"Call me Biggie."

And we in the spot watchin COPS on TV
Blazin greens, thumpin Big's first CD

Viktor Vaughn, “Back End”
(bass at 1:45, yes please; Diplo produced)



“We believe in change and we're prepared for it - with new techniques, and new approaches. And as for our part, we feel that you're the best pieces of manpower available in this whole region.”

hopeful henchmen: “Thank you, Mr. Smalls.”

“Call me Biggie.”



Calvin Lockhart in Let's Do It Again from 1975 is Biggie Smalls, AKA a super New Orleans G who gets duped in a bet on a boxing match by the dynamic duo of Cosby & Poitier and tries to get his money back. Although a little pretty for my taste, he's also my most favorite and crush-worthiest man of power next to The Prez, Don Draper, and El P.

Chris Wallace from Brooklyn in 1972 is the mic ripper/girl stripper/Henny sipper, AKA our hero. Ready to Die came out this week in Sept. '94, which allegedly makes it 15 years old...except how can that be when it was just '94 like 3 years ago? Gosh that's weird.


It's only appropriate for me to post the song from the movie that everyone thinks is about laziness in between sexytimes on a sunny weekend morning, but it's really about what I feel every time I pull Ready to Die out to put on the platter: Let's do it again, Big! Like it's '94.

The Staple Singers - "Let's Do It Again,"
AKA
"Everything Curtis Mayfield Produces is a Lovely Situation,"
AKA
"Logan doesn't even know you but she wants to hold hands with you when this song plays."

mp3.


. . .

I'm not too blind to see.

Sept. 8, 2009 AD:

I'm still ONLY built for Cuban linx, and I'm already on my third Blueprint, my how time flies.
(side note, please everybody stop saying Gray-Z. Everyone knows Grandpa Carter is the best "Jay-Z is old" nickname)

Sept. 9, 1978 AD:

"Beast of Burden" is released and, years later, would go on to provide sugary goodness in my ears and make me think that true love is a dude chasing me down the street and pleading with me to have sex with him. Beatles and Led Zep over the Stones ALL DAY, but I'd just be recalcitrant if I didn't admit they have some great ones. The Glimmer Twins was the name of Mick and Keith as a producing duo; such a dumb name, let's be honest. They were great, though, really great. Especially here.

The Rolling Stones - "Beast of Burden"

mp3.

I die for that opening, the drums coming in, then the bass and keys, even though there are a few too many "pretty girls" in the bridge and I get tired of that falsetto real quick. Mick wants to know if he's hard enough, rough enough, rich enough. Sounds to me like she's not into him, but I don't know - sometimes you can break a girl with sheer persistence, gentlemen.



PS -
"Please baby, please baby, please baby, baby baby please."
The beg-and-plead-for-a-woman's-love is an underappreciated category of popular song. Thus spoke HeightFiveSeven.

James' "Please Please Please" and The Beatles' "Oh! Darling" are part of this canon, but there are simply too many to list and it makes me go a little crazy to try. Please see/listen below for pretty great and random selections culled from my parents' record collection.


The Four Seasons - "Beggin'"

mp3.

Frankie Valli's got that thing where a dude can be in misery but sounds so joyful while he's all wrapped up in it. Bonus extra fat points for handclaps. I'm mostly posting this so you don't think of the Madcon version whenever someone mentions this song. I mean, it's a fine version and all, but original trumps derivative almost every time.



The Temptations - "Ain't Too Proud to Beg"

mp3.

David Ruffin sang lead on "My Girl," and on this one, yet sounds so different. Smokey Robinson, in all his amazingness, knew his voice was something great and was the first to put him on as lead. Then a little thing called coke happened in the '70s and negative events befell David. Ah well. It's 1966 and the Temps still have normal-sized egos every time I play this on the jukebox at Fatburger.



Annnnd, of course, THE BAND,
my childhood in musical form - warm and loving and sweet.
(Thanks, Mom and Dad! Sorry I cuss so much on my web log.)



Marvin Gaye cover. There's a reason why I included "almost" in my little speech above about originals vs. derivatives.

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The one where I use Redd Foxx to push my political agenda.

