Wait a motherfucking minute, true facts presented.

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5 facts:


1. Things I would die without: the snare drum, Sennheiser headphones, Doom’s lyrics, stripper/librarian heels. Or I could just say “Stimulation in various forms, stimulation all day and night, and yet somehow soothing at the same time” and you'd know what I mean, you'd clearly realize how that's a list comprised of snares and headphones plus ten thousand other things too. Stripper/librarian heels are the focus today, though. The ones above are called “Peep Show,” and I needed them so I bought them. (I would have died without them.)

Lately my life has been a whole lot of driving around town listening to Power 106 and old Kool Keith, dealing with grouchy people, and this frequent uneasiness, this strong feeling like I need more impractical footwear. As illustrated by the photos above, all those radio plays of “Throw it in the Bag” had their intended effect--THANKS, LOSO--except in my life's version I play the role of both the kept woman and the keeper of the woman since I buy my own heels, which is obviously what Steinem had in mind for me as a postpostpostfeminist human. Sorry, Gloria. I'm I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T, though, do you know what that means? DO YOU? I cook, I clean, I never smell like onion rings. Somethingsomething, flat-screen TV, good credit, blah blah.



That ankle strap is what sold me, lookin like one of Saturn's rings. Just look at that ankle strap, darling. Phillip Lim, child of immigrants, Kanye-approved designer, yet somehow still Logan-approved designer, has crafted these for the discerning stripper/librarian in your life. They are 5-inch-heeled mary janes of Italian leather, a deep red shade that Barneys calls “bordeaux,” which recalls, I don't know, the grapes in my backyard vineyard that I lovingly tend before I go to the library in the morning and that I lovingly tend when I return from Magic City at night?

Phillip thinks he disappointed his parents, who came from Cambodia and wanted him to be a doctor. They don't understand fashion, because, really, what's to understand. Frivolity and sex and overspending. Grand folly. Lack of practicality (teetering around on 5-inch spindles shortens calf muscles), but good-looking and well-crafted things for the body. Kanye-approved shoes on Barbie doll label princesses who have master's degrees and nerdy blogs. “I'm shoppin right now, my ass off/You home writin some bullshit literature,” Kool Keith said. Dude I can do both, though. I can do both, Mr. Thornton. That ankle strap represents my life's constant duality--the Dewey Decimal System and Toomp beats, new glasses (finally) and a thousand bathing suits. Before setting my alarm to wake me up to some Waka in the morning, I read every night in bed. There are Chanel and Diane von Furstenberg ads among the poems and essays in the Paris Review. Also contained therein is a story about Brazilian jiu-jitsu, an art form that teaches that a small and weak person can suddenly turn into something like a big and strong person using proper technique and leverage. The pleasures of duality, that's the point I'm trying to make here. Oh and have I mentioned that ANKLE STRAP. Take another look and then tell me I shouldn't have bought em.

Things I don't believe in: shooting stars. Things I believe in: shoes, cars.

In daydreams my American Gangster character is Eva, Miss Puerto Rico, who loves Frank at the beginning, and she especially loves her idea of who Frank is (classic Logan), and then 2 months into their marriage she finds herself on her knees, scrubbing blood out of the alpaca rug* and he’s screaming at her and she's thinking Fuck what did I get myself into. That's probably my fate, given my taste for masculinity topped off with smarts and a strong commitment to hustlenomics and an adeptness at charming my pants off (or my dress off, as the case may be, or even my black-shorts-and-Boy-Scout-belt-and-stripper/librarian-heels get-up).

In life I am the good girl. Even in daydreams I am the good girl. But these make me feel like I’m Ginger in Casino. At the beginning, you know--pre-haircut, pre-tailspin. Throwing the chips in the air, moving in slow motion. She wanted to stay hustling her little heart but Ace insisted on bribing her into wifehood and momhood. Wives and moms are boring, though. Remember how Malice said I even went by the book at first/Until I realized 9 to 5 wouldn't quench my thirst. In response, I believe Ginger would say Sounds about right.

* “That's $25,000 alpaca!” Frank yells, “You blot that shit!”
Yeah yeah, club soda. Sorry, Frank.

2. The ignition switch in our bodies helps spot and treat cancer. Fine, lovely, good job science and scientists, but my ignition switch can spot (and only responds to) honey-voiced Chicago singers with possible latent homosexual tendencies who are always struggling with that ol' divine v. secular tug of war. The demands of the heavenly v. those of the flesh. (Fleshly delights usually win; I hope I didn't give that one away for you all.) There was this one time I met this dude, he was all up in my grill/tryna get me to a-ho a-tellll and I liked his honesty and especially the way he pronounced “hotel,” there was food everywhere; it was fantastic. My uh, engine revved. Except he wore Celtics gear, which was hard for me to wrap my head around.

