Monday, January 23, 2012

So get out on the floor to the record store/And girl, get it how you live.

“Okay, everybody cough up some green for the little lady.”

- Nice Guy Eddie (Reservoir Dogs), 
on tipping a woman who has a blog works at a diner and needs cash to buy records pay her rent 

If you are human and sometimes feel bad about yourself and your appearance, nothing tops Reservoir Dogs' slowmo stroll during that intro for a self-esteem booster. It's a sugary slice of cinema cake that I try to replicate in a sundress and some George Baker playing in my head during my walks down the street on most hot days in Los Angeles. (Ladies: Cameo's “Candy” has a similar effect on your psyche. It'll make you feel so pretty! Gentlemen, I'm not one of you, so I can't give you advice here. “Lend Me an Ear,” maybe?). Tarantino stole the suited-up crew idea from John Woo, Danielle who went to film school tells me and which I have since verified, and I have infallible disdain for troupes of phony Gs who get church clothed and then say lines that have no real connection to their actual lives (MMG REFERENCE - oh, what I meant was “Poorly-Thought-Out Vehicle Tie-In Branding Music Group” reference).  Fakery appeals to me so hard in the scene, I hate to admit, but the appeal of the movie is largely just because future life partner Danny Brown and his cousin and friend were dogs once.

Smart and grouchy, shit-talking fake gangsters eating pancakes and drinking coffee, every last one of them at the breakfast table are reciting lines to which they have no real connection in their non-acting lives. (I mean, other than Lawrence Tierney, who probably killed a guy at some point.) I am seduced nonetheless, though, thanks to the charms of Keitel and Roth, with a dash of Madsen thrown in because I like 'em tall. The scene was filmed at Pat and Lorraine's, in Eagle Rock. And a mile and a half away is Permanent Records, where I went last month, spent money, hung out with the store kitty, and bonded with the female proprietor over old men, sexism, and records (“'How could someone with BREASTS possibly know who Robert Fripp is?' AHAHAHA” – her and me, joyously doing our impressions of cranky old men shaken by ladies looking through their records at yard sales).

We quickly became the best of friends. “Your money’s no good here,” she said when I took my selections up to the register, and let me have my whole stack for free. J/K! This happened in my daydream during my drive home.

“Straight shots of sternum.” Avert your eyes from my bony collarbone for a second, and you'll find there's a naked lady in this picture.

Watch for my new VH-1 series, Get On My Level, starring me as a Joan Didion/Erica Mena hybrid.

Various, Just A Taste (ABC/Dunhill Sampler, 1971).

It was the cover that caught my eye - the model doing an exact naked replica of my pose every time I'm within 100 yards of my future life partner Danny Brown - but the contents were acceptable enough for me to hug it to my bosom and declare it would be coming home with me. A sampler of artists recording for the ABC/Dunhill label's upcoming releases for 1971, it's got John Lee Hooker, Genesis (progrock signed to Impulse, SO DOPE! - Impulse folded into ABC/Dunhill in the early '70s, hence Genesis' appearance on this comp), and “Journey to Satchidananda*,” by Alice Coltrane and Pharoah Sanders. Hey, did you guys know Fly Lo is related to Alice? It's kind of an industry secret. He doesn't really like to talk about it, except in every interview and on his Facebook wall. Also, based on my habit of typing pharoahe instead of pharaoh like spellcheck would prefer, it's clear that Monch's hold on my brain continues in 2012 despite the fact that I (shamefully) haven't listened to W.A.R. all the way through as of this writing.

(Bonus, maybe-it'll-turn-up-on-Jeopardy!-someday fact: Pharrell's dad's name is Pharoahe  Pharaoh.)

* “Sachidananda is a combination of three attributes: Sat = existence, truth, real. Chit = consciousness. Ananda = bliss. Conscious blissful existence.” Why thank you,

Side C, track 1: “Every Day I Have the Blues,”  B.B. Kaaang, who, no disrespect, has always been more compelling as a doo-wop-ish type than a bluesman. “I Count the Tears,” Leiber-Stoller na-na-nananana loveliness, is always my pick on the table mini-jukebox at the '50s-themed diner in my hometown. He's got a beautiful voice that I want to hear singing a goofy love song rather than a heavy  blues song, and his success teaches me that diabetes is no match for the human spirit! Even that HACK Adam Morrison has TWO championship rings! Guess how many non-diabetes-afflicted Vince Carter has, you guys. Oh wait, no. Don't do that. It'll make you sad. He has the same number as Baron Davis, McGrady, Elton Brand. And for my semi-old-timers in the place: Iverson. Wilkins. Kidd. Sadness! Reggie Miller's part of this club too, but he can fuck off.

Side D, track 1: “WATCHA GONNA DO????”, which is not that song about the possibility of giving it to you and then asking what you'd do with it if you were to receive it. WTTP, SAN DIEGOOOOO.

The Isleys, Brother Brother Brother (T-Neck, 1972).

Ron Isley has a stronnng creepy-old-guy kind of vibe to him, which, sorry, I will always insist upon despite your protests, and when I am feeling like doing a Dre or Quik impression I'll just say “truth hurts” to wrap up my point. Don't tell me you don't see it in his face. I’m just saying what you’re thinking, you guys - the Terrell Suggs of ladybloggers; that's me. Ron's face desperately tries to say Panties off, ladies, I’m 70 years old but I still got it, laydeeeees (even though he does not, in fact, got it, and did he ever, really?). He can’t help his creepy face, though. I should be nicer, because my face apparently says I love cops given the way they flock to me at Starbucks. My face therefore says nothing about me as a person and what I hold dear. It's just my face; nothing symbolic there. (So I'm sorry, Ron. I'm sorry I said that thing about your face.) That face and his tiny stature (he's what? 5'3"?) takes nothing away from his stage presence, as this proves. It also proves he's always had a case of creepy-old-guy face, even at age 24 in 1965. (Sorry again, Ron. Your persona on those Kells collabs was believable but I'm still mad at you for thinking you could get away with the line Copped me some weed now. OH GRANDPA, STOP.)

“Brother Brother” will probably make your eyes well up if you have a brother, a stepbrother, a friend of the family you grew up with who's like your play-brother, or if you just have a human soul and can feel things, shout to Carole King. But “Work to Do” is godbody and I listen to it thrice weekly even though I cannot identify at all with the protagonist, a man who wants his woman to understand he needs to get shit done. It’s typical of me that I love it, given the thematic consistency between “Work to Do” and Mos’ “Travelin’ Man” (I'd rather lounge around nakedly with you than do anything else, but someone's gotta pay our fucking rent, WOMAN). Real quick, Chris Jasper on keys: thank you, sir. And since it's been 3 paragraphs without a Detroit rap mention: Vessey's “Work to Do.” Yep.