Rich dumb mean white men will inspire me to end my life someday.
You MUST get all you can of me now, while I'm still around. Drink me in. I can't take much more.

For example,
Republicans never surprise me with their antics, really - the latest of which is throwing a tantrum over President Dreamy's speech to the kids today upon their return to school. This makes me feel tired and cranky. But the least I can do is get some enjoyment out of the buffoonery coming straight from Oklahoma and Florida by using it as a reason to post a little Quincy Jones.




“As far as I am concerned, this is not civics education — it gives the appearance of creating a cult of personality*,” said Oklahoma Republican state Sen. Steve Russell about the speech. “This is something you'd expect to see in North Korea or in Saddam Hussein's Iraq.”


Florida GOP chairman Jim Greer said he was “absolutely appalled that taxpayer dollars are being used to spread President Obama's socialist ideology.”

Based on my research, male Repub types get themselves all worked up over: taxes, ladies having too many rights over their bodies, no Jesus in the classroom, fair distribution of wealth, and Superhero Brilliant Presidents whom their wives probably find handsome. That last one especially irks them.

“Every single one of you has something you’re good at. Every single one of you has something to offer. And you have a responsibility to yourself to discover what that is. That’s the opportunity an education can provide.

“Maybe you could be a good writer – maybe even good enough to write a book or articles in a newspaper – but you might not know it until you write a paper for your English class. Maybe you could be an innovator or an inventor – maybe even good enough to come up with the next iPhone or a new medicine or vaccine – but you might not know it until you do a project for your science class. Maybe you could be a mayor or a Senator or a Supreme Court Justice, but you might not know that until you join student government or the debate team.”

- The Prez in his "Back to School" speech

(no mention of Rodney Dangerfield, WTF)

There are also JK Rowling and Mike Jordan references (people who were rejected but didn't give up), an explanation of the benefits of always doing your homework, and encouraging Hallmark-card-ish reminders to set goals and work hard that the people of my country love so much. Obama even discourages the kids from aspiring to be rappers in this speech, and nobody hates a successful rapper more than a Republican - so that shows me right there that the GOP reps are just interested in picking a fight.

As a result, Entire State of Florida, you're dead to me now. Dead Prez, Trick Daddy, and the Allman Brothers, we had a good run but I can't play this game any longer.

You're out of the picture too, Oklahoma. You've been coasting since the '80s on The Boz's antics and how he managed to simultaneously be a d-bag and kinda fresh. But I can't condone the actions of your people anymore. Vamoose, you're wack to me. Deuces. Kick rocks. Make like a tree and get out of here. Please pack your knives and go. Gimme your sneakers; it's time for you to step off. And other assorted ways of saying GTFO that I'm not dope enough to know. The idea of mean, stupid people in power is not funny, but you know what is? Redd Foxx cutting 'em down with a perfectly-placed You big dummy.


Quincy Jones - "The Streetbeater"

mp3.



* Not this kind. I know, I got all excited too at first.


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At least 2 pair.

No Fendi bag or bad attitude, but still.
We got a lot of private jokes to share.

Everyone knows the greatest and most Kenwood-bumpable songs written about and named in honor of a beautiful human with breasts and hips and soft skin are "Rosanna" and "Bonita Applebum."

("Veronica" is good too, but it's about Elvis's grandma so it's not appropriate. This post is about ladies of song who dudes want to see nekkid. And "So Long, Marianne" is a throbfest of songwriting skill in the form of tortured reclusive foxiness known as Legendary Human Leonard Cohen, but it's too somber for the Kenwood, silly).

I know there are a million of 'em, named for pretty ladies Allison and dear Yvette and Sally and Jessica and Melissa and Iesha and Carolina (so good I had to link to it), but it's done. The decision has been made. It's these 2, at least for now. Only 'cause nobody ever wrote a song called "Logan."
(Pouty face)




Meet.You.All.The.Way! Sometimes the vinyl of this plays in apt. 302, but it's really more of a driving-around-in-the-Civic, end of summer knocker; if you get really lucky, you don't hit any red lights during the chorus so you can sing it freely without being self-conscious that the dude in the car next to you is watching.