3. Waka can really sometimes sound like an upper-register Rick Ross, voice-wise. By that I mean Rawwsss 15 years and 100 lbs ago, but they both have that raspy thing occurring in their vocal chords. "Knock Em Down" is this new song by something called Grafh featuring Waka but Grafh should know that when you put Waka on the hook all the girls are going to focus on Waka in their blog posts about that new Grafh song. Grafh's only noteworthy moment is at 01:19--“I’m a rock chopper, with a straight razor/And I’m the type to kick your daddy in the pacemaker.” Cardiac-regulation-equipment raps are good, and they're funny. But oh, Waka! He has power. He makes me claim FETTI GANG a couple times a day. Waka can end a verse by hollering his own name (03:48). And he's somebody who can claim the states of both Georgia and New York, which is the rap equivalent of being a dually-skilled athlete. Brag rights.







4. “Oh Word” was my cutesy etymology feature that I used to do all the time on here. Bikini enthusiasts didn't care for it, but I loved it. It's back today, and the word is SNARE.

snare.
“noose for catching animals,” c.1100, from O.N. snara “noose, snare,” related to soenri, “twisted rope,” from P.Gmc. snarkho (cf. M.Du. snare, Du. snaar, O.H.G. snare, Ger. Schnur “noose, cord”).

snare (2).
“string across a drum,” 1680s, probably from Du. snaar “string,” from same source as snare, above.

The appropriateness of this word's origin is startling and dope. Jabo Starks, Uriel Jones, Jimmy Diamond from the Ohio Players. Zigaboo from the Meters. They've caught me--ensnared me, really--in their respective drumkit nets.

5. I used to do my “Lesbatronic Moment” feature a while ago too, which bikini enthusiasts really liked a lot. I should show you the emails. On a related note, fact #5 for today is: Claudia Cardinale. She exists. But is she the stripper or the librarian? Ginger or Eva? Or is she both, a perfect combination of the two, like the woman I hope to be one day? I like Claudia's features, and I have fondness for her based on the similarities I imagine we share. If you have big brown eyes people treat you like the good girl; once they see you have those hips they start to make a playlist for you of Drumma Boy's greatest hits so you can hand it to the DJ when you take Stage 2 at Magic City. Duality.

Bonus fact (6): “The only person who never got ejected from an NBA game was Jesus.” - Ronald W. Artest, Jr., who would know, obviously. Ron the lovable badass is everywhere except inside the perimeter these days. Still love him, though. I love kittens and “6'7”” too, because I'm only human after all.

What can I do at this point other than say They try to Ron Artest me/They gon have to arrest me, in Gucci's words (I had to quote him here due to my Brick Squad and Fetti Gang affiliations). I still keep it Berkeley too, though (I feel like Ron Artest/Championship swag).

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Oh Word, 12/12/10.

Language and boys and whiskers on kittens; these are a few of my favorite things, to paraphrase Rodgers and Hammerstein. It’s usually just a lyric snippet that makes me yell with pleasure (“‘Race cars and weed jars’! CURREN$Y YOU ARE A SUCCINCT GENIUS”), but sometimes the menfolk amaze me with fully-formed sentences too. Since all I wanna do is hang out with Paul Mooney and talk shit or just sit there and listen to him talk shit, and then listen to T.I. read the phone book in his Bankhead lilt, but I can't do either of those things, here's some word joy from the Internet/my record collection/my brain that I'm swooning over:



1. “Zapp IV beneath the ashtray, woofers in the back
Water in the duals make loud glass packs.”

E-40 to start the list, obviously because he's my personal John Keating but also because he teaches me things about worlds I am not a part of. I require this of all the men in my life. Water in the duals make loud glass pack is just gibberish to me; 40 might as well have said Cupcake zebra Pirellis on an airplane fold-down tray and I would feel frustrated, like oh shit, new coke slang I don't know about yet. But then I found this. See, Curren$y, my dad, and UGK aren't the only men I listen to when it comes to car engine stuff.






2. In response to a story on Gawker about an attractive and successful female getting caught up with a not-very-attractive and rather bitchy-looking young man from a wealthy family, and then that female winding up dead, a commenter makes his plea:

Switch the genders around and this paragraph still works. “Foxy gentlemen, date (lady) nerds! They are charming, old-fashioned, sex crazy and will treat you like gold.”

Alas, this is unlikely. Life’s not fair. Nerds don't turn heads and everybody knows the head-turn is the first step toward getting involved in a love affair. Another good example of life not being fair is that that’s not my face on that shirt even though it clearly should be.





3. “He jumped out the Jeep like yo, what up chief
But I don't eat pork, so I guess he wanted beef.”

D-Nice, “25 Ta Life.” Got started thinking about this song because: a) the deathless ubiquity of Vampire Weekend means that they are showing up on Best Of 2010 lists and this picture accompanied one such list:



b) Well would you look at this here, I said. I do believe I have seen a similar photo before that preceded it by about 20 years:


c) Thought about D-Nice and his jeep raps and scrap raps and culinary restriction raps and how great it is to hear what up, chief in a song. I don't eat pork, so I guess he wanted beef. That's really all it takes, you guys, for me to fall in lust, or at least really really strong like. Word-whore English majors for life.