The Isleys were from Teaneck, NJ, so their label is T-Neck. Cute pun and I love it, just like when extremely talented and non-gimmicky music professional Tyga says Got my shirt off/The club too packed. The club's 2 Pac-ked! Pac Blood! Pacs on Pacs on Pacs! All middle finger on a gurney everything! Shirtless back! Really, though, that's a pretty great line. There's no way Tyga wrote it. And though there were other Isleys on the record, the main Isleys were a trio on Brother so their publishing company was called Triple Three Music, which, no disrespect, is stupid and redundant. This is just like that time I heard there was a song called “100 Hunnit,” or as I correctly call it, “Ten Thousand” (100 00), with a visual featuring Meek and Wale in an Olive Garden parking lot, out-grinning each other and trying to downplay the erotic tension between them. It's exactly like Rabbit v Doc at the Shelter, according to your 12-year-old cousin who genuinely believes the big bag of lies MMG is selling. According to me, it's a video redeemed only by the fact that I find Meek Mill to be quite charismatic in front of a microphone. Wale can still fuck off, though.


Latimore, It Ain’t Where You Been… It’s Where You’re Goin’ (Glades, 1976).

One time I heard it's not where you're from but where you pay rent. But then, just when I was coming to terms with that concept, then I heard it's not what you make but how much you spent. And there was something about a shinebox and a gypsy. Turns out that, years earlier, Latimore brought the important message that it ain’t where you been - it’s where you’re goin. So moved by this belief, he turned it into the title of an album and did a cover photo shoot on the set of “The Symphony” video or, wait, was it the set of “Scalp Dem”? Either way, 'More remembered to bring some raw emotion looking at the camera lens, probably thinking to himself Don't stop, get it get it (they say that in Miami, where the Glades record label originated). He also tied his shirt at the midriff without losing an ounce of masculine fire, a thing that Prince is able to accomplish in everything he's ever done, ever.

The album's got the break from Gangstarr's “Royalty,” with the line about puffin lah that lyric websites hear as "puffin lye," which is much more painful and the mistake makes me cringe. I feel embarrassed for the Internet like it's a person, the same embarrassment I feel in my tummy whenever I hear the hideous earnest goofy Beatles version of the Isleys' “Twist & Shout.” 

It Ain't Where You Been was produced by Steve Alaimo, who also did that lovely Timmy Thomas song (featuring me in the video, wearing my finest brown wig - but not the other Tim Thomas, the true Tea Party patriot) and Betty Wright’s “Girls Can’t Do What the Guys Can,” a song that speaks the truth – Girls can't do what the guys do/And still be a lady—except when it comes to being President and collecting records and liking sports. (We can do those 3 things without compromising our femininity.) It Ain't Where You Been also has the “A Million and One Questions” break on it - Premier evidently never went anywhere without his beloved Latimore record in the late '90s - but Latimore III is the superior album. Latimore also thought More, More, More, Latimore would be an acceptable name for an album. Cute, but not as good as my “Womacks on Macks on Macks.” I say this with conviction but still softly (as if I played piano in the dark).

Earl Klugh (Blue Note, 1976). 

Wikipedia would like to gently remind you that his last name is pronounced “Clue,” because Wikipedia evidently thinks you're an idiot (But there’s a G and an H, Wikipedia! Surely it’s pronounced “KLUG-HUH”).

Purchased on the strength of the credit “Harvey Mason on drums”* and the presence of a song called “Slippin' In The Back Door,” which I like to think is the sequel to Main Source’s “Lookin’ at the Front Door” and the prequel to War's “Slippin Into Darkness.” Aw, but these 2 factors are not enough to save this record from back-of-the-shelf banishment and I'm glad it was cheap. If Jeezy's payin Lebron, I'm payin Marcin Gortat; bye bye 4 bucks, which is fine because nothing about the thing speaks to me. I listened to it once, then returned to my priority activities of reading the "purple banana" discussion on the Prince message board, watching that Gibbs video and cringing at the Beats by Dre cornball product placement but smiling at the "studio in the bedroom closet" scene, and listening to that freaking Cee-Lo banger and daydreaming about romance. Ooh, or that Kool AD one, and daydreaming about bass, sweet JESUS what a song.

*Google, please. Google the hell outta him. Then listen to Withers’ “I Wish You Well” and marvel at the simple/powerful backbeat courtesy of Mr. Mason – but don’t steal my idea and play it in the delivery room when your firstborn enters this crazy world. IT’S MY IDEA. STEALING IS WRONG.

Spirit, Best Of (Epic, 1973).

The only way I could ever tolerate Tebow and his Christ-y dullness is if he were to enter and leave every press conference to the sound of Norm Greenbaum's “Spirit In the Sky.” That would be so fucking incredible, I mean, can you imagine. I'm sort of a weak person and music drives me to make bad decisions sometimes, especially if it's beautifully-produced music that starts with an echo-y guitar riff that leads into handclaps powered by the pure gospel truth, so I'm telling you that intro/outro for a boring Tebow Q&A session would be enough to make me start believing in things of which Christopher Hitchens would disapprove. Anyway, a band named Spirit is going to elicit these kinds of thoughts in me, which is fine because the band Spirit doesn't elicit anything in me other than I liked this LA band the first time they existed, when they were called The Doors and even then I didn't really like them all that much. Their producer was Lou Adler, responsible for producing overlapping-harmony heaven “I Saw Her Again” (BEST Mamas & Papas song, oh god those CHORDS), siring talent-deprived dirtbag Cisco Adler, almost redeeming himself by directing Up In Smoke, and, during his golden years, bravely taking on the chief tasks of counting his racks and filling a regular courtside seat at Staples next to Jack. Spirit just wasn't very memorable band. “Mechanical World” is spooky and dope, though. That intro is a killer.

Grover Washington, jr., Paradise (Asylum, 1979). 

