that mental trap of being consumed by the streets. Ash Roth nods and says exactly, RZA. You're speaking directly to me, my dude.

RZA could never be terribly convincing as a blood-&-guts guy even with those sharp canines, but Prince Paul pourin gravy all on your brains, callin out snakes and liars and the A&R who couldn't understand the product, is always believable. (Poor A&R, you're always doomed in rap songs. Maybe change your ways?)



Friday, October 30, 2009

Everything sounds better when a pretty lady says it, episode 137.

The facts of life are that a child who has seen war cannot be compared with a child who doesn't know what war is except from television.

- Sophia Loren,
surprisingly astute and political, saying something that
a million rappers,
Phil Ochs,
Neil Young,
Peter, Paul,
and Mary,
and almost every Jamaican singer
have been saying through the medium of recorded music, since the beginning of recorded music.

I mean,

isn't it nicer when it comes from this

...instead of this?

(Sorry, Chuck.)

The Toothaches - “Sophia”



Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Lakeshowww. Katy is a biter. Basquiat/Jef/Adrock/MCA/Mike D. And Storchy.

1. Lakers win, Lakers win! So, y'know, maybe just pack it in and stay home the rest of the season, Everybody Who Plays For Every Other NBA Squad. PS - Ron-Ron's hair! Ron-Ron's hair!

Katy goes for a PR stroll around Santa Barbara with her PR accessory, attempts to get you stuck off the realness.

I suppose it's possible she actually knows that the words printed on her shirt are from the sacred texts of Mobb Deep, since this very writer is a fellow pale-skinned lady from a beachy Cali city who knows that those are Mobb Deep lyrics. However, NOPE and IMPOSSIBLE, as there can be only one. (And anyway, I prefer lyrics from Brooklyn MCs on my person.)

I thought Dondi or Phase 2 was better than the Mona Lisa, because she was just a fat chick to me. - Def Jef

My Future Employer Wax Poetics posted Def Jef's recollection of going to dinner with Basquiat at Mr. Chow's in '88, an experience also featuring my OG Judaic boyfriends the Beastie Boys smoking weed in the bathroom.

So, Jean-Michel was like, ‘Let’s go smoke weed in your car.’ So we went out, and we were smoking in my car, and I was like, ‘You a cool dude, man. You gonna be around?’ And he said, ‘I’m gonna be around forever.’ And I think he just meant, ‘Yeah, I’ll be there tomorrow.’ But time has created another resonance to his statement.

4. Gold staples seem like the kind of thing Storchy would have spent his money on in his cokey-ist, Fucking King of the World!, oh and did I mention I am a Golden God? moments.

“Child support? Nah. GOLD STAPLES are the move.” (that's a direct quote from him, Miami circa '06)

Intended primarily as a form of jewelry, these luxury pieces can be applied to clothing (or just about anything) with the help of your average stapler. Of course you can also impress your boss by turning in your next report decked out in gold. He will feel you. LOL/nice grasp of American slang, Dutch design site!


Tickley Feather - "Trashy Boys"

Make um say LO-FI! I have a crush on this song, its pure drum machine greatness, and its video full of rattails, Natty Ice, stalking, and streamers. Her name is Tickley Feather and she is bunkmates with An Collective so you should hurry and like her before she gets the Hipster Runoff treatment.

When this is the next instrumental that all the Lim Edish signature colorway collabo midnight drop Futura x Rothko fitted rappers do their respective hypebeasty thing over, I'll remind you that I called it but I'll do it in a manner as un-obnoxious as possible. PS, I'm pretty sure trashy means "pure Bolivian brick of" and boys means "white powdery substance." This song is 100% about cocaina (she's from Virginia, duh).



We want prenup (we want prenup)

There's me, and there's you, and then there's like 90% of other humans, and then there's this whole subset of humans known as Musical Crazies - genuine (Syd Barrett), pretend (Kanye, Marilyn Manson), and unclear (Kool Keith). Then there's Phil Spector, defying categories and making shiny pretty music since 1959. He might have murdered that lady, sure, but OMG, have you heard “Then He Kissed Me”? Until he's taken out back and put down, let him do what he wants. Get down girl, go head, get down!

