The only thing that can tear me away from making pancakes and listening to that new Danny Brown is a birthday tribute post to some Record Collection Gods of Apt. 680 (born in '49, '65, and '42, respectively).
Photo that makes me giggle:
Parker.
Hayes.
Lynott - N/A, because he looks fresh in every photo.
1- a present from Stax in '71 for his success, it's a metal/sex beast made by Lucifer's minions in a GM plant for the purpose of getting nice, respectable young ladies like me out of their dresses.
The photo above, that Ginsberg poem, James Brown in Rocky, jazz, rap, and the Stankonia cover are all pretty fresh, but generally I feel outraged and sad when I think about the country I am from, America. Scroll back some; you'll see it in previous posts about the death penalty, Rick Ross, John Boehner, FEMA. It's not the day of celebration that the checkout lady at Vons would like me to believe (“You saved $8.02! HAPPY 4TH!”). But I'd still like to keep it positive today, in the form of a birthday compare & contrast for two American super Gs who were both born on Independence Day: Al Davis and Bill Withers! (1929 and 1938, respectively).
I'd also like to point out that non-graphed commonalities that both men share include being revered in my childhood home and both continuing to be revered in my adult home, apt. 680 - and not just because they both have a Dr. Dre Connection!*, god you guys think I'm so easy:
Al: NWA’s attire in promo photos. Ice Cube hosting that “30 for 30” episode.
Bill: his “Kissing My Love” provides the drums for “Let Me Ride” and a hundred other quality rap songs. Blackstreet’s “No Diggity,” the fucking JAM (7), was produced by Dre and is built on the “Grandma’s Hands” intro. Teddy Riley doesn’t have a good voice but remember how stellar his Shorty get dowwwn, good lord/Baby got ‘em open all over towwwn was?
“I never had much interest in the piano until I realized that every time I played, a girl would appear on the piano bench to my left and another to my right.”
Duke understands me, clearly, based on his little piano anecdote. He understands most women, I guess. He also had a compulsive need to be around melody, so he understands me on that level too. Clearly.
Duke also said It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing, the sixth-greatest “ain't”-related colloquialism after
Ain't no thing but a chicken wing,
Ain't that a bitch,
King Kong ain't got shit on me,
It ain't trickin if you got it, and
It ain't no fun if the homies can't haaaa-aaave none.(sorry, Mom)
Ellington and Coltrane - “My Little Brown Book.” OH THIS ONE'S A KILLER, beautiful but sad and a killer, so let's all remind ourselves about the joy of this one if it gets to be too much. You can feel it all over! (You can feel it all ohhhver, people.)
“I just got a RZA mug for my birthday just recently” - Gucci, I'm pretty sure. But I might be paraphrasing.
“You can't be deep without a surface.” - Jonathan Lethem, regarding the birthday girl. I hate it when you can't pick just one favorite ridiculous bathing suit RZA mug photo out of the bunch.
It's my birth date and here are the 2 songs that'll be in my head all day (I mean, other than “Recently,” of course):
The Falcons' (old-timey Wilson Pickett and Eddie Floyd!) love song for the birthday girl- “I Can't Help It.” Falling in love, head over heels, etc.
He also doesn't judge me when I discover a thing that I shouuuulllllld've known a long long time ago (it was Bobby Womack, not Ike Turner! JESUS, LOGAN, who played guitar on “Family Affair”)
(It's Sly's birthday. Kanye's fond of kid stuff--labels, lasers, lights; Sly was into space travel, coke, and girls with my skin tone back when it really meant something).
Obviously MCs are mythologized in my head and they kind of talk to me as I make my way through each day, giving me pep talks and inspiring me with joyful and creative wordplay. Yancy Thigpen couldn't catch me sleepin; On my feet is venom/see I'm dressed to kill (I always wear heels to work), blah blah. Their births, therefore, must be celebrated. It just so happens that Biggie's birthday falls on this particular Spring day in which so much is irritating and sad. Sorry, Chris.