Like me, Grover loved basketball and Bill Withers. Only one of us dedicated a song to Dr. J and played sax on “Just the Two of Us,” though. “He should go play smooth jazz,” James Brown once claimed about Grover, as told to Jonathan Lethem, and I concur. It was a cold thing to say, but sexy in its coldness because it was true. “We got something else going...nothing smooth about it," James added, ice-ing things up even further. Paradise is smooth, for sure, but it's also boring, apart from the controversy a few years back when Grover had to change the name of his song “Icey” to “1017 Brick Squad.” It was a pretty big deal; not sure if you remember. The rest of the album is smooth and deadly boring, including the title track with a video full of images of the alleged glory of nature (whales breaching, squirrels squirrelling, a butterfly landing gently on a flower),

in what has to be the most solid example of heavy-handed earnestness coupled with goofiness since Shock's/Humpty's verse in “We're All in the Same Gang” (KDAY with the assist - yesterday during my drive home from Trader Joe's). Kill a black man?, Hump says, Yo what are you - retarded? I understand that the question is probably not directed at me, but I'm not retarded, thank you; I'm simply trying to sort through this pile of conflicting emotions you've just laid at my feet, sir. What am I to do here? Do I laugh at your big funny nose and the fact that you just said “retarded” (always funny), or do I go volunteer at the local community center? And is it possible to combine liberal emo social-problem heartache with a groan and eye-roll? It is! I just did it!

The smoothness of Grov's alto sax cries are a nice contrast to the semi-rough/rugged history of Asylum Records, started by the tiny and rich David Geffen, recipient of a Spector punch in the face that one time, according to that Mick Brown bio I read. Geffen was also the ringleader of the first gay mafia, as opposed to the more recent gay mafia about which Fat Joe informed me. Grover's smooth cover portrait is by John Collier; I don't know if it's called Venus Flytrap with Saxophone Turns to Monasticism, but it should be. Collier was known for painting scenes of Christianity as a Caucasian sport and I do not know what this has to do with smooth jazz. So is the cover image sincere or ironic? Unclear as of this writing. I have the same question about Don Trip's “King Kong” tat. Whatever man, the record was 99¢. Nonshoutout to me for not picking up Walking with a Panther from the same bin, though. Oh, I'm sure I'll see it again, I think to myself all the time in these situations, because I'm an idiot. I do see it again -  but it's not until a year or two later.

The MC5, High Time (Atlantic, 1971).

Danny Brown knows and speaks highly of one third of the Belleville Three (Juan Atkins), and this pleases me. I feel like musical persons from the same part of Earth should support each other, except for the case in which it's me and the person I'm supposed to support for geographic reasons is Game. Apparently, just being tall and foxy and raspy-voiced is enough to get the Fader to post your mixtape, so I should be listening to Mr. Blonde's banger right now instead of here with all of you. (Are You Gonna Bark All Day, Little Doggie, or Are You Gonna Bite, it's called. Produced by Skywlkr except for Jake One on tracks 6 and 10). Getting back to Detroit, though - no bad punk rock, and no corny rappers! None! Right? I mean, Royce is ridiculous sometimes, but if I were from Michigan I'd sock you with the strength of Ndamukong Suh's cleated foot if you talk bad about Royce. Loyalty, bruh. Then I'd swaggeringly be gone in the night wearing my baggy shorts, like those hoodlums the Fab Five. Anyway, the Motor fucking City 5 got some Dopehead support, and this pleased me too (I smiled and said Awww). Now all I need is Danny to drop I Done Kicked 'Em Out (his next mixtape) for the circle to be complete. 

The record was produced by Geoffrey Haslam, who also produced Eddie Harris' Bad Luck is All I Have and I Need Some Money, album titles which reveal that Eddie "Rugged Schleprock" Harris is the Sean P of midcentury hard bop. (He has the alternate nickname Eddie "The Reason Why I'm Talking Shit" Harris, which was not produced by Haslam but is no less Sean P-ish in title). High Time was recorded at Artie Fields Studios in Detroit, where 2 years later the Ohio Players would record Pleasure, making the studio a brick-and-mortar embodiment of a Danny Brown song - Detroit, sexual pleasure, bass, a song called "Miss X" (Ohio Players), and a song called "Laid It" (MC5), on an album called, no less, High Time.

Dave and me, bout to eat some cookies and play a spirited round of Yahtzee.

David Banner, “Like a Pimp” 12” (SRC/Universal, 2003).

You ready for this? You sure? Because it appears that you are not. Listen, there are people in my face, damn near every day, askin a million questions like Logan where you stay. But when this comes on, meet me down at the local dancefloor because, sweetie pie, it's goin down. Chad Butler's voice on the hook (“Take It Off”), the very same Chad Butler to whom one Daniel Brown pays tribute, flow-wise, in “I Will,” is what gets me out of my dress, but he's gone and my affection for him can only go so far in the living world that I still inhabit. Therefore: Banner for President, the bumper sticker on my Prius says.

There are rules regarding dignity in lyrics. With the exception of the hit 1996 song "My Boo" by Ghostdown DJs, for example, the term freak me, boy should never be said out loud by a grown woman. Nobody but Schoolboy Q can get away with the string of words "raining in her cervix," which is oddly sexy because I'm a weirdo.  And unless it's a song by David Banner, a song addressing a lady self-loving on the dance floor should never happen. Lavell, you got it. If your game is on, gimme a call. Don't try to cage me in an attempt to convince yourself you're ready to settle down with a lady with a master's degree, though. I'm not Captain Save-A-Rapper, you feel me.

Banner for President, mostly for the fundraising parties that I'd totally come to, not least because I suspect it has an open bar and he'd ask for donations to Heal the Hood at the door, thereby combining my two loves of charity and getting tunrt up. What the hell possessed him to do that “Air Force Ones” remix, though, is a mystery that I shall never figure out. It is the darkest of secrets, like what lies in the sludge of the Mississippi River's bottom. Remember the original, though? A terrific song about a thing I do not fucking care about (men's shoes). 

“You go to Tougaloo, but I know you still flip” is the most accurate and succinct description of every post-feminist young woman in this country I believe I have heard yet. This song’s an ass-friendly, bass-y criticism of our collective tendency to think in stupid, overly simplified binaries ("college degree to use for one's future career x acting out sexually? IMPOSSIBLE" - America), plus it's 9 years old but has gathered no dust. Running trains, bad table manners, shake something, bitch, HA DAVID I DON’T THINK SO, NICE TRY, BUDDY. The seductive power of melody coupled with words that rhyme in a steezy cadence over said melody makes me believe it as truth, until I catch myself and remember the seduction is necessary for capitalism to flourish but the words behind the seduction might not be the most genuine. David Ruffin says beauty’s only skin deep, promises he’ll take a sweet girl over a pretty girl any day, and then he brings hot piece Tami Terrell to the Motown Picnic to show her off. And the dude rapping about pourin it up, not giving a fuck, and girls’ mouths doing him and his friends favors might actually have a master’s degree and do charity work, just like the schoolteacheresque girl behind you in line at Trader Joe’s might have been listening to “Like a Pimp” in the car on her way to Trader Joe’s. 