Page Six says Phil once sent celebrity lawyer Marvin Mitchelson, his friend who had drawn up hundreds of prenups, his version of how such an agreement should read:

1. If I like it, it's mine.

2. If it's in my hands, it's mine.

3. If I can take it from you, it's mine.

4. If I had it a week ago, it's mine.

5. If it's mine, it must never appear to be yours in any way.

6. If I'm doing or building something, all the pieces are mine.

7. If it looks just like mine, it's mine.

8. If I think it's fine, it's mine.

9. If it is near me, it's mine.

10. If it's broccoli, it's yours.

Phil and I disagree about broccoli, but clearly we are still meant to be love muffins fo life because, hi ladies, what more do you need to base a romance on beyond admiration of your man's production skills? I just need to remember to adhere to the rules above so that he doesn't leave my ass for a white girl.

Ray Charles - “I Got a Woman”



Saturday, October 24, 2009

NYC cops still terrible, still hate gays. The W-Team. Otis Jackson, Jr. is my wonderwall.

1. AY MA. I lost my phone number. Can I have yours?”

NYPD acting extra unconstitutional (more so than normal), arresting people for cruising*” - Slate.

*cruising = not a crime

People hollering at other people in the cluuuub will not be tolerated by the NYPD, but only if those people doing the hollering happen to be dudes and the objects of their holleration attempts happen to be undercover straight male NYPD cops. Ask a cop for copulation and you might get arrested despite it being not against the law to ask a cop for a lil copulation - see, being hit on by strange men whom they wish would just walk away is a frightening and gross experience for officers of the law.

Aww, that must be just awful! Random dude at the bar saying he wants to see/touch your intimate areas in between Patron shots?! I can't imagine,” said EVERY girl in every city at every bar, EVER. One day, perhaps I'll grow to like law enforcement - like if they stop me from getting raped or robbed or assaulted in some way. Until then, fuck em.
(I would throw in a Sorry, Mom at this point, but Mom agrees with me here)

2. “No,” I say, “NO. No no no,” in response to this, the first still from the new A-Team movie. [TotalFilm]

The A is for atrocious.

As I am the most predictable person on the Internet, I shall now go ahead and walk these dogs and represent Wu. Specifically, here's how casting for the film would've gone in a perfect world.

4 members of a former commando outfit and current group of mercenaries.

Col. John “Hannibal” Smith,
the group's leader whose plans tend to be unorthodox but effective.
Mainly because I heard Hannibal also insisted on getting 50% of all profits yielded in the Team's various missions despite the tragic fact that there's no I in team. So, you know, I just nailed that casting choice.

Lt. Templeton “Faceman” Peck/Face, the group's smooth-talking con-man.
Meth. (It said
smooth-talking, did you not see it in the description?). Damn, I nailed that one too.

Capt. Murdock, the team's pilot who has been declared insane and lives in a psych facility.
C'mon. Don't play dumb. Stickin pins in your head like a fuckin nurse. Also, BLAOW.

Sgt. B.A. “Bad Attitude” Baracus, the team's strong man and mechanic.
None of the Four Horsemen of the Wu above really has a bad attitude, so I'll just say Rae on account of those shiny golden links.

3. It's this dude's birthday. 10/24/73. I don't believe that anybody feels the way I do about him now. And all the roads we have to walk along are winding, and all the lights that lead us there are blinding. Sigh. There are many things that I would like to say to him, but I don't know howww.

Jaylib feat. Talib - “Raw Shit.” I like it, I loves it, here we go.
Every time I see Drake's dumb Canadian face I want to cry and punch something 'cause I feel like I hate him and his A&R handlers and his whole clueless persona, and songs like this are exactly why. Dear musical year twenty-oh-three: come back. Save the situation.



Plug in the headphone, 'cause here it go.