Ain't no need to question the authority satisfies the "Boss me around" requirement I seek from an MC, but So far, I hope you like rap songs is the cutest line of all from the musical year of 1990. This girl has that mean physical geometry of 38-24-37, and it's the 37 that displays to the boys her bum like an apple. OH BONITA. Even I have a crush on you.

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"Work is a four-letter word." - Todd English

(OH WAIT, it was Morrissey who said that! Oopsy.)

I believe that most of us work pretty hard, people. I believe that. Some people get money for nothing and chicks for free (if this is you, you're corny), and some people are allowed to be hopelessly inept yet comical hospital orderlies, but most of us have to work a steady something or other (9A - 5P; there was a whole movie about ladies who do this, and Dolly Parton was the hero). HeightFive appreciates the working man - there's honor in discipline and sweat and grind. Just be careful about those security cams and boxes so you don't get fired; you tryin to build a clubhouse?

As for me, I fucking work IT, all the livelong day. This means that I knock people out with my wit and foxiness and get all my needs met while prancing around the city in tight jeans. OH WAIT. I forgot momentarily. Me working it actually = lounging in my apartment, record shopping and paying full price, and sometimes going to the bookstore and Trader Joe's and thinking of blog ideas while standing in line. Anyway, I've lost my topic again. The point is that today we celebrate those who work it, even though they don't do it as well as I do and never could. Hit it, Aes!

(when you get back from Medieval Times, I mean)



"Labor"

mp3.

I am a star really! The big bang bastard's back
with a one way ticket to Beat Street
This soil is like relevant to human concept
plot the man ratios man learning, I work past the servants
I work on what I love, I work the service on my burdens
And I work till this here little flat line closes the curtains.




Plus we got John & Paul & George & Ringo sounding a lot like a superhero blind man from Michigan. "We Can Work It Out"

mp3.



Big Daddy Kane - "I Get the Job Done"

mp3.



John Lennon - "Working Class Hero"

mp3.



I also wanted "Workinonit" and Billy Bragg and Wilco's "I Guess I Planted," with that boisterous union chorus (Hi Rafs!). Alas, this was not possible.


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I was born in south Philly on a cement floor.

Mel D. Cole photo.

My boyfriends Barnes & Noble and I have a lovely relationship in which I visit them and use their stuff and they don't ask me for anything in return (not even to take my top off!; I'm pretty sure they're gay). So I go to their place and read things for free without buying them - lady magazines that try to teach me how to hide my hips with the magic of clothing, only I do the opposite of what the mags say because why would I want to hide the source of all my power in life? That would be foolish. I always get Harper's and Mother Jones and The Nation too, so that my brain does not stop working from too much dumb overload from the content of lady magazines. Urb is OK; I'll read it if I have to, but ever since Ray Roker stopped being so hands-on my heart's just not in it. And just today, my eyeballs got assaulted by Kid Cudi on the cover. He was making a funny, sort of squinty face and doing a hand gesture that he couldn't even think up on his own (it's called "The DeBeers," and it was appropriated from Shawn Carter and/or Diamond Dallas Page).


The related feature inside is about all of the retail stores he worked at while pursuing a music career, with associated pictures (Amer Apparel, Dean & DeLuca, BAPE). It's a cute idea but its one tragic flaw is that it stars Kid Cudi. It has been therefore been filed under "Nobody Cares" in my life. (In the upcoming issue that I edit, we'll find out where Pete Rock, Brian Eno, Hi-Tek, and Brian Wilson worked in their youth; it will win awards).

The issue gets saved by that picture of ?uestlove above (there's a feature on the photographer who snapped it). My day has been excellent ever since I saw it, and it's been making me think of musical pleasures from Philadelphia all afternoon because, how many times do I have to tell you, this is me and this is just how my brain is. Love me, love my nerdery.

I've never been to Philly but it probably can't compete with apt. 302 anyway - I already have all the sons of the city, Gamble & Huff and Hall & Oates and like 50 of my favorite rappers and the Delfonics and the Stylistics, right here with me in my record collection (plus I got Nutella and Red Stripe here, as much as you want until you pass out from satisfaction). And I've never met Ahmir Thompson but that doesn't mean we're not meant to be special friends, the kind that record shop together while trying to calm all the sexual tension between us. I steal glances when we go get a cheesesteak and visit the Rocky steps together.