Oil-covered animals are washing up ashore, I hate HAAATE that dash in The-Dream's name, Arizona, Texas, and Kentucky are in a 3-way battle for Evil Supremacy within these United States (the "Atlantic Triangular Trade," fucking hell), and Christopher Wallace is gone and he's never coming back (never, not EVER). Then there's this "6 Unexpected Ways to Turn Him On" story today, pushed hard by Yahoo (I refuse to put the exclamation point; I'm an adult). I knew I'd have to make fun of it before I read one word in the body, as "turn him on" is so comical, like something from Cosmo in '86. This feature is part of the larger body of Internet theme pieces that compile alluring qualities of people of each gender - a theme that is annoying and stupid, but that I wish I had thought of because people really seem to love it, as evidenced by their enthusiastic comments and such. People get riled up when you tell them to do this, and not to do that, if you want someone to love you.
This particular list is BS, I'm afraid, as there are no statements of requirements related to sex, a girl maintaining a nice weight even after babies, voting appropriately, and possessing the good sense to be quiet when she knows that talking would just ruin the moment. Even I look for these qualities in girls and I'm not even looking to date a girl. It's just human decency.
1. She Appreciates "Nontraditional" Beauty. I love feedback - the squealing sound produced by guitars held close to amps. Feedback sounds like a rusty door, a dying cat, or a pack of whales crying in the ocean. When I share the ultimate feedback song, Smashing Pumpkins' "Drown," with a girl, she usually refers to the feedback-laden ending as "senseless noise." But in my opinion, it's a carefully orchestrated, creative way to use a sonic element of the guitar.
I'm not sure why I can't just walk away from this one instead of dignifying it with a response, but I must take the bait and address that "dying cat" reference. Girls don't like to be reminded that animals die (please refer to the second paragraph of this post) - especially if they are sweet and furry animals like kitties. Further, JIMI is the feedback don; his version of the Star-Spangled Banner is the song you must play in order to gauge a lady's sensitivity to the mating call of the guitar. Additionally, there is an annoying band from Los Angeles called the Silversun Pickups that bite the sound of Billy Corgan & co. like it's '94 all over again (which, of course, it is, but only when it comes to rap music). Basically, I'm just leading up to this: I wish one of my favorite rappers would do an"Ava Adore"freestyle.
2. She Faces Reality. People avoid reading about bad things that happen in the world, but it's important to have perspective and realize the world is good - and bad.
Is this even true? I only give my body and time and energy to someone who is brilliant and strong, appreciative of my smarts, affectionate, and can give a rough estimate of when Rawkus started to go downhill. Therefore, I simply don't know what most mortal human boys like and need. So is this one true or not? Realize the world is bad?I thought a sunshiny outlook was best. Do boys like a girl who watches CNN and then discusses world issues, frowny-faced and with a heavy heart? Is the art of escapism not appreciated among you? Please inform. (FYI, she should be watching BBC World News instead.)
3. She Doesn't Do What Everyone Else Does. The media embraces certain things, and many people follow. But, to most guys, followers are boring, and independent thinkers are sexy. Set trends on your own and buck established ones.
This one is just disingenuous, since "independently thinking" is probably only acceptable inasmuch as it does not interfere with a girl's commitment to shaving her legs and taking her birth control. I should've ignored this one on sheer principle, since "The media embraces certain things" is a poorly constructed sentence opener that just makes no sense and now I'm complicit in its promotion on the Internet. Nice, Logan.
4. She's Tuned in to the World. A few weeks ago, I read about a disease wiping out entire colonies of bats along the East Coast. The article confirmed my worst fears: As the bats disappear, the insect populations they feed on will explode. When I relay this story to most women I meet they say, "Why should I care?" There seems to be a dearth of people who have a passion about the world.
Science is the greatest and any girl worth marrying knows that, but 1) fuck a bat, and 2) all bugs should die because it scares me when I see one unexpectedly. And, really, who isn't tuned into the world? Are we not assuming that all girls read the paper and watch Rachel Maddow every day? Because we should assume that, as this is the standard to which we should be holding our girls. Anyway, we're spending too much time on this. Let's tune in to some world events. There's new Oddisee to discuss and obsess over. And pull your head out of your ass, because Texas is trying its hardest to get back into the Confederacy.