LONDON—Max at Gee Street, 1999. [Peter Marlow / Magnum Photos]

Slate is sometimes annoying, like how it lets its writers post pieces claiming that Creed is good and underrated (shut up, Jonah Weiner. I know a Story Written Solely to Rile Up Readers and Be Shared Bloggily when I see one. Also, I'm pointing and giggling at your unfortunate last name).

Luckily, though, Slate is often amazing! For example, today's photo feature “I Love This Song: Great Magnum Photos of People Listening to Music” is all...I get by. I got a love jonnnnnes for its body and its skintone and I don't care who knows it.

“Magnum looks back at the days when going to the record shop and playing a vinyl album or compact disc were physical, not virtual, activities.” Great, and the photos below are stunners, except I would like to pose the question Why act like these are days gone by? The past is alive and well, as evidenced by the numerous round black pieces of acetate with which I share apt. 302. I still cuddle with my music several times a week*, holding it in my hands firmly but carefully, like a kitten or a baby bird.

PARIS—Centre international de Paris, March 9, 1979. [Guy Le Querrec]

CHICAGO—Muhammad Ali in front of a stereo, 1966. [Thomas Hoepker]

UNITED STATES—James Dean, 1955. [Dennis Stock]

Marilyn Monroe listening to music, 1952. [Philippe Halsman]

(I normally don't care for Marilyn, but what's this? Head tilt, hip curve, clutching the bookcase so that the auditory ecstasy doesn't make her fall over? OH HELLO THERE, lesbatronic moment)

WOLVERHAMPTON, England—The community center, 1978. [Chris Steele-Perkins]

BOW, East London—Two young emcees share a set of headphones, 2006. [Simon Wheatley]

CZECHOSLOVAKIA—In a wood near Prague, the sale of pop records on a Sunday, 1981. [Martine Franck]

DIJON, France—Supermarket Casino of Chenove, 1998. [Patrick Zachmann]

You can't hug an mp3 (I know; I've tried)

Cymande - “Listen”


Friday, October 23, 2009

Like that, Bron Bron? I had that 'long time ago.

My favorite musical humans out of Virginia other than Bruce Hornsby are back with a mid-tempo jammy about relationships, money problems, their peers in the pharmaceutical and music game congratulating them on past successes, and having a hard time outsmarting cops. Oooh, and it was produced by Prince Paul.

JUST JOKIN, gang! The song's produced by Pharrell and it's about fucking and chopping up powder! That's just the way it is/some things'll never change.

It's from some album dropping on some date in the not-too-distant future blah blah. NOBODY CARES. What matters in this situation is that I need the instrumental in my life and on my turntable, and I need to know where that piano break comes from. Also, I need the version where Cam'ron is absent from the proceedings. Also, I need a new life in which a) Cam'ron does not exist, and b) that accent in the name Cameron does not exist. Please have it on my desk Monday at 8 AM sharp.

“Popular Demand (Popeyes).” I know this song is everywhere, on every site today. I realize this. But you know how my enthusiasm gets the better of me sometimes (all the time). I had to post it! I'm dancing with the stars, stepping on blow/Doin the toe tap.


PS - INSTRO. In case you didn't hear me the first time.


Thursday, October 22, 2009

He came from somewhere back in her long ago. You should love Gram because I do. Hip-Hop Dishonors.

1. Questo's got it bad for yacht rock in general and Michael McDonald in particular, lives for Christopher Cross, is well-versed in the cats in the cradle and the silver spoon, and is totally wastin' away again in Margaritaville. I don't care for fruity and girly drinks, so you can catch me in RedStripeville.

“What a Fool Believes.” Turn it up, turn it UP.


2. Gram Parsons isn't in the Country Music Hall of Fame, but kind souls are trying to get him there [Paste]. Not much else to say there, other than Yep.

3. Russell and Rick are 2 bad muthafuckas - just ask 'em!

“Remember the fake Rolex you had?”