4. Alec Sulkin, Family Guy writer, whose Twitter feed is a series of YES.
















5. "I'm sitting in the house now that was built with the Wu-Tang money," says Syl Johnson in the Voice. THE WU-TANG MONEY, he says, and then looks around at his granite countertops and crown moldings. Love Syl's forthcoming ways and unashamed raking in of vocal-snippet payments. Everybody wanted Arab money a few years ago, remember? Now it's Wu-Tang money, at least if you're a beloved '70s soulster. The real prize, though, is the pile of cash that the creator of all the Law & Orders is sitting on right at this moment. I need some of that Dick Wolf money, you guys.



“Different Strokes.” This UNNHHYYH! is only rivaled by the stupendous James Joseph Brown's guttural explosions into microphones during the years 1967-73. Other than that, this is it, having been stretched and looped and lovingly manipulated by dudes from regions including but not limited to Compton and a certain NYC borough.

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6. Andrew Kuo, NY Times maker of graphs and sometime DJ at the Cha Cha (but who isn't in this goddamn city, really)









7. “Got a yellow bone bitch rollin’ weed, servin’ grits
You know curly head Amanda, ain’t she from Atlanta?
Condo on Peachtree, roommate named Pamela
In love with her body, girl don’t sweat them lil’ love handles
That’s where I put my hands at when I snatch you up to ram you.”


Curren$y - “Daze of Thunder.”

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Chevys over Cadillacs. Body-confidence raps. Rust bucket; I spent fifteen huuuuunnid on that muhfucka. The Mac Dre reference (people from Louisiana listen to Mac Dre! I always thought he was a regional thing, but I'm happy his influence has spread--like how I freaked out when Paul Wall mentioned Nickatina). Ramming (sorry, Mom). Admiring the ass, I’ma smoke to that before I tell you get in the bed and arch your back (sorry, Mom). But most importantly: yellow bone girls, a group I proudly rep. I’m like a super super duuuper yellow bone. In summary, it’s still JET LIFE FOOL, and I’m still the #1 stewardess, as long stewardesses are employed by Pan Am circa '72* or Pacific Southwest Airlines whatever year this was:























I also just found out about something called skullcap tincture, which helps with anxiety and is the plant equivalent of Curren$y's voice. An anti-spasmodic, muscle relaxant, and pain killer, this substance will also provide inspiration when I name my next mixtape. Mannie Fresh x YellowBone Logan present: Skullcap Tincture.


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It's you and me against the world, YouTube.

YouTube can't give me good back rubs or tell me I look pretty, but his recommendations make my heart beat faster and that's all I need (other than, you know, a good back rub. And an adoring glance in my direction 2-4 times a week).

Above, look at what YouTube says I like. YouTube knows me. I like Laboe oldies, Jimmy Smith, Bay rap, and various riddims. This seems obvious because you guys pay attention when I start running my yap about snares and wobbly basslines, but you'd be surprised at the lack of attention-paying out there. Sometimes people email me links to Portland drone-rock band websites and I'm like What the hell and Why did you do that; everyone knows I only listen to old stuff (mostly Stax and Rawkus), Full Clip, '93-'96 rap from the state of New York, a little Trick Daddy, and current rap from the states of Georgia, Louisiana, and California.

I could do without the Keith Emerson video where he shows off his backwards tricks, even though I can appreciate his use of Moog. Rick Wakeman is still the white-man-on-keys god, though. And that Santana one is kind of a lazy recommendation. Everything else in this group is pretty on point, however--Cellski, Heatwave, Jimmy Smith, that Simpleton song. Dancehall is good for your self-esteem if you are a hip-blessed woman; I mean they really do love those coke-bottle*, sweating-in-the-bashment body shapes. Dancehall is not good for your self-esteem if you're a gay man, however. This is a conflict for me. I wish both of these groups could be cherished and respected on the island. But then, Jamaicans also frown upon oral sex, so overall it kind of feels like they are a people that cannot be liked or trusted.

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cleversymbolism.jpg







In a rare misstep, YouTube recommends an awful Cleveland gimmick rapper (no, not Krayzie Bone. Or Wish Bone. Or any Bone, actually). Apart from feeling hurt that YouTube doesn't realize I hate terrible rappers, I am confused--I'm not sure how you can make the leap from Cellski to Cudi. How ridiculous and dumb, this connection. Should've recommended Ray Cash, YouTube! He's my true Cleveland love based on that song (RICK ROCK) where he talks about what he's listening to and rapping along with while driving in his big-bodied 2-door.

Horace Silver, “Message from Kenya.” Nice save, YouTube. A successful redemption, and a logical next step when someone watches a Sonny Rollins video. I like that Whitefield Brothers push, too--because I watched that Blackrock video with the “Deadly Medley” break. SWOON, 00:28 - 01:28. Oh my goddddd, I said out loud to nobody else in apt. 15 when I first heard this. Oh my dear sweet Jesus. Then I said fuck about 10 times.