Some damn tightly-woven metaphors for love have come from the Philly music scene over the years, and 2 of the greats are right here - boxing and traffic - speaking right to me about my feelings: the Soul Survivors talkin bout my love car getting caught amongst all the other cars on the way to ?uestlove's heart, and Teddy P describing that punched-in-the-face feeling that being in love with a large-haired percussionist will give you. It really does look like another love TKO; Teddy's right. Plus I wanted to use the song and I'm never gonna do a "Back in the Day" post, so it worked out perfectly.


Teddy Pendergrass - "Love TKO"

mp3.



Look at these dudes. Now go get 1/10 of that level of style. Then come see me when you're ready.

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If I'm not back again this time tomorrow/Carry on, carry on.

Bed is the poor man's opera, goes the Italian proverb.
And Queen is the semi-poor blogger's opera on the Technics platter in apt. 302.
Oh, and (sorry Mom) bed too.

It's Freddie Mercury's birthday ('46) so of course I'm thinking about how the only significant contribution to my life that Vanilla Ice made was upsetting everybody when I was a baby hip-hop fan and introducing me to "Under Pressure." (The 2 heathens did not have a tight Queen game while I was growing up, so I had to fend for myself when I reached record-buying age. I am now well-versed in Queen, especially News of the World, oh my god don't get me started. Also, listening to "Dragon Attack" is the Brit-rock version of brushing dirt off your shoulder.)


I'm spunky, I like my oatmeal lumpy, I got you stuck off the realness, I like puppies and rainbows, and I love the things that the human voice can do. But I wasn't sure which song to pick for a Freddie post. "Bohemian Rhapsody" supersedes its association with any Mike-Myers-related cinema; that right there is the jam and you know it. John Deacon's basslines share this quality with Bootsy Collins and Larry Graham, and that quality is that they make my head and other body parts throb from sheer greatness. And "Fat Bottomed Girls" is yet another Tecate-raiser at the bar (sorry, my Caucasian is showing) and part of the reason Queen is one of the greatest collection of musical humans ever in the history of the world and universe; who else would think to write a song about slutty girls with ass that makes all the girls at the bar want to be slutty girls with ass? GENIUS.

But I had to go with "Under Pressure," a song about my emotions as I try to be all things to you at all times while hoping I'm good enough and pretty enough and smart enough (just jokin; I listen to Sly and the Jungle Brothers, so I know I'm perfection).

This song is so beautifully put together, highs and lows and pressure-building with sound and then releasing that pressure, so many twists and turns like a rollercoaster, probably not unlike life, but especially life as a gay man in an operatic British band in the '70s and '80s and being blessed with vocal gifts that make everybody want to look at you even though you're shy. That's what's known as, how do you say, pressure. It is also impossible for me to believe that the studio did NOT implode from Music God Epicness during the recording of this piece. Mercury, May, Bowie. They did record it in Switzerland, though, so maybe that was because British equipment couldn't handle it. But if it didn't happen with "Verbal Intercourse," I guess all other songs are safe.


Queen and David Bowie - "Under Pressure"

mp3.


I have listened to this song 816 times, and that was just this morning, so I will now tell you the parts that will make you want to hug your neighbor: "People on the streets." "The terror of knowing what this world is about." "Keep coming up with love but it's so slashed and torn" (even though this is a Freddie post, OH DAVID BOWIE!, you are so skinny and brilliant and so oddly hot).
Right around 3:25, the culminating statement -

This is our last dance,

This.
is.
our.
selves.

under pressure.


And, best of all, the "Why can't we give love, give love, give love, give love...," fading into forever. If this does not move you, I must logically conclude that you are either a cyborg or not from Earth. What is your home planet like? And how have you survived without Queen? Or ice cream, or sunshine, or songs that Prince Paul produced?


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Self-Esteem Saturday with Sly, the Family Stone, and the JB's.

“You are beautiful and smart and unique.”