Eddie Kendricks, Vintage '78 (Arista, 1978).

In planning another record-store-conquest trip - this time to the deep American south, because I want to feel even closer than ever to Banner now that "Like a Pimp" is in my head - directs me to Birmingham and what they refer to as a "goofy statue of Eddie Kendricks," which offends me down to my bones. The word goofy in describing anything Kendricksian upsets me. It's undignified. (I take the reputations of musical men whom I do not know very verrrry seriously.) If you're not as sensitive as me and you're able to continue your search for record stores in Tennessee and Alabama, I recommend the Let's Go guidebook series. I want you to be happy, so here's a treat: when you type let's go into the Amazon search box, Trick Daddy comes up as the #2 result! (Accidental joy is the sweetest kind of joy.) I hope to return from the trip with my hatred for SEC football teams intact and a picture of myself hugging up on Eddie. The statue. In a highly dignified fashion. I mean, I'll probably wrap one leg around him like he's the pole at Magic City, but then I'll make a big,  dignified donation to the American Cancer Society to counteract my childish behavior.

Wiki says Eddie left Motown in 1978, with the requirement of signing away the rights to his royalties, which saddens me because 1) what the fuck, that's missed-out-on boatloads of cash  from baby boomer movie soundtracks alone, and 2) what the fuck, why had I not heard this before since I am a Temps obsessor, real fucking talk. But then, De Passe Entertainment, all rights reserved, alleges that Eddie did coke with David Ruffin in a key scene from that late-'90s Temps TV movie and I don't think I can really trust that source, either. The album was produced by Jeff Lane of B.T. Express fame, AKA Jeff Lane of “Do It ('Til You're Satisfied)” fame, AKA Jeff Lane of “Jeff Lane, Logan Is Eternally Grateful to You” fame. But Vintage '78 won't get a ton of play in apt. 680; it's mostly mid-tempo and boring. “One of the Poorest People" is about being rich and really sad, song-subject territory that Drake has taken to soaring new heights. Otherwise, the album is I'm in love; I love you; Do you love me; I'm a fool because I love you. Eddie was in his late 30s when this came out, and that's a tricky time for an R&B god, I suppose, unless you're one Robert Sylvester Kelly from Chicago, IL, who is not bound by age and who will be sexy R&B Jesus forever and ever amen. But "How's Your Love Life Baby" is a pretty opener, sparkly and melodic with sad lyrics, like this band the Smiths that your older cousin taught you about. 

The Best of Tommy James & the Shondells (Roulette, 1969). 

The world of straight men is generally not a mystery to me. I mean, I got thrown off a little last week, when I discovered that 1) Kyrie Irving is Australian (????), and 2) everybody think Chris Bosh is gay. I watch a fair amount of NBA and these key nuggets somehow escaped me. I felt a little left out of the boys' club. Otherwise, though, I'm pretty clear about hetero-masculine needs and desires, which are generally those of straight women except we get paid less than you do while at work and we say Awww more often and we can give life with our curvy, sexy bodies. I think I know a little bit about straight men. And "Crimson and Clover" - the sound of a straight man's brain while he is looking at a pretty woman - is a lot of the reason why. Are there any other songs on this album? I do not know.
January 1969 - Super Bowl III, Namath waving the finger. Number One. Number Onnnnnnnne. The Beatles' concert on the roof, Billy Preston's key stabs stealing the show. “Crimson” was the top-selling song, bookended on the charts by “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” and “Everyday People.” If I were around back then and I had just bought the “Crimson” 45 and invited you over to listen, I'd totally say Trust me, you guys. You want to be high for this as I'm bringing the tonearm over to the little black round spinning disc. Roulette, by the way, was supposedly a front business for the Genovese crime family, which makes the label that Tommy James recorded for significantly more interesting than the one that is currently home to Rick Ross. Roulette, self-made. MMG's just affiliated.

Meat Puppets, Meat Puppets II (SST, 1984).

The only people I want talking to me about Jesus Christ are Prince and Stevie Wonder, thank you, so keep your auntie off my doorstep. The only people I want talking to me about hell are James Brown and Cobain, even if Cobain's words about a lake of fire are not his own and are those of the brothers Kirkwood, Cris and Curt (blue & red shirt, and plaid shirt, respectively). It just felt right to add this to my stack that day at the record store, even though it won't exactly compete with Black Ivory for time on my hi-fi (it's Larry Blackmon Week in apt. 680). I had Nirvana on the brain because of those Little Roy covers. Plus you can't go wrong with supporting anything on SST Records, which Rollins will talk your ear off about during his radio show when you're driving back to LA from your mom's house. Then he'll regale you with his memories about the time he and Darryl Jenifer dared Mike Watt to not wear a plaid shirt that time in Tallahasee and it turned into a big mess of misinterpreted jokes and hurt feelings. But then Rollins'll play “Hot Pants Road” later in his set and you'll think Aw, this guy's not so bad

Thee Oh Sees, Carrion Crawler/The Dream EP (In the Red, 2011).

“Dedicated to the memory of Jay Reatard, Jerry Fuchs and Gerard Smith,” says the sleeve. I have no idea of any of these men were good people. But just like how I don't watch football for the purpose of seeing men "being good people" (I watch it for the pleasure of well-executed drives, completed passes, sacks, punt-fakes, Jacoby Ford, Mike Tomlin's Omar Epps face, and Polamalu's hair), I don't listen to music to hear somebody being a good person. 83% of my records would have to be thrown out if this were the case. Yes, even you, Sade. I'm looking at you, mama.

Where do bad folks go when they die? Tebow will give you one answer; I'll give you quite another, plus I have a Prius and an apartment stuffed with records and I do not fear female power or sexuality so I'm way more fun to be around than Tebow. I walked into Permanent with this one on my list, found it, and in a sign that I was doing the right thing, the store owners played it (LOUDLY). “Chem-Farmer” was a real pleasure as I walked around adding vinyl to my arms, probably with an extra little swing in my hips. One Eyed Fat Girl Publishing is behind the record and this only sealed the deal for me since the name is so very RA-the-Rugged-Man-esque. RA had that imprint for a week and then shelved it, remember? Oh wait no, that was One Eyed Fat Slut publishing.