5. She Can Tell a Good Story. Storytelling is a gift that requires a sense of timing and an understanding of an audience. A good storyteller is intriguing but hard to find.
It's the birthday of Biggie Smalls, the fourth-best storyteller after Aesop, Slick Rick, and Captain Koons in Pulp Fiction, and any lady worth dating is obviously going to know that. I can't really tell a story for shit (I mix up my metaphors and get nervous from the pressure), but goddammit if I can't hand you a list of 100 microphone kings with great narrative ability. This would make me wife material if it weren't for the fact that I refuse to participate in the institution of marriage until it's legal for my beloved gays to do the same - in every state. So, for now, you and I will just sleep together and go record shopping together, but part ways after that and return to our own apartments for quiet time, personal time. It's rough, I know.
6. She Can Talk About "Boy Stuff."Sometimes, I spout off "boy stuff" (read: sports) and unfairly expect a girl to keep up, but I do talk about my fair share of "girl stuff" - cooking, fashion, hair - to deserve a few conversations about serial killers and horror movies.
Cronenberg and Argento, obviously. But the serial killers thing? Is that true? I feel so lost.
I know about Gacy and the clowns, and I guess there's something cool and outlaw-ish about those guys as a whole if you sort of detach yourself from the emotion -the taking of human life and evading the law, pretty G - but a whole conversation about serial killers is off-putting to me and the rest of my ladies, all the chickenheads from Pasadena to Medina. Boy stuff, if you must mark it as such and place it over on that side of the room (away from girl stuff), should maybe be reserved for talk between you and your boys. Not every girl cares about basketball and funny old pictures of KG at the high school prom, even though in a perfect world every girl would because that's some of the best stuff in life. Also, why are your gender attitudes cribbed from Father Knows Best?
I wish Big were here, but I'm OK. (I say this because I want to be). Devin the Dude still makes albums, I'm loving the delicious LeBron-Delonte dramaticals, plus I found out that me and Rizz use the same technology portal!
Being the proud owner of a trusty Toshiba laptop makes a girl feel alluring and classy, like a tall, lanky, and spectacular music producer with kung-fu, chess, and comic book fetishes. Once again, Robert saves the day. WU-TANG, UBER ALLES.
The reason for the "Epic humans" tag on this blog.
Bron-Bron to New York maybe, Elena Kagan’s preference of sexual intercourse partner somehow means something, trappin may be dead at this point, and the color of the sky above has changed, but nothing else matters on May 13 except for the fact that the god Stevie was born on this very day in 1950. If you think of a way to capture in language the influence of this man, you’re kind of a jerk for trying but I’m jealous of your ability. (PS, call me; we should probably be sleeping together).
This is the best song I could think of to post, because of each beautiful and perfect note from that clavinet, and because Bobbito played it right after “Tears of a Clown” at Wonderfull ’05 and it made me collapse right there on the floor, a quivering mass of estrogen and joy. Familiarity breeds contempt, they say, except when you’re talking about the Stevie Wonder catalogue.
I'll never fully come to terms with the fact that rappers actually age like mortals, but at least I can throw together a humble tribute to one of the greats in my humble corner of the Internet. Ghosty turns 40 today; here's a dispatch from my emotional landscape:
• The Pill, too, was born on this day (in 1960). Without being too crass, let’s just say that the birth and subsequent music of Ghosty has given me sexual freedom in a way only equaled by oral contraceptives.
• The Taurean manis known to be affable and friendly, but in such need of stability that he can become possessive and stubborn. He's also prone to brooding and dark moods. I think we all remember the"I'm just a lonely old man and people don't know that" incident of 2007. I was a wreck for almost a week, you'll recall, worrying and saving up money for a plane ticket to NY so I could hug him.