Listening to '70s alien coke rock-funk and getting Native Tongued by '80s hip-hop gods will give you the same message as Oprah and the Dalai Lama. Plus the production is better (Sly and Red Alert, respectively! C'MON).

Stop being stubborn and just accept your perfection, why don't you.





If you loved me you'd listen to the whole thing, but if you want to skip ahead, the break is just before the 1-minute mark.












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No tricks, no tricks, baby

“One day some of the kids from the neighborhood carried my mother's groceries all the way home.
You know why? It was outta respect.”

Some things are not OK. I have gathered some examples to illustrate my point:

The fact I am not Raquel Welch in 1968 even though clearly I'm supposed to be, the whole Ash Roth debacle, the fact that the country I live in (the US, which has a lot of money) cannot seem to provide a public option for health insurance without people wanting to burn things and kill themselves, and the possibility of 50 Cent and Ghostface collaborating on a song. This news makes me feel uncomfortable and paranoid and a little like there are helicopters above, like when Henry Hill goes into a coke-y tailspin at the end of Goodfellas.

The only time Staten Isle and Queens should come together is in a little situation I like to call “Verbal Intercourse.” And even then, they had to get my permission first. Plus everybody knows conflict between MCs is kinda fun. It's a part of history. It's manhood-proving, especially if the alternative is rappers in Nylon mag verbally fellating each other ("You rule, Kid Cudi!" "No, you rule, Chuck Hamilton!"), and everything this carbon-based life form known as "Drake" says and does. (I mean, he's just so girly to me. I do not care for a girly MC. Unless she's a girl.) Uncle KRS would not approve, gentlemen. I don't want anybody getting shot, but still. A nice verbal throwdown gets a lady English major excited in a special way. Like a microphone-battle version of that one time LeGarrette Blount's fist helped Byron Hout's mouth refrain from saying stupid things in the future. Like that.

Beef is especially useful because it prevents awful collaborations. YAY BEEF. When it's over, it often results in situations like this Ghost-50 thing - dudes inviting former adversaries to join them on some sort of musical situation that makes no sense, no goddamn sense at all. I make a pouty face and I wish Pauly Cicero were here to make phone calls or hand gestures to one of his foot soldiers in order to stop the progression of events. What I mean is, please Ghost, pretty please, don't do it. Don't do it, baby. Let Marvin guide you. My biggest mistake was lovin you too much/And lettin you know! 'Cause now you've got me where you want me/And you're gonna let me go!

Marvin Gaye - "Baby Don't You Do It"

mp3.


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A whole mess of meta-reference. Also, HEY YOU, get off my cloud.

I don't want to love this, but I'm done fighting with myself so I'm finally admitting I have amorous feelings toward it--despite that whole "super chocha" line. (I'm cringing yet wondering, how does one know if one's is super? Who is the arbiter of super-ness? heightfiveseven@gmail; somebody please explain).

Special non-shouts to DJ Infamous for taking the easy way out, production-wise, but my ears don't care.

Fat Joe - "Hey Joe"

(Thanks, Noz!)






Bo Diddley - "Bo Diddley"

mp3.






Large Professor - "Large Professor"

It's a Large Pro song if it's his production and his verses, and it's a song called "Large Professor." Nice try though, Wild Pitch.






Method Man - "Method Man"

mp3.

Yeah yeah. Technically it's a Wu song, but c'mon. Don't be a jerk.




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2 Greats: Noncommittal sexytimes

Sometimes, I have found, people just want ass.

("People" ≠ good girls such as myself, of course. Hi Mom!
People = Elliot Spitzer and Vince Neil)


Your problem is that you desire naked relations with people who you don't care to spend time with otherwise, and my solution is this: make your proposal sound like either of these 2 songs.

If/when you pull a skinny girl with a master's degree, hips, and a super vocabulary as a testament to how successful this technique is, you'll have me to thank.

The Outfield - Your Love

mp3.


I ain't got many friends left to talk to/No one's around when I'm in trouble, sings Dude in Band Whose Girlfriend (Josie) is Out of Town. Aw, he needs a friend! To talk to! OH, and I almost forgot, to see naked. And to not hang out with after that, ever. Also, I think "your love" might not be code for "your couch" or "your phone" like we always thought.