1583 Colorado Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90041

Pros: Adorable store kitty! They play music LOUD, like your weed. Nice proprietors who'll give you who gave me a free bag - maybe because I spent lots of money, but more than likely because I am charming and people just like to lace me wherever I go.

Cons: No pancakes. No sightings of older-man-fetish object Michael Madsen.


Thursday, January 5, 2012

Now I ain't sayin she a record digger.

“When her hands hunted out these beautiful new sounds, it was the best feeling she had ever known.” 

– Carson McCullers, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

Hi! It's me in my sassy glasses. Email marriage proposals to heightfiveseven@gmail, but only if you are signed to a major.

Digging's a dumb name for it, a dude said to me in an email exchange last week.

This prompted a "NUH-UH" from me because I'm set in my ways and don't like to be challenged, ever. Then I realized that what he said is true. We just take it as fact that digging should be the name for it since that's what our great-great-grandparents called it in the old country, but NO LONGER, you guys. Henceforth, I'm not a Digger! I'm a Paycheck-Spender, definitely, but that's not very catchy. I'm a Jump-Up-and-Down-er when I find something good, maybe? (also not catchy). An Enthusiast? A Celebrator of Random Dumb Luck, yes, definitely, when I find that Jaggerz record with the Curren$y break (this has not yet happened. I'm pretending it has happened, putting it out there as a way of tricking the universe into making sure it happens). And I attribute all of my random dumb luck at the last Beat Swap Meet in LA to the fact that I established only three rules for myself: 1) SPEND ALL THE MONEY YOU WANT, DOLLFACE; LIFE'S SHORT, 2) Take your list of Want-To-Finds and Must-Finds (compiled from scraps of paper in my purse and half the pages in my tiny Moleskine), and 3) Look cute, but wear something comfy in a fabric with plenty of stretch (suitable for reaching, hunching over, walking table to table, carrying a stack under my arm). A white cotton T attracts so much record dander, but it's nothing bleach can't fix. And my hair! It looked pretty - if I may be corny for a moment - thanks to Moroccan oil, a thing that makes my unruly Celtic hair smooth and shiny. You can get it at any beauty supply store, it's nothing special, but the name “Moroccan oil” sounds rare and fancy, mostly because all things Morocco- and middle-east-related have exotic cache, like my good friend Jay Elect knows. (“Egypt, Egypt” – the Egyptian Lover; “Egypt, blah blah, I'm here to save you all, I'm destined to blow, my ancestors sent messages telling me so, Egypt, Egyptians...” - Jay Elect, every tenth bar.)

My haul from the day is described in loving detail below, along with the award(s) each record earned. Ah, and points for not going along with me blindly, young man in my story to open this post, just because you maybe want to see me out my jeans. Digging is a dumb name for it.

Ramsey Lewis, Solar Wind (Columbia, 1974)

I'm pretty sure Ramsey himself did his own gear styling for the cover, the theme of which is “Mod Squad detective who also does security for James Brown during the Black Caesar recording sessions.” The contents of the album, however, were lovingly overseen by Epic White Man, Stax capo, “In the Midnight Hour” writer, Logan-Walking-Down-the-Street-in-Some-Little-Ho-Shorts anthem “99 and a Half Just Won't Do” producer, godlike individual with god status, the GOD, Steve Cropper, so Solar Wind was therefore a good purchase and a solid addition to apt. 680 - though it's not nearly as good as Ramsey's Sun Goddess, I'm sorry to say. That's because Solar Wind doesn't contain the song “Sun Goddess,” produced by Maurice White of Earth Wind & Fire - a production truth that is so obvious once you've found it out and listen to the song again. It's just got that controlled/chaotic EWF sound that comes from knowing how to wrangle 57 band members - and, in later years, it was loved so hard by Ant Banks that he laid it over a fun, slappy beat and then gave it to his friend to rap over (and even added an R&B hook that's corny yet enjoyable). Maurice White is terrific but Maurice will never be the god that Steve is, since not only is Steve part lion, he's also a god, he is, and I know I use that term for every decent non-rap musician over age 50 and for rappers who were either in KMD or CoFlow at one point, or in OutKast currently, or named Danny Brown currently, but a god is a god and goddammit if I'm not going to use my little corner of the Internet to praise a god.

An actual deity, here on Earth, Steve had some production skills that would really do some fantastic work to your ears/heart even if the Stax studio on McLemore didn’t have that sloping floor* that made everything sound clear and huge, with just enough bass to convince you to take your pants off. (“If you ain't claiming McLemore,” goes one of my life mottoes, “fuck y'all hoes.”) If I were from Memphis, I'd get wet-eyed over all things Stax, Comin' Out Hard comin out hard of any vehicle (MORE808 is one of my other life mottoes), and DJay’s “Eiffel Tower/apocalypse/Tennessee/mixtapes” analogy in Hustle & Flow (his speech at the club to Luda!). I wouldn't get wet-eyed over last summer's super good Don Trip mixtape Tennessee Accents for 57 Minutes, err, 'scuse me, Stepbrothers; I just like it a lot, so I'd bang it a lot.

*it used to be a movie theater

Most Sounds-Like-A-Blackstar-Song Title, in “Jamaican Marketplace.” And, because I just typed that, Ramsey's record also provides the Strongest Yet Most Tangential Reminder That I Need the “You Already Knew” Instrumental

Nice version of “Summer Breeze,” nice Moog, nice bass, but overall the record is a little too nice and not enough not-nice. Sure I could walk down the street to it, but I wouldn't feel very sexy. Wilson, like Quelle & Danny and Purrp, understands my walking-down-the-street needs in a way Ramsey never will.

Ballin' Jack
(Columbia, 1970). 

YES, humans of planet Earth. Yes. This some stuff that, as they say, goesssssss*. It's aural Viagra - the most mutually beneficial kind, because it works on your girlfriend too, who is currently busy taking her dress off; oh, there it goes, you didn't even have to talk her into it! Ballin' Jack's gutter riffs coming from the hi-fi did all the work for you.