• Sexually depraved lyrics. Having recorded with El-P, Mobb Deep, Doom, Styles P., Kool G Rap. Songs about white women in knee high boots and bracelets. The high-pitched, breathless flow. The way I feel totally out of the loop sometimes when I listen to the slang and can't keep the fuck up, yet I just want more and more. Keeping it weird. (just an unorganized collection of things I love about him)
• Back-in-time pretend time: on 9 May 1970, "American Woman" and "Turn Back the Hands of Time," noted displays of bassline prowess, were riding high on the charts. Psychedelic Shack just came out (March), "Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)" was on the radio. Funkadelic came out. Wilson Pickett, "Get Me Back on Time, Engine #9."; The Spinners, "It's a Shame"; Stevie's "Signed, Sealed, Delivered," with that joyous collision of bassline and tambourine as an opener--all of 'em were new and were immediate classics. The Derek & the Dominoes album with "Layla" on it came out. Next month, in June 1970, Band of Gypsys will come out. In the fall, Paranoid by Black Sabbath will come out. Obviously baby Dennis Coles was destined for musical greatness, being born in this musical climate. Meanwhile, the only groundbreaking musical thing that happened in apartment 15 last week was Gucci leaving So Icey.
Just the sheer craftsmanship of this song. Grab your headphones and indulge me, please.
This tall, handsome man from New York who has the face of a ghost could absolutely come over to your house for some coffee and lovely conversation with your mom, over there in the breakfast nook. Ragu and nutmeg, Camay, scales of fish, Betty Crocker: mothers understand these references in Toney's breathless high pitch. Plus you got all those mentions of actresses, American presidents, kings, emperors, French-Canadian chanteuses, a bunch of athletes (tennis, football, boxing, wrasslin'), Colombian businessmen, game show hosts, '60 and '70s soul singers, '80s pop stars, messiahs, ex-"Today Show" hosts, Rat Pack-ers, Ronnie, Bobby, Ricky and Mike (sorry)...it's really so obvious that Toney and the moms of the world could chat about pop culture for an extended period of time. (Hi Ego Trip, it's me again. I'm really disappointed in you for not seeing this first.) It weakens my argument to have to omit certain lines because not everybody's mom would catch the references that mine would, but there's still enough convincing material here. For example, I feel that I can be honest and admit that I had to leave out that Sonny Carson mention from "Murda Goons"; as fresh as my own mom is, she is unfamiliar with Sonny. However, I'm proud to say that I could include any verses mentioning Slick Rick, since my mom is quite familiar and could even pick him out in some sort of group Def Jam photo if asked (you would too if you had me for a daughter). Similarly, I included the Brian Urlacher and Jay Cutler stuff in case your mom watches football like mine. PS, the only Jaime Summers in a middle-aged mom's world should be Lindsay Wagner, and my mom doesn't understand the verb "to train" the way it's used by Ghost* and I'm fine with that. Ssshhhh.
Puppy love, gorgeous face, amazed by lip gloss Cherry scent, when the princess spoke yo it bounced off Mole like Marilyn Monroe, threw a rose in her mouth Wherever God go will be Mrs. Coke
- “Child's Play”
Wu-Tang Clan spark the wicks and However, I master the trick just like Nixon
- “Bring Da Ruckus”
I ran the Dark Ages, Constantine and great Henry the Eighth Built with Genghis Khan, the red suede Wally Don
- “4th Chamber”
Blow backs in, flip raps like forty-eight bundles Dinner plates, deadly front gates, celeb Bryant Gumbel
- “We Made It”
With starwriters like I fucked Celine Dion Stuck everything that's the god's honest beyond
– “9 Milli Bros.”