“I never had a fuckin fake Rolex; the fuck outta here.
(I did have a fake-ass Rolex. It was fake as fuck)


Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Communications 306: Images of Hip-Hop in Popular Media.

It's everywhere we look, this hiphop thing - part of the cultural zeitgeist at large and an accepted method of interpersonal engagement on a micro level (like when I have you come over and we do some Red-Stripe-fueled analysis of “Come Clean”). The goal of this course is to facilitate the improvement of students' ability to analyze, organize, and critically think about communicative messages while becoming better equipped to articulate ideas. To that end, please turn in your papers critically analyzing MCs' wearing of glasses to court as a visual signifier, and such a choice's related legal implications, at the end of class today.

An Afghan boy makes his way over a stream. The US is reviewing its strategy in Afghanistan, where the war is in its ninth year. [Altaf Qadri/AP/Oct. 7, 2009]

First I think, amazing picture, just beautiful. And also:

“You're living at a time of extremism, a time of revolution
a time where there's got to be a change. People in power have misused it
and now there has to be a change, and a better world has to be built,
and the only way it's going to be built is with extreme methods
and I for one will join with anyone, don't care what color you are,
as long as you want change this miserable condition that exists on this earth. Thank you.

Then I think You are now rocking with the Def. (uh-oh, uh-ohhhh)

NY Times. Oct. 18, 2009

First I think: Football. I like football. I am so pleased that I have Kyle Orton on my Fantasy Football team. He was a sleeper and I picked him up off of waivers because I'm a visionary.

Then I think: Top Billin is secondary to nothing, ill-informed NY Times headline writer! Good lord, you're an idiot. Also, I think about the amazing amount of one-liners culled from this song that I've used in my blog and in general conversation with my mom and the pizza guy and Aunt Jean over the years. SO MANY. That's what we get/Got it good, When I'm bustin up a party I feel no guilt, stop schemin and lookin hard, to be down you must appeal, Mom & Dad, they knew the time, the super-easy-modest-MC-oh-kayyy.

Also, Milk and Ghosty should do a duet...a very high-pitched duet.

Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad takes notes during the morning session at the 64th United Nations General Assembly at the U.N. headquarters in New York, September 23, 2009. [Shannon Stapleton/Reuters]

First I think: Remember when this dude totally freaking sonned George W on 60 Minutes with his satisfied smile and his swarthy looks and beard? (I like a scruffy face; it gets me every time). “What religion, please tell me, tells you as a follower of that religion to occupy another country and kill its people, please tell me, does Christianity tell its followers to do that?” (Please refer back to the first image in this post, at no. 1 above.)

Then I think: “Penmanship”! It works on so many levels. Also, I think: Black Milk, Duck Dowwwwwnnnn, so many nice bars from this guy over the years. I really like Skyzoo. And I really really love to say Skyzoo. Go on, it's fun.


A competitor trains on the bike the day before the Ironman World Championship triathlon competition in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii. [Hugh Gentry/Reuters/October 9, 2009]

Caution: Ironman. Not in training, really - just being, sitting and breathing and existing and doing it so well. Look at the handwork and facework on display here, the head cocked just so. OH GHOSTYYYY! Slide over here, and give me a moment/Your moves are so raw, I’ve got to let you know/You’re one of my. Kind.


First graders work with XO laptop computers at a public school in Montevideo October 13, 2009. [Andres Stapff/Reuters]

First I think: Dude. Whether you're 7 and living in Uruguay, or you're a grown-up superhuman producer, computers kill it and have the power to excite.

Then I think: I am captivated by the fact that these 2 are dressed like they're attending totally different functions. Quik got all pressed and white-collared, and Rizz is like, “You know, I think I'm gonna wear my baseball shirt.”


A Jordanian woman supporter of opposition parties holds medals depicting the Al-Aqsa mosque during a demonstration in Amman October 9, 2009. [Ali Jarekji/Reuters]

Not many thoughts here, other than:

Fatburger (40 used to own one);
I'm hungry. I always pick “Outstanding” on the Fatburger jukebox. I should go to Fatburger. I'm really quite hungry. “Girl you knock me out.”
That song is still the jam and probably always will be;
Rick Rock is good at producing songs and our love knows not the limits of time and space;

Whatever happened to The Luniz?