The “Never gonna let em say that I don't loooovvvve youuuu” in the Beastie Boys' “Shadrach” was Jimi to my 15-year-old ears. I was positive about this. But I was incorrect. (Turns out I was incorrect at age 15, many times, about many things). Most Pretentious: Me at 15, such a fucking know-it-all. Then I got right during junior year, straightened myself out, did some research, and discovered Ballin' Jack, Best Paul's Boutique Tie-In. Ballin' Jack toured with Jimi, hence the vocal/stylistic similarities, and Ballin' Jack was from Seattle, home to longtime aural stimulator/Logan's fantasy phone-book-out-loud-reader Ish Butler, he who makes me blurt out, “Sweet Jesus, that voice” every time I watch this. (Oh, he says at the beginning, I thought it was comin in hot. Not even rapping at that point!, he's swoon-y just in his everyday talk! Sorry, what was I saying?)

Ballin' Jack. What an album. It slaps, people. Or in less E-40 speak, more Loganspeak: “You guyyyys! OH MY GOD! SO GOOD! It'll make you sell your Raf Simonses and next thing you know you'll be wearing some old Chucks in a busted old Camaro and picking me up so we can make out behind the bleachers!” Biggest Failure: ME, for not having owned Ballin' Jack already. The record also wins Best Cover Font; just like everything out of Wiz's mouth sounds like it should be in Comic Sans, every guitar part on this record sounds like a weed/sex/fight riff due to the use of the PreMetallica Jagged Serif typeface (72 pt.) on the cover. Thanks to frontman Luther Rabb, this one also gets Best Appearance in Today's Haul by a Singing Bassist. There's Lemmy, Bootsy, Geddy Lee, Phil Lynott; these are the greats. Rabb's not one of the greats, but he's a member of the club.


The group’s name also provides the Best Title of a UGK Song That Never Was. It’s track 10 on a Bandcamp-only album that's too secret for me to share and anyway the link's expired, and it's about cars of course. Chad starts to sound really irritated around the end of his first verse, because he's tired of dealing with this bullshit and he just wants to live, can he fucking LIVE goddammit and take care of his lady and his business, and the hook goes “Got new shoes for my baby ‘cause I’m ballin, Jack.”

Logan's Run soundtrack (Jerry Goldsmith) (MGM/Polydor, 1976)

Most Throne-Sounding Song Titles: “Flameout,” “The Truth,” “End of the City,” “The Monument.” Most E-40-Sounding Song Titles: “On the Circuit,” “Intensive Care.”
Song That is, Shockingly, Not About Oral Sex or the NFL: “The Dome.”

We'll all enjoy ourselves in the future, Logan's Run says. Take me there, someone! Take me, even though the future evidently sounds like big stupid crescendos and cheesy flutes, the way old-timey movie-music people predicted the future would sound. How sad that they had no idea drum machines could make snares sound so warm, nicely exemplified in this song with a Logan's Run mention (We ain't jokin/For security we on this run like Logan/Kamaal's doin the hustle/And you backstage voguin), produced by The Ummah, a wonderful musical-collective gift from the universe that I wish was still here because I'm in love with the past. I still wanna go to the future, though - it's sexy and streamlined! The thing is, because it is so alluring and perfect, we're not long for it. Sexyfuture is just a tease; beware. Logan's Run takes place in a “hermetically sealed post-apocalyptic pleasuredome,” where humans don't really need to work and they're free to pursue all of the pleasures of life, just like the rap game circa 2011. Eating and drinking aren't necessary, and when they feel like sex they just use a teleporting device to make it happen (just like what Twitter is to rappers, 2009 - present). The only catch in this idyllic existence is that nobody's allowed to live more than 30 years - just like the rap game - with the corresponding downside being that future life partner Danny Brown would be forced to become a Runner in order to escape the fate of being killed at 30. The upside is that I would then willingly become a Runner, because what fun is a world without Danny Brown to describe getting rich/sad/triumphant/fucked-up in it?

George Duke, Liberated Fantasies (MPS, 1976)


Most Prince-ish Credit: “Amanda B. Reckondwith on vocals.” (Real name: Janet Ferguson.) Next I suppose you're going to try and convince me that Vanity wasn't that sexy lady's real name-? (Real name: Denise Matthews).

It's George on keys on this one, George on the mic, George's smiling face and big beautiful cloud of hair. Liberated Fantasies was put out by the dopely-named German jazz label MPS - Musik Produktion Schwarzwald (“Music Production Black Forest”). MPS was the label responsible for Hans Koller-Wolfgang Dauner's classic, claaaaaaaasic banger Kunstkopfindianer in 1974. Mannnn, we sure made some sweet '70s love to that one, remember? I think there was some lager and strudel involved too, and you insisted I wear a Heidi costume, because you said C'mon baby, why not, being the big ol freak that you are.

Thanks to that cover: Best Smile. Artwork and photography by Cal Schenkel, a person who managed to overcome the name Cal Schenkel and make a living designing covers by the Mothers of Invention and Zappa (solo), Captain Beefheart, Tim Buckley. Cal is also responsible for THIS source of childhood nightmares for a young Logan flipping through her dad's records on the living room floor:

HOLD ME. And turn on my nightlight after you tuck me in.

Christ!, the unadulterated freakiness of this thing, The Persistence of Memory but with keys, like something I’d see in a Red-Stripe-chased-with-Valium, passed-out-on-the-couch dream, not that I'd know anything about that! HI MOM. Even here, though, George remains a man not afraid to smile on an album cover. Unless you're George Duke or your last name is 3000/Benjamin, smiling on your album cover is a 1-way ticket to Cornballville. (I have pretty strict guidelines when it comes to masculinity, particularly for musicians. I'm trying to let some of that go in 2012. Check back with me in mid-February-?)

I can also see ?uestlove doing some sort of nod to this, except he'd put a drumstick in those fingers.  Then all the blog boys would scurry about until they found the source that sparked the new.

The Blackbyrds, City Life (Fantasy, 1975)

Biggest Ego: Donald Byrd, for creating and naming the group after his damn self in the early '70s. I guess LOOK AT ME I'M SUPERTALENTED DONALD BYRD I'M THE BEST would've been too ridiculous a name for a band.