Whitefield Brothers. I am so fond of this recommendation that YouTube and I are now going from 2nd to 3rd base about a week sooner than I had predicted.













Sometimes I can't remember doing the thing YouTube said I did, just like in any romantic relationship.

“You said you liked Depp's performance in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” Really? I did? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I didn't. What I said was, “Depp was never hotter than in Donnie Brasco, holyfuckinghell, would you look at that, how did my panties just come off like that with no warning.” Then I turned to look at you in hopes that you would start dressing and swagging like that too.

“You watched P.A.” I did???? I mean, I appreciate the Outkast and Goodie Mob and 8Ball recommendations, but prove that I watched such a thing. Show me when and where, because honestly I think you're making it up. I like regional rap but I'm not cool enough to have sought out such a semi-obscure group from the greater Atlanta area.


I can remember watching that Whatnauts video, which I do almost weekly because of the way Doomsy used it and the way RZA bent and shaped it into some rap finery a few years back. Ha, just kidding! There was little bending/shaping. He was super lazy with it and basically just put on the record and let it play while he and Deck said what they had to say. No way to eat, so I dropped a half a G on a rented SP/1200 Sampler, and a Yamaha 4-Track/The bass from the lab used to blow the fuckin door back. I love raps about raps (meta-hop), raps about white girls in any form (narcotics, actual white human girls), and raps about struggles during the come-up and descriptions of the first equipment somebody's rap music was made on. By the way, RZA is in Due Date. Prepare yourself; otherwise you too will emit an excited loud cry in the theater and spill your popcorn and everyone will turn and look. We'll get into why I actually spent money to see Due Date in another post. His scene is at the beginning and he is charming and hilarious even though I wish he would always be in '70s garb like in American Gangster or like Depp in Brasco.



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YES, I watched “I Luv It,” OKAY? I was having a moment. A 2006 moment. Then I felt corny so I cleansed my soul with some Wayne Shorter and then Jackie Moore's “Precious Precious,” which is what I hear in my head every time I see Depp in Brasco.


You been with every girl in this town/You been dealin in dirt (just wallowin in dirt, yes you have)/But I look at love as a 2-way street/You get the good with the bad, you take the bitter with the sweet. Kanye's loud boring ass, DJ Drama’s stupid cocked fitted like he’s a 15-year-old, Drake’s haircut (his whole hairline, actually. Anything Drake’s-head-related is bad), and grown people who use the word “naughty”: Jackie Moore makes all the things I hate disappear from my brain with her lovely vocals.







Fucking Galt MacDermot has arrived, YES. Bout time. And then YouTube says Here's more Whatnauts for you, Logan. I know you've been looking for this one on vinyl for years because of, you know, this. Enjoy, my precious darling smart beautiful girl. And more breaks (Buddy Baker's “Sign Song” = “Off the Books”). Applause the Lighthouse, yep. And BOSCOE, who I'd never heard of before but who are my new paramours.

(He doesn't really keep me down; don't worry. But he can make my dress come off if someone presses the little forward-direction arrow button down there.) (!)







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I'm in love with my car radio, episode 34,000

I'm your Internet girlfriend and I don't ask a lot of you, other than daily shoulder rubs and you laughing at my jokes. And every once in a while I want you all to pay close attention when I start to go on and on about individual songs on popular radio. This is as close to egotism as I get.

(PS, I'd also like everything I do to be written about in Futura Bold Italic against a red background, like in a Barbara Kruger piece or a Supreme anything. Other than that, I am humble and lack egotism).

On the mighty 101 freeway this evening, I heard some fine pop music; 64 miles, 94 minutes, 10 radio stations, and 7 “Bottoms Up”s later (SEVENNNN, I swear to god, I counted), I have made my selections and here they are: the best “driving back to LA from Mom's after Thanksgiving” songs and what they mean to me. What they mean to all of us.






“This Christmas,” Donny Hathaway. And so it was decreed on this day that the only Christmas songs allowed in apt. 15 are this Donny H. classic, “Christmas in Hollis,” that Pogues one, Prince's “Another Lonely Christmas,” and “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” with Darlene Love's crybaby vocals ripping up the insides of my heart (the effect it was supposed to have, probably because Spector was poking her with a hot wire hanger just outside the booth to get the best performance out of her).

When I’m between salon visits, my hair starts to turn reddish because my highlights are fading. It is during these times that several people have commented that I resemble noted American pornographic thespian Faye Reagan. I don’t see it, other than you can see my freckles when I don't wear makeup. But that’s ok, because she is pretty. I'll take it. Sometimes I also get Anne Hathaway with lighter hair, because we both have those too-large eyes (baby deer lost in the forest). “Anne with highlights,” my mom says. I'll take that too, because Anne Hathaway is pretty and because the comparison makes me feel close to Donny Hathaway. Anyway, Donny's version of this song is the gold standard, the beginning and the end, the only one, pure, uncut, straight from the fields of Afghanistan. This is the ONLY version of this song you’re allowed to listen to. I mean it. I will turn this car around. You can have Kanye and your other false prophets; I'll take Donny and his quiet suffering, his turtlenecks, and his doomed, beautiful voice.