Anyway, give in to the delicious, dirty, guilty pleasure ear candy of the song (the drums coming in just after minute 1, yessss, please and thank you and may I have some more) and it'll teach you how to get a commitment-challenged special friendship. Initial steps include: Be able to come up with a riff at the beginning like that, a melody like that, and be able to harmonize with your boys like that. Reverse the earth's rotation so that it's 1986 and your outfit and hair and "come home with me" game are the coolest. Voila: ass.

OR,

Funkadelic - "Hit It and Quit It"

mp3.


Be Bernie Worrell. If you're going to heed one thing I have to say, if you're going to follow just one piece of my advice, make it that one. Also, play keys. Moog, specifically. Be in a band with George Clinton, Bootsy Collins, Bigfoot Brailey, Eddie Hazel. Have your synth loop be the backbone of "Mothership Connection" and "Flash Light" and basically therefore be directly responsible for the creation of Digital Underground and the musical tree known as Dr. Dre and all its associated branches. Do music things with Talking Heads, Mos Def, Les Claypool, and Prince Paul.

Some people say that this song's title is about nothing flesh-related; it's just George Clinton being cute. It's really about hitting drums and it's really about playing music, or perhaps moving one's body to music. UH, except that hitting drums = sex, playing music = sex, and moving one's body to music = sex. Every song is about sex. I mean, it is 1971 after all, let's not forget.






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Things that please me, 09/03/09: Jamie T, Donald Fagen, Catholic sex, and '63 lady style that moves all the boys

1. This Jamie T Buy My Album Please It's Dropping on Sept. 8 promo video and all the Brit wackiness contained therein. I keep watching it but I do it in a really foxy, non-creepy way. Promise.






2. That the Cuervo gollllld part in "Hey Nineteen" and how it is impossibly dope and how it is the best and the perfect soundtrack to summer going bye-bye. Sometimes I forget about the magic of Fagen in 1980 and then I have to keep listening to Gaucho over and over (but in a really foxy, non-creepy way).








3. The Prayer Before Making Love, composed by church group the Catholic Truth Society.

I'm still waiting to hear what Jesus thinks of this. He has not yet returned my call.

“... Place within us love that truly gives, tenderness that truly unites, self-offering that tells the truth and does not deceive, forgiveness that truly receives, loving physical union that welcomes ...”

The new prayer "is aimed at 'purifying intentions' so that the act is not about selfishness or hedonism," the Daily Mail reports.

"How bout one or the other, then? Both would be ideal, but the name of the game is compromise," HeightFiveSeven reports.




4. The fact that eating at night will help me gain weight, even though I already knew this and I thought scientists already knew this so, really, why are we still studying this, scientists? The news is still encouraging to me, though, because everybody knows I was actually supposed to be 10 lbs thicker than I am at this exact moment in time, like the Joan Holloway of K-Town, sonnn.
Ergo, pizza and ice cream for dinner. At 11 tonight.

I already have the body geometry (thx Mom); I just need more smoking, office sex, extra pounds on my frame, and that fierce gold pen in order for the transformation to be complete. I don't care for my hair up, though. The hair stays down.


Attention everyone in my general vicinity, I no longer want you to hear "Hey Love" or the first 15 seconds of "Electric Relaxation" in your head when you see me enter the room. From now on, I insist that it's this one:

Muddy Waters - "She Moves Me"

mp3.

“I take her to a funeral boy, the dead jumped up to run.”



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Episode 869: the one where epic historical men debate the sexual allure of female intelligence.

- Leonardo da Vinci,

who clearly has not experienced sexytimes with a nerd. So sad.

But thennnn

Francis Albert Sinatra comes through in the clutch,

And thennnn


Tariq steps up to the plate, points to center field, and proceeds to hit it out the park like I'm a little kid in the hospital with cancer who he'd made a promise to that morning.

(All ladies, including this lady, are willing to share space in Black Thought's heart with weed and fine fabrics)

Unfortunately, this Pennsylvania hotness circa '99 was produced by noted coke monkey and THIS GUY, Storchy.
Just do like I do and pretend it wasn't.