Right now the world and my computer are both obsessed with the drawling-outta-control A$AP crew, based in New York and led by the prettiest member, Rocky (A$AP's just his nick-naaaaame). Rocky was named after Rakim, who I'm told was a rapper based in New York. Rocky, then, is a cutesy shortened version of Rakim, like people who shorten Logan to Logey. Logey, in turn, enjoys turning DOOM into the cute “Doomsy” - which reminds me, why are we not all listening to THISSSSSS right now. City Life has the Most A$AP Rockyish Song Titles - like Rocky's, the Blackbyrds' are 2- and 3-word combos that tell you exactly what the song is about, no games or fancy language - “Purple Swag,” (Rocky)/“Hash and Eggs” (Blackbyrds). “Get High” (Rocky)/“Flying High” (Blackbyrds). “Uptown” (Rocky)/“City Life” (Blackbyrds). This one also gets the Label with the Freshest Backstory award, since Fantasy started in SF as an actual record-pressing plant, then morphed into a label. They named it Fantasy after a sci-fi novel, getting the Murs stamp of approval in so doing, and were the first label to record and produce Lenny Bruce on vinyl, thereby getting my parents' stamp of approval. Fantasy merged with Concord Records - named for the East Bay city, back before the East Bay was known for Al Davis, 808, trunk tapes, and, circa 2011, a tiny Caucasian lady and her troupe of annoying, shit-talking friends who go crazy with the cat-eye liquid liner. Their existence is upsetting, both because 1) they are real live humans and not some nightmare from that time I passed out on the couch (Red Stripe/Valium), and because 2) disapproval of them is something that this ladyblogger has in common with Rawsssss. (which I, in turn, disapprove of. I disapprove that I disapprove of something that he also disapproves of. The snake eats its own disapproving tail, disapprovingly.)

The Blackbyrds are probably best known for “Walking in Rhythm,” which, sure, we all know it, it’s an OK jam I suppose, slightly dullsville if you ask me. This album was purchased on the strength of opening jam (Best Opening Jam) “Rock Creek Park,” about doing it both in the park and after dark. Oh. Yeah. And finally, there's the Fact that Connects to a Quality MC of Today in a Tangential/Fresh Way: Donald Byrd, Detroit-bred human just like my future life partner Danny Brown, went to Wayne State, in Linwood (Inglewood pronunciation).

Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song soundtrack (Stax, 1971)

Tightest Commitment to Detail: Me, for making sure I put the correct number of As and Ss in Baadasssss. Most Spirited Handclaps: “Won't Bleed Me.”

Sweet Sweetback is a tale of hoes and cops and a well-endowed black man who uses his penis to convince ladies to doing things for him (way to go, Melvin Van Peebles, just crushing those stereotypes), and its soundtrack was written by the same man who wrote the movie, then directed the movie, and got Earth, Wind & Fire to perform the songs on the soundtrack, which, by the way, he wrote and composed. And then, in his free time, he decided to cast the most appropriate, handsomest, most well-endowedest gentleman he could find in the lead role: himself. LOL, Melvin. L.O.L., buddy. Because we're talking about the moving pictures industry, this walk through history would not be complete without some double-talk and shady business: Bill Cosby put up the key funds to allow this film to be completed. You might recognize Bill from introducing his kids to Stevie Wonder and Lena Horne on those reruns on your TV, and also for Chris Wallace wearing his sweaters. I, however, recognize Bill as that cranky guy on CNN, criticizing rap music for being violent and sexy. Or, wait - do I recognize Bill as the onetime movie producer who helped bankroll a movie about a fellow with a large penis who uses it to sex up ladies when he's not beating dudes' faces? GOSH I'M CONFUSED. 

Anyway, the soundtrack is amazing, filled with snippets that show up on Doom records years later, and it was produced by something called Yeah Inc, a dumb name that is still less dumb than the production names Boi 1-da and AraaaaabMuziaaaaiaiaiakkckck. (Ha, I also just found out the producer of that horrible “Rack City” thing that I secretly sing along with in my car is a grown man who thought it would be appropriate to call himself “DJ Mustard.”)

Leon Ware
(Elektra, 1982)

Sorry to keep you waiting so long, ladies. Here's Theophilus Leon. “Can I Touch You There,” he wants to know, in a moment of curiosity that's more about the question than the answer, just like Marvin's “When Did You Stop Loving Me, When Did I Stop Loving You,” Curren$y's “What's What,” Nore's “What what what what what-what WH-WHAT,” and my personal composition “When Exactly Did Common Become Corny?, Like When Was the Precise Moment During the Earth's Cycle Around the Sun? I'm Having Trouble Pinpointing It but I'd Like to Know for Personal-History Reasons.”

Regarding the undeniable sex vibrating from that cover photo, all I can muster is a “Leon, what happened to my lacy underthings? They were here a second ago.” Aw Leon, congrats on having the Best 'I Have a Brass Waterbed I Wanna Show It To You Here's Some Zinfandel, Pretty Lady' Face. It's your lust-face that makes me forget you were once capable of innocence in lyrical content and chord progression, like when you wrote “I Wanna Be Where You Are." (I really really want to make this entire post about “I Wanna Be Where You Are.” Trying to show restraint here. I mean, Jesus, what a SONNNNG.)

No breaks on this one, but lots of Rhodes, plus a song called “Deeper Than Love,” which I like to think of as a “fuck off, Rawss” that was just delayed 30 years. Sadly, there's also a corny, not-good song called “Why I Came to California,” which, because it is by a heterosexual '70s man, is of course about paradise being real, hillsides and deserts, dreams coming true, watching pretty girls at Zuma Beach, lalala, good grief, gimme something new, Leon! It's got THE GOD James God's son  Gadson on drums, though, so slam-dunk, Leon. Purchasing your record was an excellent decision on my part. Now you and your '70s sexface live in apt. 680 with me - in vinyl form, anyway. Maybe you think my place is paradise, maybe you think I'm pretty; maybe not. Either way, Zuma's overrated and I'll buy anything with your name on it, Mr. Ware, due to your god status for envisioning I Want You, conjuring it up, convincing Marvin, daydreaming about it, composing it, sweating it out, and wrestling with that bitch until it came to be. This album also has the Best Cover With Old-School Weekend Ties, as Bobby Holland was the photographer -  Holland did covers for Rose Royce, the Gap Band, DeBarge, and A Taste of Honey, which, in my brain, elicits a Hey LA fam, keep it locked to 92.3, old school and today's R&B! We're taking the 25th caller right now for these tickets to see Keith Sweat at The Pond! After the break, comin back with some MJ, “I Wanna Be Where You Are,” requested by a caller named Logan!