“Bottoms Up,” Trey Songz. This was played 7 doggone times during my time on the freeway tonight, you guys. I guess the evil little playlist-compiling elves at ClearChannel were thinking that that this would be good to drink to at your uncle's house. I was mad at the frequency with which I heard it, and yet I have not lost any appreciation for the song’s woooahhh-oh-ohhh intro, with Trey doing his moaning Kels impression*, the drumroll at 00:47, the double-timed “up”s during the last part of the hook, or the way the whole song is put together. Nice job, KaneBeatz. I hate Nicki’s verse, though, where she does babytalk and starts off with a list of different kinds of booze. It’s like in “Monster,” when Jay just lists a bunch of scary things (demons, ghouls) and then asks what they have in common. UHHH THAT’S NOT RAPPING, SHAWN.


*I can sing this whole part, with no breaks or pitchiness. I also nail every single I know in “Ain't No Sunshine” whenever it comes on the radio. BREATH CONTROL.

Vince, who I swear I've seen around my neighborhood, getting his American Spirits at the store on my block.

“Linus and Lucy,” Vince Guaraldi. Of course this is burned into our childhood memories, the Peanuts kids dancing to it, but please disregard that and listen to the whole thing with fresh ears, as it is lovely and trance-inducing. My brother also informed me that this song powered a Pat Duffy skate part. The only other jazzy tune I know of in the history of skate parts was “Traneing In” in Video Days. And now, as always, I am thinking about how much fun being a boy must be. Girls don’t have that gene that makes you guys want to hurl yourselves off of things, and that’s fine. But every time I see a good skate video part, or hear anything from It’s Dark and Hell is Hot, I get jealous and think being a dude sure seems like it would be fun. Luckily, being a girl is fun enough for me 'cause we get to wear cuddly lounge-y cashmere underthings*. Also fun: this song's meter changes while battling traffic at the 101-405 interchange. That's some joy in my Japanese coupe right there, you blockhead.

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want/need. Thank you in advance, based god.







“Sunny,” Bobby Hebb. I never said a proper goodbye to Bobby and I should have. But hey, have you ever heard James Brown’s hot burning fire version of this song? You should.



(best YouTube comment:

“Lady Gaga, you piece of crap. Watch God's incarnation of groove, bow down to Sir unbeatable electrifying unreachable Mr. James Brown and repent, you good for nothing illuminati bitch.”

I’d say it were time for this person to attend anger management class, except I completely agree with him.)




“Shotgun,” Jr. Walker & the All-Stars. They say guns clap just like people do, right? I done been down this road before, all pleased with myself for realizing that Jr. Walker and Dilla both decided to call one of their songs “Shotgun.” Must be a Detroit thing. This one’s about high heels and shooting somebody, just like all the best Clipse songs, and of course it all makes wonderful and perfect sense.




“The Return of the D.ST,” De La. 1) Handclappy intros are the best. 2) If something’s, uh, coming, it’s always a nice touch to announce it. Just a couple times, though—if you start saying it too far in advance, and too often, the other person who's there stops believing you. HI MOM.

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“No Hands,” Waka. Stripper songs, stripper songs, guess which one of your favorite nerdy lady bloggers loves stripper songs. All we ladies want in a man is 1) a combination of Wale in “No Hands,” 2) Obama, and 3) our dad/grandpa/nice uncle. That is, someone who sweats out weaves, has a powerful presence without resorting to shouting, and tells us Don't ever change, you're perfect and beautiful, but still calls us on our shit since someone always agreeing with you is boring. It took me a little while to give in to Waka and his lovely cheekbones, but here I am. (Thanks for saving me a seat, you guys; nice to see you all here!)

I have many questions about life. So many questions. How come nobody told me about the MF Based mixtape, for example. When will Nipsey and Wiz eat a cheeseburger (so skinny, those boys!). How come Jay-Z never did a verse in which he referred to himself as having x amount of JIGGA WATTS (Back to the Future on TV earlier today). Where is Jeezy. Why doesn't Plies go by Algernod Washington instead because that is a far superior name. Whyyy. And finally: how long will oddballs rule the rap game, bodying everything and everyone with their siren songs. Rap is only going to get weirder in the world in which we live, our own Theatre of the Absurd. I cannot wait.




“All I Want is You,” Miguel feat. J. Cole. All we ladies want when a dude is mean to us is for him to lose some sleep and be very very sorry. There should be some karmic payback for every cruel deed committed, just to make some sense of this crazy world. This song’ll get that estrogen flowing, like when Gaga comes on the playlist loop at H&M and me and all my sistren among the racks of $25 skirts have that tiny, private moment of joy and sing along in our heads.