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Doughboy is doing the lord's work.

Everybody hates the Raiders except me, the 2 heathens who raised me, my brother, and Ice Cube. We are a misunderstood and persecuted lot and it's a good thing we're strong enough to handle it. Other things that have felt fiery arrows of hate aimed squarely at them because people couldn't handle the next-levels greatness: Paul's Boutique, Galileo, Dylan + an electric guitar, Jesus (Kanye would like to add "Kanye" to that list as well). Anyway, in his greatest decision since deciding to keep his money instead of giving it to Jerry Heller, then heading east to record with Shocklee, Ice Cube is teaming up with ESPN for a documentary about the LA Raiders. It'll be called Straight Outta LA, a name which HipHopDX has lovingly informed us is--get this!--a play on the title of a very old record album by a group called The NWA. The documentary will examine the origin of the team in Oakland, its move to LA in '82, and its unofficial adoption by NWA and their fans.
(But Ice Cube, you were so adamant that we Stop giving juice to the Raiders/'Cause Al Davis never paid us! Everybody gets 1 do-over, I guess.)

“‘In 1980, Ronald Reagan was elected president, few white kids were listening to Rap and I was an 11-year-old kid in South Central Los Angeles,’ said Cube via statement regarding the documentary.”
("Cube" = ESPN's PR team)

Already a Lakers and Trojans fan, "something clicked" when he watched Oakland Raider games on TV, he said, and he began following the team and wearing the gear.

“The music, lyrics and images that I created with N.W.A as a solo artist and as an actor helped turn the Raiders into something more than a football team... It’s been 21 years since we released Straight Outta Compton, but to this day, kids all over the world buy Raiders gear, imitate the 'Gangster Rap' style and try to connect with the South Central L.A. vibe that we brought to the masses.”

(this day = '92? '93? Aw Cube, nobody outside The Black Hole and my dad wears Alzado jerseys anymore, and Reza is the only one who can pull off a Raiders Starter jacket. Also, I'm here to inform you that the South Central LA vibe is now the Canadian with an Ungodly Amount of Hype vibe and the Awful Rapper Getting Punched in the Face as a Result of Running His Yap vibe. The kids can't get enough of such things in '09.)

Currently, a release date for Straight Outta LA is not available. But I'll keep the blogosphere abreast of this and all other Raiders ephemera, including the status of Nnamdi's wrist owie and the latest on which one of my coaches is going to get smacked in the mouth by another one of my coaches.



Because I didn't want to post anything by The Game, Murs' "LA," Arlo's "Coming Into Los Angeles," The D.O.C., or any '70s stuff from Topanga Canyon,

Frank Black - "Los Angeles."

mp3.


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Sam, just 'cause.

I mean, if you found this picture, would you not do a Sam Cooke post?

Exactly.

“Range is not relevant.
It was his power to deliver — it was about his phrasing, the totality of his singing.”

- Van Morrison

Sam Cooke - "Bring It On Home To Me"

mp3.

I don't care for jewelry, or even so much for money, but Sam will lure you back home with both if the luring is done via his singing voice.

And if you know who sangs background on this epic dress-remover of a song, your musical knowledge has impressed me so intensely that you're the winner of a magical prize from me that's too filthy to describe on public Internets.
Sorry, Mom.


. . .

It's a love that lasts forever/It's a love that has no past.

Salman's ex-wife again, and E trying to seduce me with his Rubin-esque rabbinical beard, glasses, and lovely voice.

My preliminary research tells me that sometimes boys sing songs to girls they like, and these songs contain messages like I think you are pretty and I want to be close to you and touch and kiss you. I'm still gathering all the data, though, so I am hesitant to make this my formal hypothesis. Full report pending.



That look you give that guy, I wanna see
Looking right at me.
If I could be that guy, instead of me,
I'd never let you down. I'd never let you down.




And then I went and posted some Marcia Griffiths girlyness,
because I am a girl and that is wonderful,
(We get to wear dresses and David Byrne sings about it; have you heard?)



and because this version is extra wonderful even though it lacks the crucial Billy Preston keys of the original. Also, Spector really should get his own tag on this blog. I need to act right and do it already.



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