Pack it up, pack it in.

I get hyped when I hear a drum roll,
When my mind is free/I know a melody can move me,
Whether or not the blood is red up in the gutter/Music is my bread and butter, and as a result,
I got a thousand old records in my crib.

My arms are sore due to my devotion to vinyl, as I am currently moving my entire analog life across 3.5 miles of Los Angeles landscape into my fabulous new apartment home. Please accept this, my humble explanation for lack of posts. I'll be back, probably quoting Deck in “Triumph” because I'll be feeling so damn good about myself. Successfully moving all your stuff into apt. 15 is the skinny-Caucasoid-girl version of Swingin swords like Shinobi.








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Play your part. Play your part.

You know I

thug em, fuck em, love em, leave em,
'cause I don't fuckin need em...


Just jokin - I do need 'em!
Ah love, sweet love! Happy Valentimes! Let’s all make out, sext each other, discuss the qualities in a lady that make you want to wife her (it's hips and musical knowledge, silly) and listen to “Let’s Do It Again” and every Stevie Wonder record pre-1981. Then maybe a special sex thing that we only bust out 3 or 4 times a year. Also, ice cream! It's 76 beautiful degrees out today.


I do not care for fake holidays courtesy of Hallmark, Inc, but I do like sweet things and romantical things and I do like a fake holiday if that holiday provides a crucial link between Ralph Wiggum and the bawsses of the Gulf Coast, plus Andre Benjamin in a kilt talkin bout not wanting to be an old man sitting on his porch alone. Aw. Last summer I got so mad at Pitchfork when they didn't put “Int'l Players Anthem” high enough on one of their many, many lists (so many lists, that site. Jesus.), then I realized, oh wait, fuck Pitchfork/who cares/sometimes I get too heated about things and it's bad for my blood pressure. I've calmed down some. Hit it, Willie.



Willie Hutch - “I Choose You.”

mp3.










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Compare & Contrast birthday fun: H.R. & D'Angelo.

(Lack of D'Angelo photo due to lack of any D'Angelo photos on the Internet of him wearing a shirt)

For a change, I decided to do a tribute post to male musicians of African descent who are strongly represented in my record collection. For a change. Just this once. Ergo: Happy birthday, H.R. and D'Angelo, respectively! Thanks for changing the world through the power of stage presence/lyrics/killing it (H.R.) and the power of basslines that suggest I take my dress off (D'Angelo).

D'Angelo - “Lady”

Massive Attack & Mos Def - “I Against I.” Bad man never fret the war, tell'em come.

mp3.



Cal Tjader - “Aquarius.” Bonus breaks nerdery! Keep. Bouncing.

mp3.


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I do it because it gives me a sort of peace of mind. (And for the love)

J. Yancey, b. 02/07/74.



One two? One two. Slum Villy discuss love among the ruins, summer of 2000. “Fall in Love.”

mp3.

The record industry will always be full of nefarious goings-on, Rastas will always ask about our desire to test champion sound, and this song coming on will always make dudes in the club turn quiet all of a sudden and lower their heads out of respect and awe. I know you offered me that Japanese B-side of an Ummah song from '96, but I'm posting this one because I done told you 89 times: melodic & beautiful trumps obscure (always).






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Our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up. | Itchy trigger finger. | You know my steez!

1. Arcade Fire licenses "Wake Up" for use during the "Super Bowl" © ™ ®. [Paste]


Cons:

Welcome to 2005, NFL.
I'll get sick of it.
It's no Super Bowl Shuffle.
They're Canadian (so is Drake).


Pros!:

It's for charity. For Haiti. License the damn thing.
There's no Hank Williams jr. involved.
They're Canadian (so is Neil Young!).
The I-guess-we'll-just-have-to-adjuuuuust part.
The tempo change at 3:55.
The You better look out below part.
Goddammit, it's still 2005. I'll never get sick of it. Nice job, NFL!




I'm still waiting for our road trip when we all pile on the bus and this comes on the radio and we have a heartfelt, spontaneous sing-along like that part in Almost Famous. Don't leave without me, k? I just gotta get my bag and say bye to my mom.






2. Gun comb! Those Japanese, always so genius/wacky.
(Except for those 'large-pupiled sex dolls in schoolgirl uniform' fetishes. That's more creepy/wacky.)

No Gilbert Arenas jokes here, buddy. That’s yesterdaysville. Upon acquiring one, I will, however, take it out of my back pocket and shout Riverside, muthafucka, then comb my hair and step over Radames’ lifeless body as I begin my stroll back home.







3. "You're in the Terrordome, like my man Chuck D said," he exclaimed just before killing those poor innocent people.




"I excel at hips, nerdery of various sorts, and corny '90s-hip-hop-based jokes," I exclaimed just before crafting this post.



. .

HOLD ME.

Bye-bye, Def Jux.

- my RSS feed (Prefix).

Emo is, for the record:

Muddy Waters,
Billie Holiday,
everything sung into a mic in the greater DC area in the years 1976-1978,
Kurt Cobain from Bleach until like November '93,
and nothing, nothing else. Oh and Def Jux, of course. Almost forgot.

And either this story is true, and I'm sad and mad and feeling like 1998 might actually be over and like I'm going to faint and then awaken briefly just to take a bottle of Klonopin mixed with some opiate of my choosing and die,

OR

somebody's got a new record coming out. Industry drones, please email me the real story. My life hangs in the balance!











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One glance was all it took.

Ed Sullivan, 1969.

“I think we're going to have to forget about the radio
and just go back to word of mouth.”

- Joe Strummer, as disappointed as I am that it's not 1970.

“I Want You Back.” 40 years ago this week, we woulda heard this courtesy of radio waves bounding down from towers on top of mountains and into our car stereos at the speed of light, 186,282 miles per second. I'm actually a 17-year-old girl from 1970 suburban Detroit, visiting you all in the future, and let me tell you now, I feel sorry for you and your current radio sounds. Except for that one time I turned it to FM and I heard Call me sub-woofer, cause I pump ‘base’ like that, Jack. That was pretty all right.

mp3.


What more is there to say that can possibly describe it. I mean. C'mon. Let me just say, though, that in apt. 302 it goes like this: Bassline bassline, piano, candy butterflies, glissando, my yellow cotton sundress, the pain of longing, the pleasure of longing, children singing ‘cause they got it in their heart and they wanna share it with the world and not, NOT ‘cause their father’s a tyrant, ahletmetellyounowww.





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Scene from my dream life: Me n' Monch at the game.

We discuss Who Is The Greatest Met of All Time.

He likes Strawberry.
I say Gooden all day. But it's cute and friendly-like, a playful verbal sparring match, we're not getting too upset.

I say, “Nice hair, is that your Malcolm Gladwell impression?”* and Monch laaaaughs and laughs. He wonders how such a deliciously nerdy girl could also be so funny.

Then we have a spirited discussion about which is the better duo from Queens:






(Sorry, Prod & Havoc)




Hey! Let your honesty shine shine shine. Simon & Garfunkel - “The Only Living Boy in New York.”

mp3.





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