I wonder sometimes/I wonder if I was wrong/Tryna do right by you got me here/Now all I am is alone. Ah yes. Of course. I recognize an “I cheated; I'm an idiot” lyric when I hear one. 'Cause her eyes, and those hips/And that ass don’t compare at all/And at best, all they do is distract me. Goddamn right; perhaps you should not have strayed from the hips and ass that were waiting for you at home, young man. Aw damn, I love it though. The pathos. That heavy bass drum and the sad echo applied to the vocals makes my progesterone level spike 50%. Salaam Remi produced this, along with “Fu-Gee-La,” and I therefore love him forever and ever amen.




“I Got 5 On It” (original), The Luniz. Much like how I become an honorary Latina every time “Suavecito” comes on, I am suddenly and without warning straight from Alameda County whenever I hear some Luniz. I believe it was my beloved OG rap crush El-P who once said Just because radio don't play you/Doesn't mean that you great. The inverse of this is also true, and has become the theme for this whole list--just 'cause you hear it on the radio don't mean it's not great. The remix of this one has Dru Down's entertaining You can bend her over the table/But be sure that you bring my stallion back to my stable, a callous reference to the trafficking of women's bodies, but unlike people at the Voice, I have the ability to separate my real life from my enjoyment of song lyrics (sorry, I can't let this Odd Future thing go). The remix also has Richie Rich's verse, and Shock G's. But the original has the superstylish Pass it 'cross the table like ping pong, I'm gone/Beat-ing my chest like King Kong. Only it sounds like gaowwwn, and Yuk rhymes it with King Kawwnnng. The line I got more growing pains than Maggie never has gotten enough love in this lady's opinion, either.



In 1996 Oakland, Ebonics was introduced, the concept spread throughout the country, and everybody in America either laughed or got upset. In 1995 Oakland, The Luniz put E-40 on their remix and he became a young Logan's after-hours language tutor--teaching me to think differently about English, like Robin Williams did for those kids in Dead Poets Society.










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The Detroit Emeralds!

Name: The Detroit Emeralds, I’m in Love with You (Westbound, 1973).


Is this title acceptable? No. It feels like they didn't even hardly try. Minimalism and sincerity are fine things, but in the early '70s lapels were big and basslines were fat. Record titles had to be powerful, memorable. Alas, the Emeralds were victims of the ol’ Stylistics one-up (“I’m Stone in Love with You”). Al Green and his qualifier-in-the-title (“I’m Still in Love With You”) preceded the Emeralds' album by a year, too.


Produced by: Hm. Things are a little cloudy here. The record is a Katouzzion production, but what does that mean? The surname Katouzian is from Iran, but there's not even a geographical connection there because Westbound was founded by an Armenian-American (Armen Boladian). The record's production supervisor is Bob Scerbo, who was already at Janus records when it took over distribution for Westbound. Mr. Scerbo seems to know what he was doing, as he also supervised production on (which I guess is better than plain old produced) The Ohio Players' Climax, Cymande's Second Time Around, and Eddie Harris' Smokin, with this beauty:





Entered my life: Ah, this is a problem. I cannot remember. I know I got it at a Beat Swap Meet and it was at the Echo, an awful venue for such an event. The lighting was really bad, I recall, so it was not just hunched-over dorks flipping through bins and not talking to each other, it was squinty hunched-over dorks. It says $8 on the sleeve but you should know the man who sold it to me charged a criminal $20! I'm surrounded by criminals/Heavy rollers, even the sheisty individuals*. I am complicit in my own poverty, though, since I paid him what he asked with no hesitation.

*independent record sellers in Los Angeles, CA



Global events at the time of its release: Lonnie Liston Smith heard some Cosmic Echoes and did some Astral Traveling, babycakes. I should’ve been alive and of fornicating age in ’73, lord have mercy.

Coleman Young, Detroit's first African-American mayor, was elected in '73. The Belleville Three were preteen boys; their uncles worked at GM and they'd visit them in the factory and so years later they'd make music sounding like cars being put together. Motown had just moved to LA, which sort of allowed Westbound and its signees (Parliament! Ohio Players!) to flourish. Berry Gordy was probably tired of the cold and felt guilty about what he'd done to Holland-Dozier-Holland.



Difficulty of finding, vinyl-wise (1-10 scale): Pretty high up there, I think. That's why the man at the Beat Swap Meet did me like that. (He saw the hunger in my eyes.)



Breaks contained:



“Incarcerated Scarfaces”! “The Most Beautifullest Thing in This World”! Drums, drumsdrumssss. Also “Lookin at the Front Door,” and “The Light,” which would have been perfect if left as an instrumental plus Caldwell's sangin, and all of Com's lyrical cliches and platitudes were taken away. “My heart's dictionary defines you, it's love and happiness”; UGH. I was never a huge fan, but I do know things were better when he was bad as Leroy Brown.


Reason for this post on today of all days: 2 things happened--I wore green which made me think of green-themed records, and I saw this picture of Mr. Pasty Elbows um, “guarding” Kareem. I therefore thought of Detroit.



