I couldn’t do what I do without the assistance of Nutella, Wild Pitch, Alpha Pup, Warren Zevon songs about LA and basically all Asylum records circa '71-'72 on which my parents raised me, cute underpants, cute bathing suits, and yummy corporate coffee (I'm a bad person) with tons of sugar, cream, and cinnamon. And evidently all that my buddy Jati Lindsay needs in order to do his respective thing is some sort of camera (I'm guessing a Leica?) and a ride to the 930 Club in DC in late December 2009 on what must've been 2 very cold and wintry nights.
Along with the sheer beauty of these black-and-whites comes a live hip-hop lesson, in which we finally understand, once and for all, that the index finger-middle finger-ring finger mic grip, with the pinky providing steadiness and control, is THE industry standard.
Thus far, my day has consisted only of gazing intensely at these and wishin and hopin that the Roots|Nappy Roots|Grass Roots Tour (Summer '10) passes through LA.
The Roots, “Water.” Dumbin, just embracing the dope like it's a woman. Handclaps + bassline, circa '02. I would physically make love to this song if I physically could.
Health care is a right, not a privilege. I'd like to thank Bart Stupak from the great state of Michigan for rescinding his bitchy move at the last minute, and I'd like to remind John Boehner that he is an OG member of the Dudes Who Will Not Be Seeing Me Naked Club.
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.
And this is the one where Devin the Dude, after years of convincing arguments, compels me to become a smoker. This guy is never in a bad mood. Plus he's done a lot of reparativework for Texas' reputation after the dark days of George W. Why thank you, Kevin Nottingham.
Jorge Ben - “Take It Easy, My Brother Charles.” Meu irmão de cor.
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.”
1. When you feel sucker-ish and manipulated by buying into mainstream cultural notions of what physical beauty is, even though you know logically that it's all tied to capitalism and convincing women they should be happy with their second-class citizenship, but you still can't help but think Amanda Seyfried looks superfoxy in Esquire: that, my friends, is what we refer to as guiltlust.
Beyonce, who gets more inhumanly physically attractive with each passing minute, even with those bangs, yellow eyeliner, and a ridiculous cowboy hat while doing nothing to subvert the dominant paradigm and making Sony Music Entertainment, Inc., even more boatloads of money. But I tell you, all those Lady Gaga collabos look so good on her.
Related: feeling ashamed to find yourself attracted to a young, grizzled Phil Collins (!) when you come across a Genesis photo from the '70s. This is proof that even if you make awful fake-prog rock with your band, and even if you're a diminutive pasty Brit who wears a shearling coat, STYLE TRUMPS ALL. This is also proof that everything that was once fresh comes back 'round again, fashion-wise. If their pants were tighter I'd be almost positive I saw these dudes at the ChaCha last night.
2. “Electro Wars,” via my Cratekings boyfriends. It's true, Lil Jon--Muhfuckasdon't even know what the fuck they're talkin about.
Listen, I love synth and 808 as much as the next stunningly beautiful girlnerd music fan, but I am growing increasingly tired and frustrated with dudes who are “tired and frustrated with the hip hop scene,” whatever that is. So here we have a video collection of things that make me want to throw stuff across the room, including but not limited to: a predictable appearance by fucking Will.i.Am's annoying ass, Pitbull's annoying culo, a wholly inexplicable appearance by the god Premier (??!), pasty white men culture-poaching and boosting the best music Juan Atkins already made in the '80s, and 1 of the LMFAO buffoons bragging that Kanye was unhappy when they covered “Love Lockdown.” (That's quite a feat, you know. Kanye rarely gets upset.) Ugh.
Your attention please: I would like to hereby announce that my transformation into “grouchy old-timer at the party in the back of the room clutching her Mantronix and Kraftwerk records to her chest” is now complete.
3. Cough-wheeze-cough! HI SPIKE.
The latest in ESPN's 30 for 30 series is Winning Time: Reggie Miller vs. the New York Knicks, premiering Sunday night at 9. In related news, please do not call me Sunday at 9 or during the 60 minutes directly following 9. Thanks.
Reggie Miller is annoying and gives off a real strong bitchy vibe. Also, he believes himself to be quite the comedian when he calls into Dan Patrick's radio show that I listen to on the way to work; this belief is erroneous (he's not amusing in the slightest). Dan always announces him as Reggie Aloysius Miller, though, which is funny, see, 'cause that's Pat Ewing's middle name.
Anyway, Reggie as a sports figure, it must be said, is pretty compelling--somewhat because of the fact that I like New York hiphop and every New York MC has mentioned the Knicks at some point in verse, but more so because of the fact that he's mentioned in various southern-rap-odes-to-weed because Reggie Miller can be smoked, just ask 8 Ball, and also because he can be approvingly mentioned in rhyme by a New York MC, just ask Biggie (the understated “Play hard like Reggie Miller/Rapper-slash-dope dealer,” which was clearly written just 'cause Big needed something to rhyme with dealer. Oh Christopher.)