Thanks to the revolver, Ramik had the leap from the heat Like he was Frogger, bang monster King Arthur Guns older than Bob Barker, graze comin out the nose barrel Trouble maybe, then we from Harvard
- “Who Are We”
Sho nuff, hit the bank and thrust Cool Nauticas, *Jamie Summers got trained on the tour bus
- “Iron Maiden”
I know this chick from the hood named Courtney Cox And her brain is easy to pick like faulty locks
- “Josephine”
That's how the God do, Motown twenty-five My orals like Smokey's voice, little moist, but choice
- “Stay True”
Kiss the pyramid experiment with high explosive I slapbox with Jesus, lick shots at Joseph - “Daytona 500”
Burgundy minks, whips with sinks in em Broccoli blown, illa disease breath, elephant skin Meet the black Boy George, dusted on my honeymoon
- “Stroke of Death”
That's the same kid that cut his wrists, talkin bout the cuffs did it He ran away, frontin majorly, eyes like Sammy Davis jr.
- “Malcolm”
- “The Grain.”Pretty much his whole verse. (Queen Elizabeth, Vanna White, the Pope.)
Slinging the backs of five Cleopatras A cocaine chef, I stretch money like elastic My raps is bigger, dynamics with the muscle advantage Jay Cutler on dust, when I blam shit - “Rec-Room Therapy”
Fly shit like Curtis Mayfield and his intro Throw this in your whip, convent, your tens blow
- “Ghost Showers”
As I stroll the globe and terrorize the planet With a Bill Clinton mask and them Playskool hens - “The Mask”
I give a order to my peeps across the water To go and snatch up props all around the border And get far like a shootin star 'Cause who I are, is dim in the light of Pablo Escobar
– “Protect Ya Neck”
You two-faces, scum of the slum, I got your whole body numb Blowin like Shalamar in eighty-one Sound convincin, thousand dollar court by convention Hands, like Sonny Liston, get fly permission – “Triumph”
Laying n---as like ceramic tile I'm like Urlacher, beasting at the top of the pile
- “New Wu”
Chop the O, sprinkle a lil' snow inside a Optimo Swing the John McEnroe, rap rock'n'roll.
Aiyyo spiced out Calvin Coolidge, loungin with 7 duelers The Great Adventures of Slick, lickin with 6 rugers.
- “Nutmeg”
The Betty Crocker, marvel cake stakes admissor wax janitor, black Jack Mulligan from Canada - “Bells of War”
Left: "Me vs. Pants, Episode 863 (Advantage: Me)." Middle & Right: "Pan Am Stewardess, Circa 1967."
A tennis court from Ghostface (finally), that new OJ Simpson (!!) from my brother, boots & a dress & another dress & shoes from my mom, and cake & ice cream at Reggie's house!
I'm open, RZA hit me off lovely and I love him with root beer thoughts, here's a tennis court for your birthday, the babyface of rap politic with Sade avenging eagle crooks rock the W and Spiegel books.
It's quite the red-letter day in apartment 15, as we celebrate the births of 2 humans so epic (please refer to photo above) that my poor little body can't handle so much hip-hop and I think I might just pass out and die right here on the spot. I hope my spirit will live on. At my funeral, please play something from Daily Operation and a little “Live at the Barbeque.” (And “In My Life,” by the Beatles.)
Happy birthday, DJ Premier and Large Professor, born March 21, 1966 and 1972 respectively! I enjoy living in a universe that has made it so that you two luminous gentlemen were born on the same day. Incredible.
Premier.I don't care if they want a ounce. Tell em bounce.
Jerry Wexler + Aretha, an epic coupling in the long, long history of Urban Judaic Man Signing Green Young Talent to Contract in Order to Lay Down Gorgeous Tracks Together. Spector + Ronettes, Clive Davis + everybody, Rifkind + Wu. Etc.
1. News items about old singers whose influence cannot be quantified always gets me thinking What are we gonna do when ________ dies? (Prince, Stevie Wonder). Sorry to be so morbid. By contrast, I do believe that a recently-unearthed, Sydney Pollack-directed documentary of Aretha recording 1972's Amazing Grace will provide us with some life-affirming positive energy. Please remember that from here on out, any lack of appreciation shown for Aretha will result in me sitting you down and pulling out that dusty old Marianne Faithfull quote to show you. Again.