Sartorial accompaniment: “Flouncy-skirted record nerd with too much eyeliner goes to Coachella” is today's aesthetic. Celery-colored tank and lilypad-colored skirt that I made myself (!) as a much cheaper replica of the $40 AA one I was going to buy. Ha ha, Dov! I support your amazingly progressive labor practices but stop being gross*! HA HA.

*every girl in LA has had a Dov is gross experience, including this girl


Suitable activities while listening: Playing hooky from work, so I've really got to make today count. I'll go to the bookstore and finally give in to the Just Kids juggernaut. OK PATTI SMITH, FINE I WILL BUY YOUR BOOK. LEAVE ME BE.


Best YouTube comment:

“I love this song. If anyone is out of East Dallas Texas, and remembers the Maverick skating rink, this was the jam.” It's like Missed Connections but on YouTube. ADORABLE.


Other notable things about today:

• The mack god said that just because you meet a ho/And she wear a jersey that say “champion” and eat a bowl of Wheaties/Don't make her a winner. '96 E-40 washes away the dust of everyday life. Even though the based god has obviously replaced the mack god in my heart.


• Every time I'm jammed I always find a loophole/I got a crime record longer than Manute Bol. The Voice has a good article about the almost-stardom of Big L, a man whose violent death and current status as solemn rap ghost means his lyrical content is too sacred for us to inspect through a terribly critical lens. This is a relief. I wish they'd leave other performers alone in a similar way. If you too are sick of rap writers deciding what our enjoyment of moral repugnance in song says about ourselves and the human experience, we should probably go on a date. Let's take ourselves off the market and be together, because we're just annoying everyone else.

If Big L got the AIDS every cutie in the city got it. Big L had a bunch of AIDS raps, which I guess are right up there with rape raps in terms of things that people want to inspect and ruminate on. Whiffle-ball bat raps, snuffin-Jesus raps, there is nothing new under the sun; Judas Priest, 2 Live Crew, Body Count, Tipper Gore found a new hobby thank god, but the West Memphis Three are still locked up. I have intellectual pretensions but overall this is a party blog so I won't try to address such things or keep yelling at people who think they know the secrets of my heart and brain and want to write Internet essays about why it is bad that we like Odd Future...

but hey, how 'bout “Full Clip”? Remember? So good. The video is a funny rap time capsule, plus it features rare footage of Premier not watching porn.



• It Gets Better is Dan Savage's beautiful venture and website with messages for gay and lesbian kids currently in the bell jar. Inspired by such a project, a writer at The New Gay compiled a list of the top 19 anti-suicide anthems. OK. Sorry, nice idea, but I have a few things to say. First of all, there's the cognitive dissonance of a Joy Division song being on the list. I guess I should be thankful there's no Elliott Smith-? But the main problem is that the list is just so replete with guitar jams by white men--David Bowie, Wilco, Peter Gabriel--that apparently there was no room for any rapping of any kind (ew, The Streets does not count). Personal taste in music is one thing, but leaving out an entire genus of music in the kingdom is irresponsible and makes me want to kill myself! Heh. The New Gay purports that its list is made of “songs that acknowledge how bleak and bad things can get, but by their very existence prove that it’s surmountable.” Oh my god, how weird, I already made a list just like that, starting with Aesey Rock's “One of Four.” Or any song by any Minnesota MC 5 years ago. Or any songs by any Brooklyn MC, or really any MC from anywhere who is forthcoming about past poverty and endorses the fact that money makes it all right. Sloppily composed song compilations are the worst.



• I like this: Women's “Narrow Down the Hall.” On Pitchfork they talk about it, linking the words “half-diffident vocals” and “catharsis.” Nobody wants to read that, a boring description of what it sounds like; let's talk instead of what it makes us want to do (here's mine: walk down the street in a cotton sundress, in slow motion, filmed by Hype Williams circa '94 or Benny Boom in '08 or Little X a couple years prior). “The nice melody plus the chanting over throbby bass” is all I will say to describe it. Something sweet with something simple makes something powerful and intoxicating, like how sugar plus yeast equals alcohol.


mp3.




• New Orleans, I love you. But your Jay Electronica has a boring voice and a boring flow, OH NO! All the boys in town love him, so they all stopped their respective activities and got tongue-tied when Jay and Jay (Z's) “Shiny Suit Theory” was made available this week. Most people loved it; I did not. I find the lyrics to be unbearably pretentious (Egyptology, yawn) and there's a ridiculous Puffy/Miami mention, plus Jay E. already had a song with a little story about Puffy in it. I appropriately freaked out over Exhibits A, B, and C, and I love my Moleskine too, but that had everything to do with Just Blaze and nothing to do with the MC on those particular songs. I would be happy if Jay Elec would preserve the crazy and become a recluse, and I really would be satisfied with Jay-Z retiring and that's been true for at least 5-6 years. But I'm usually in the minority regarding both of these opinions. So when I see comments daring to criticize Jay + Jay's musical linkage, it makes me feel a little more understood by all my invisible Internet boyfriends out there.