Aww!: Krylon edition

JOEY WAS HERE. And he cares about the United Way.

In 1992 a professor performed an experiment in a public restroom and discovered a completely effective way to prevent people writing on public bathroom walls. See, what you do is you appeal to their desire to help provide funding to a network of community-based assistance agencies that serve kids and families! Science, you never cease to amaze!


T. Steuart (yes, that's really how he spells it) Watson, a professor at Miami University of Ohio, selected 3 fucked-up men's bathrooms in which to carry out his experiment. They were covered in writing - “each room had a history writ large, and small, in many different hands” (the story is from The Guardian, and I just like that fancy Brit way of describing the bathroom landscape). Each of the walls had been repainted numerous times due to the amounts of graffiti during the months preceding the experiment; new tags popped up every day.

Over the next 50 days, Watson implemented his treatment to see how humans could be motivated to knock it off. It was completely effective, a total success.

The treatment was simple - taping a sign on the wall like this:

During the 3-month study period, no marking occurred on any of the walls. They remained graffiti-free, no markings, clean and untouched. That's nice, right? “Aww, dudes in bathrooms with pens are kind-hearted!” is the appropriate response here. Watson then published a report about his method in the Journal of Applied Behavior Analysis, where professional science nerds saw it and discussed it and this is how it trickled down to amateur science nerds such as myself.

And he actually did donate the money - though it was a not-very-generous 5 cents per day, per bathroom. Nice one, professor. Thus, with three restrooms in play, the total payoff for charity was $2.50 per restroom – a combined $7.50 due to dudes quelling their itch to get up in the men's room. I mean, you guys must have a need to really fucking bomb because it is exceedingly gangster to do so in the bathroom facility of a bar, but in this experiment the subjects managed to push that burning desire deep down inside. Dude, you had some ups in the men's room at the Cha Cha! What's your crew and/or are they well-respected? Skeme, is that you?

Why was the treatment so effective? Watson thinks that bathroom-goers seeing the sign indicating that somebody cared about the blank wall space was enough to compel them to leave it alone - especially given that somebody was willing to give money to a nice thing like the United Way. Prior to posting the signs, “bare walls appeared to function as discriminative stimuli for graffiti, perhaps because it was not apparent that anyone cared.” (Discriminative stimuli is the catch phrase of the day. Please use it in at least 3 of your social interactions by 4 PM today.)

Extra credit goes to the professor for not being all surprised that dudes who write on bathroom walls can be decent human beings. I was waiting for that stance to be taken - Shut up, nobody who uses a Krink on the men's room wall cares about children or the agencies that assist them! - but it didn't happen, much to my delight.

Deer Tick - “Art Isn't Real.” I'm not saying I agree with this; in fact, art is very much real. I'm still hanging round and round/Sometimes it's a racket, but lately not a sound/In the bowels of history and time/I have learned to stay back and never shine. Get 'em, Providence.



Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Steve Miller plays his music in the sun and really likes fuzzy produce.

“The Joker” came out on this day in 1973. The song rules but I feel conflicted about its lyrical content.

On one hand, self-identifying as anything remotely fresh is so tired and reveals that your game is weak. So saying I'm a joker is like saying I'm sexy or I'm so intelligent. If it's true, you'll never need to say it. Shutting up about it is the best way to advertise. Who feels it knows it.

On the other hand, postmodernism in general is so tired and I find that irony is increasingly overstaying its welcome, so maybe announcing you are what you are is the ultimate in sincerity and therefore kind of dope - ? OH DEAR, I feel confused inside. Let me review this further and get back to you.

I'm deducting points for its lack of handclaps (here's how it's done), lazy song structure and
overall bad writing, but you know I love to celebrate a goddamn musical staple of ironic white pride. I also love my random thoughts about songs. Oh look, here come some now:

- Some people call Steve the space cowboy, he says. Sure, buddy, but we both know that more people call Kool Keith the space cowboy.