“One Step Ahead.” Columbia-years Aretha. I've posted it before, but I can't help myself because, you see, I know...I can't...afffoooorrrd to stop. (00:53).
“Rock Steady.” Perfection, due to its combination of jangly guitar, mention of the motion of hips, and sheer meta-ness because I LOVE a self-referential song. Let's call this song exactly what it is (what it is, what it is, what it iiiiis).
2. “Do not build fortresses to protect yourself; isolation is dangerous.” Andrew Bynum of my beloved Lakeshowww (he's the only one on the squad without a current hand injury) is getting all grown up now and has just discovered Robert Greene's The 48 Laws of Power[CNN]. Welcome to the year 2000, Andy! You heard Supreme Clientele yet?
The 49th Law is "Always heed the advice of Mr. Sky Hook."
I already posted this one before too, but it gets a second nod simply based on the line I know I talk a lot of shit but I can back it up, part of the vast collection of statements I love because they are things I could never get away with saying In Real Life. Also, it gets a second nod 'cause it's M.O.P. Duh.
3. Goddammit, Sly Stone, your music makes my brain hurt and my lady areas feel nice and even though you're a space alien we still celebrate the annual marker of your years here on Earth. You and Kool Keith have that in common. Happy birthday.
“Equinox symmetry and the balance is right/Smokin' and drinkin' on a Tuesday night.”
Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo and Hold It Now, HIT IT everybody, because it's the date of birth of Frederick Jay Rubin!!, he of OG shamanic glory (sorry, RZA) and possessor of the single greatest rabbinical beard in hip-hop (aw, sorry Freeway). It's a pain in the ass that banks and post offices are closed for the occasion, I realize, but show Uncle Rick a little respect.
What more can I say, the dude leaves me speechless--other than if my record collection is my greatest muse, Rick Rubin is Apollo. Now start the reign in blood and rock the fuckin bells, stat.
(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).
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).
1. Baby Corey, of course (I pull it out every couple months or so; it just never gets old):
2. It provides an excuse to nerd out on U.S. history. January 12, 1968: Jacques Cousteau's 1st undersea special on U.S. network TV. Related: Rae's influence is vast and wide, with a flow as choppy as a goddamn sea.
3. a) Slyly working lyrics into conversation at various points throughout the day, while still having it sound natural:
Like a 27-inch zenith, believe it. Make 'em jump like Rod Strickland. Everything realer than fuck! (I'm less successful at this than I'd like.)
b) Really sitting back and appreciating songs about fresh death, good meals, the pharmaceutical industry, and expensive liquor that somehow aren't boring. Impossible, they said, and yet Rae continues to surpass performance measures.
4. It provides an excuse to nerd out on Billboard-charts history. January 12, 1968: #1 R&B hit was "I Second That Emotion," by Smokey Robinson & the Miracles*. I kinda feel like giving Rae a lifetime of devotion, so this makes sense. The non-R&B hit that same week of that same year was "Judy in Disguise," with that jubilant bassline.If you can find a way to connect this to Rae, I'm eager to hear from you, New Best Friend.
5. Lots of celebrating through indulging our senses in apt. 302 - which really just means cuddling with the Ghostface doll, dialing 1-900-Raekwon, and drinking a Red Stripe (champagne: NO. Moettastin like throw-up). Also: maybe taking a bath with a white woman.
6. Not being able to take the day off from work, but having a nice Breaks Interlude™ upon arrival back home and seeing once again that All Roads Lead to Smokey.
Caramel complected/body like heaven (ummm no). Your favorite nerdy bikini-clad sarcasm peddler.
Tomboyish tendencies in a girly package.
Music nerd making my way in the world. The more emotion I put into it/the harder I rock.
I bow at the altar of Phil Spector, Rick Rubin, and Large Pro.
I find that I can amuse myself to no end. I got front & back, and side to side. I am a real person and NOT viral marketing for Stones Throw. I also have a government job so please don't tell too many people I'm in my bathing suit on the Internet.
Nothin else to tell, really.
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