Best Fucking Fact Outta This Whole Haul: Leon Ware did the Deep Throat soundtrack -??? - !! - which had been one of the world's great mysteries prior to an Internet search by Logan, circa Dec. 16, 2011. German 45s on eBay (viewed in super-tight zoom on my laptop's screen) say Leon and a lyricist named Bob Hilliard did the music. It makes sense, groove-wise, when you listen. It's got that Leon feel, even though it sounds like Leon used 2 soup cans and a toy piano to compose. Leon's also from Detroit, so of course I love him, but I'll never know why Leon doesn't shout it from the rooftops that he did the Deep Throat music. This is illogical, like using the name AraabMUZIK professionally when your given name is the much-doper Abraham Orellana.

Dexter Wansel, Life On Mars (Philadelphia International, 1976)

Del, Madlib, Sun Ra, Kool Keith, Ayers, Monk, everyone on Ninja Tune in the '90s, most dudes on Warp the next decade, all members of Parliament and Funkadelic and Parliament Funkadelic, Stevie Wonder, Zappa, and sure,what the hell, Bowie and Syd Barrett and Brian Wilson too; Dex Wansel is the latest in a long line of Space-Travelers sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in my record collection, along with '70s singer/songwriters and the most skilled of all dead rappers. A crying shame that this wasn't in apt. 680 before, I snatched it up at the swap meet based on its rap production pedigree* as well as my red-hot embarrassment at not owning it already.

Side A, track 1: “A Prophet Named K.G.,” which is, sadly, not about the Celtics' forward or Naughty By Nature's quietest member. It does, however, provide the Best Kenneth Gamble Nod in Song Title Form. I like to be reminded of Gamble & Huff, which, along with being a super production duo, also happen to be my two most favorite activities while in Vegas, HEY-O. The other song titles are  fresh and cosmic - “Stargazer,” “One Million Miles from the Ground,” and *“Theme from the Planets” being the standouts. I have dreams of interplanetary travel too, Dex! Escapism! Obsolete credit: “ARP by Dexter Wansel” (along with keys, synth, and lead vocals). ARP built good products, Google tells me, and they sold well; “the major problems that developed in the company were due less to design flaws than to corporate mismanagement.” So it was like that whole Rawkus thing. 

Gabor Szabo, Magical Connection (Blue Thumb, 1972)
This one's actually not an album in tribute to the unstoppable love that Stringer Bell and I will always share (in my head). Our connection truly is a magical one (in my head). Sigh. “Logan Bell. Mrs. Bell. Mr. and Mrs. Stringer Bell.” Still, I purchased the record based on the fact that you can't really go wrong with Mr. Szabo, there's someone named “Lynn Blessing” on vibraphone, and because of that cover, designed by Tom Wilkes (Safe As Milk, Harvest, All Things Must Pass). Actual Song Title: “Love Theme from Spartacus.” I mean, what. (I have no idea). Additionally, this one earns the honor of having the Most Esoteric LA Connection. “Sombrero Sam” was used by Mumbles Fowler on “The Hunt” by Acey, who remains the only dude in LA who doesn't look ridiculous in a fedora. Fowler then rode off into the Indian sunset, where he is, if not fully ascetic at this point, almost fully converted to the monastic life. Meanwhile, I'm still here living the hedonistic life, taking trips to Vegas, Gambling and Huffing.

Ha, they made soundtrack two words. Stupid Italians!

Blow-Up soundtrack, Herbie Hancock (MGM, 1966)

My prized baby of the bunch, it's an original pressing. That's Veruschka the German Fox on the cover,

and the image is compelling but makes me kind of uncomfortable if my eyes stay on it for more than a few seconds, just like that eXquire cover. Best Magic City/Kang of Diamonds Tie-In: that photo, with Veruschka contorting her body for a paycheck, is a reminder from the universe of what I've learned from strippers - 1) Scotch tape is the best way to get sparkly liquid (glitter + lotion) off your skin, and 2) knowing your angles when being viewed will increase your revenue significantly. Darling, life is performance. Know those angles, ladies. I have no hustles other than the I-work-an-honest-job hustle, but the fact is that we all use the skill set of looking interested, while not being interested at all, just so we can complete our current task at hand - and this describes modeling perfectly. It also describes stripping, office jobs, retail sales, having a conversation with my aunt Jean, being at a bar anytime something other than the Clipse is being played, and, hell, probably rapping for a good percentage of on-duty hours too.

Blow-Up is famous for the Veruschka modeling scene, the presence of a young Jane Birkin in a small role, and for having Herbie Hancock do the soundtrack. What I mean is, Blow-Up is famous in my own life for being perfect fantasy fodder - “sort-of-pretty-but-sort-of-odd-looking white ladies being heralded while Herbie plays in the background.” This is my life when I daydream at work! Best Bassline for an Opener: “Bring Down the Birds,” though the song then turns into some screwball-comedy sounding thing, not very sexy at all. Its “Groove is in the Heart” connection is sort of sexy(?), but supremely unsexy is the fact that I can't figure out why Q-Tip (Jive) appeared on a record by Deee-Lite (Elektra) in 1990. Sex is brought later into the album in the form of “Stroll On” by the Yardbirds, whose audience of bored, uptight humans during their scene in the film could be, I swear, footage from any rap show in LA. Dudes are too cool for school out here.

None of these reasons compel me to borrow this film, Netflix it, or stream it illegally, though I guess I should just so I can be familiar with the films of Antonioni in case I get trapped in an elevator with Tarantino, James Franco, or the Das Racist boys. I already know the best line of the film: Thomas, the photographer, on the primary reason his wife is his wife, says, “She isn't beautiful. She's easy to live with.” This is important for us females to remember, along with the fact that we should never date anyone who refers to women as “females.” The feat of being easy to live with is just as important for males to remember, though, so you can just stop it with that email accusing me of being sexist and only insisting women adhere to this. We all want ease and comfort at the end of the day. Now be quiet so I can think! Also: my slippers, please.

Beat Swap Meet #16
Grandstar Jazz Club
943 N. Broadway, LA 

Pros: As always, the entrance fee was a canned good, collected for the homeless; records records recordssssss; Yogurtland afterward, then a nap. Heard Con Funk Shun's “Ffun,” the ffuckin
jam, in the car during the drive over!
Cons: I got overstimulated and tired. As always, I didn't bring enough money; therefore, I kind of wanted to kill myself. (See also Beat Swap Meets # 1, 3, 4, 9 & 10). I was one of about 4 female humans in attendance. Our paychecks are still about 7/10 as large as yours, gentlemen, which accounts for some absences because we just don't have as much disposable income, but LADIES: no excuses. Records are beautiful, life-affirming objects that bring messages from the other side. Get into it/get involved.