Amid a sea of “YES”es and “NICE”s and not-so-funny Jay/camel references (meanies), plus one “I just came” (LOL, sexy commenters), a young man emerges, standing brave and tall, to loudly ask what I was just about to: Where, the fuck, is the drums. I'm in love with this individual and his opinions. Coffee + conversation, Somebody Somewhere?






• The kids around the way used to think that I was buggin; this is because they did not understand how I feel about the funk. Erykah Badu, it turns out, had similar experiences in seventh grade. She's my pretend sister, my pretend buddy, my idol due to her ability to draw cosmic and pretty-eyed rappers to her naked body (Andre, not boring Jay Elec). All I want is for her to talk about music and let me listen. So thank you, NY Mag, for gathering up all her funky dreams and memories into a nifty slideshow where she explains all of the songs that made her a “child of the funk.” Killing it since the Clinton administration, Erykah washes away the dust of everyday life with her irony-free sweetness that comes through when she talks about these songs. She doesn't include any Ohio Players or Meters or Curtis or even any James Brown or “I Get Lifted,” but to each her own.

A common trope in the lady-blogger-nerd inbox is the request to talk about music while wearing a bathing suit. First of all, have you seen my blog, gentlemen who email me, 'cause that's what I do already. Second, I am a lot sweeter and a lot more boring in person--I don't even cuss, really--so you should probably calm down with that fantasy. And third, I now understand the request. I wish Erykah would talk about music every day on the Internet so I could savor it and think about how alike we are, she and I. Her in a bathing suit is not necessary. I would like her to do a lot of sensual poses and faraway glances out of windows, though.


“Things you've heard Logan say” are in bold, below.

On Chaka Khan's “Sweet Thing”:

“Oh Chaka Khan, she is our queen. Anyone who sings soul and funk goes through the school of Chaka Khan. She has so many gorgeous songs but ‘Sweet Thing’ is the one — she sung that song from the vagina, from the bottom of her stomach, you can hear it all in her throat, she felt it. The places that she went with her voice, man, it was so scintillating in every way; it made me happy, it made me loving, it made me weak, it made me sad.”


The Isley Brothers, “Groove With You”:

“When I first learned that I could be in love, that that was an actual thing that I could feel, I remember the Isley Brothers.”


Stevie Wonder, “As”:

“It's a beautiful song. Before I knew what the words said I was in love with the melody. His voice rocks you to sleep, it's constant in me — his voice is a part of my DNA.”


Soul II Soul, “Keep on Movin'”:

“I remember when I knew that I could do things on my own, I was going away to college, and this group called Soul II Soul came out. (The) song was “Keep On Movin'," don't stop. And I felt like, damn, you’re right, I can do things on my own. I can do things on my own and isn’t that just beautiful.”


Rickie Lee Jones, “Chuck E's in Love”:

“Rickie Lee Jones was the first white chick I saw with a cigarette in her mouth on her album cover and back then that meant a lot. Back then we didn’t have Internet or TV, so everything you knew about the person you knew from the album cover, that's all you had, you turned that thing upside down and around studying your favorite singer — their face, their clothes, the art, the shape of the words, the look of their fingers. And there she was with her cigarette, she reminded me of a hippie chick and she had this raspy voice and it was just so funky, like she didn’t give a shit, she didn’t give a damn. And that’s part of who I am — Rickie Lee Jones is a big part of who I am — and I imagine her being someone who showed up as she was, I’m just here. And I wanted to be that. And when you really admire a singer or a song you either want to be them or have sex with them, and with Ricky Lee Jones I just wanted to be her, to feel what she said and sound like she did and have the whole experience just like that coming out of my mouth.”


Parliament, “Aqua Boogie”:

“P-Funk. Funkadelic made me love purple and black, it looks cosmic and sloppy; throw a little neon green splash of something oozing and that's what funk is to me. 'Aqua Boogie' is everything I love about a funk song...I’m talking about changing voices, thirteen people, 76 instruments and 900 people on stage… damn, this song was just a cosmic funk party.”


The Brothers Johnson, “Strawberry Letter 23”:

“On the album cover is these two dudes with Afros and goatees and mustaches and just chilling with the guitars, really making love to them, their shirts open to the navels, and just, damn, these are so grown men! And they sang together and it was just so groovy. And I wanted to get high. I didn't even know what high was, but it was groovy. I like the groovy shit a lot, I’m a child of the funk. I live by the funk, I die by the funk. When people ask in school what I wanted to be when I grow up – teacher, doctor, whatever — I said I was gonna be funky. If God could make me funky, I’ll handle the rest.”




• "Hajj 2010" by The Big Picture, gaze-worthy beauty like nearly every post on The Big Picture.

I have much respect for the peaceful religion of Islam. But I still want to caption every one of these pictures with THANK YOU BASED GOD or a Poor Righteous Teachers lyric.

(Also lush and beautiful: National Geographic's Photography Contest 2010. “Three hundred and sixty degrees of perfected styles” - my caption for photo #3.)








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