- Peaches are so succulent, so juicy and sweet. How come more dudes don't offer up musical tributes to them? You're a pioneer in this regard, Steve.

- Basslines. I treasure them. I keep them in an airtight glass case and wash my hands before handling them. And the ones from the mid-70s are some of the most valuable in my collection. “The Joker” is built around one that's legendary. One I'll tell my grandkids about.

- 5th Ward tie-in. Even better: underappreciated early album (pre-big hit album) tie-in. Bitches look at me like I'm a faker/Knowing goddamn well I'm a mutherfuckin heartbreaker. Turns out 'Face likes peaches too!


Today's your day.

Yeah Right! came out in '03 and Spike had boisterous dudes yelling and jumping, except minus wolf costumes and crowns. The Keenan tribute at the beginning, the force of nature known as Biebel, Owen Wilson x Hollywood High. And this.

Um, being a girl is the best but I'm kinda secretly a 13 year old boy in my heart sometimes? Also, this song is the answer, the cure, the thing I need in order to get through today. Cali MCs are my favorite again. I am hereby rescinding my love letter to Shawn and the borough he reps so hard. Fuck off, New York.


Monday, October 19, 2009

Like a flashing laser and a rolling thunder.

Pete, I'm a day late (happy birthday yesterday! 10/18/44), but please note that the state of California has legalized it and the Prez is telling hating-ass baldheads to calm themselves.

Before he was co-opted by every dude named Chad and every girl named Jen in my dorm, Peter Tosh was known as being pretty fucking bad and he would smack you in the mouth. He's the toughest, the bush doctor, like a stepping razor, he saw the sun/fucking dangerous, said fuck you Chris Columbus, got arrested with Prince Buster, and then he went and reminded us that we got to build our love/On one foundation. He was a better songwriter than Bob, but Pete would smack you in the mouth and that's a little harder to market so he never had that global appeal for the Chads and Jens of the world. That deep voice with the beautiful tone. Really, the only thing he did that I can find fault with was that hideous Mick Jagger collab; and in a career spanning almost 30 years, it's pretty amazing that there was just 1 misstep.

Bob was the sweet, stable one. Bob is the one my mom would've wanted me to bring home. He was so much gentler with his message. Unfortunately I have an immense amount of self-awareness in terms of my affection for dudes that'll smack you in the mouth, so guess what, I know for a fact it would've been Peter on my front porch. SORRY MOM. He could come to pick me up for our date, walk in and meet my parents and start in on some things that Mom might find fault with - like he might talk about how homosexuality is an abomination 'cause the conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah said so, and top it off with a rasclaat, and she'd still just trust my judgment and say My goodness Logan, that Peter is so tall and handsome! Where are you two kids going for dinner?

Sigh. What else can I do at this point but post a bunch of pictures and songs I like. I mean, honestly.
If you're not familiar with this man's body of work you've got larger problems than I care to assist you with at this point.

“Brand New Second Hand,” baby, Wailers, Studio One version. Because I couldn't find a “Burial” mp3 and I had to post something from Legalize It. I always loved this one, anyway - it's about not whoring around, ladies.


The 2 below are from a performance at The Record Plant in Sausalito, during the Burnin' tour of 1973, on Halloween (!). Ryan Spaulding, you don't know me and I don't know you but your very kind posting of this set on the wondrous Internet is a clear sign that we should be dating exclusively or at least using each other for sex. Thank you, kind sir.

“Rastaman Chant.” Peter, Bob & Bunny harmonizing like Crosby Stills and Nash minus dreads and Chris Blackwell.
You asked for the greatest, most beautiful Selassie-tinged song to play at one's future funeral? Well, here you go. One bright morning when man work is over/Man will fly away home. I sure hope so, guys. I want to believe you.


“You Can't Blame the Youth.” From back when you really couldn't. These days, it's pretty easy.