I like it when superb things combine forces into one easily-consumed unit. This upcoming film is like music-nerd Voltron[Paste]. Plus Miles had a thing for thin blonde ladies with ambiguously ethnic features so I probably have a shot at a role.
1. “The choice (of composer) is apt considering Hancock, no small figure in the jazz world himself, played with Davis when he was living.” The choice is also apt because of the random Herbie factoids I will proudly wield when the film is in theaters, like how he scored Colors AND Blow-Up, which gives him a level of cinematic cache I don't think I've seen before or since. Blow-Up, by the way, is legendarily dope in the world of movie poster-dom:
2.“ROCKIT”!Rockit, people. Rock-it. It's an instruction, a reminder of how you're supposed to navigate your way through daily life. It's also 1 of about 7 songs in the vinyl collection I have curated in apt. 15 that tirelessly and without fail KILLS IT no matter how often you hear it (“Sweet Child O'Mine,” “Know the Ledge,” “Crimson & Clover,” “Apache”), even though it has been disgustingly poached for commercial endeavors over the years and used every time there's a montage of goofy white guys breakdancing in a film.
4. “Cheadle, in addition to co-writing the screenplay, is set to direct and star in the film.” Don Cheadle, possessor of his fair share of valuable gifts (kind eyes, acting skills that display his intelligence without pretentiousness), being revealed as a writer is the stuff that every English major girldork daydreams about while stuck in traffic. I think we all remember his performance at the coffee place last week, too. Swoon, Don.
5. That Akinyele line! OBVIOUSLY. I'm sorry, no disrespect to the man's oeuvre but for the rest of my days every time I hear Herbie Hancock my brain's next logical step will be recalling that I be like Herbie and Han you a c--- line (edited because I don't want my mom to see. Also, because I'm super classy). Herbie Han-cock. So clever/genius. Queens MCs are awfully clutch with that there wordplay.
Now that things have settled down in Saints-Land, I've returned from the French Quarter and put my top back on and my beads away. And it's not time to fill in my failure of a March Madness bracket yet. And the Lakers' inevitable domination over all who cross their path on the road to victory is still like a month away...so I've been needing some sort of sports-related thing to happen that I could celebrate and/or complain about. And then, thank you, here comes CNN with this piece about a Jamaican manning a dogsled team in the Iditarod race. A Jamaican! So wacky. So, you know, Fire pon Babylon of course, but also fire pon animal abusers. (The Iditarod, by the way, started as a way for freight to be transported across Alaska, and even though technology has progressed and there are superior methods for moving things now, people still like to strap harnesses on these poor, sweet beasts with their friendly eyes and wagging tails, and then call the whole thing a feat of human endurance. Also, there's the fact that Palin exists. Goddammit, Alaska.)
Newton Marshall is the musher (real word? unclear) being profiled. “Hey, mon! ... I'm from Jamaica. I'm running the Iditarod!” is a quote they attribute to him but it's so cringe-worthy that I'm suspecting it comes from Jason, a CNN intern who listened to East of the River Nile a hundred times in high school. The fact that animal cruelty knows no geographic bounds is not lost on me, but for now can we just focus on the wonderful fact that Newton Marshall is the most Jamaican of Jamaican names I've heard in quite some time? Add a General, a Saw, or a Banton, a Ranks, and it's a proverbial wrap. Barrington, Aston, Alton, Horace, Augustus, Coxsone; they all have those fancy names that make them sound like they're members of the House of Commons.
Additionally, randomly and comically, the Jamaican dogsled team is “financially supported by Jimmy Buffett'sMargaritaville cafes.” Uh, hold up? Hold up! So even though the Jamaican dogsled team is made up of rescued strays, even though they make the dogs run for 9 hours straight while in training, even though Sir Newton Marshall is content being a human novelty of color in a world of grizzled Caucasoid types and that makes me embarrassed for him, Jimmy Buffett being behind this somehow gets me on board, full-throttle.Jimmy Buffett, FYI you guys, sleeps on piles of cash and isn't a businessman; he's a business, man. Concerts, restaurants, a casino, tequila, the Miami Dolphins' field, a dogsled team--Jimmy is the Jay-Z of yacht rock.
I am legally required to post “Margaritaville” at this point in the post, since the rhythmic pattern was ingrained in me as a child born to Caucasians in suburban southern California, I know all the words forward and backward, I hear it and suddenly I am eating a mayo sandwich on my way to a tennis match in my Top-Siders. Join me please, white people, in celebrating one of our most beloved community anthems.
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.
“March 3, 2010: Supporters of the Iraqiya coalition attend a campaign rally in the Iraqi capital. The secular coalition, led by former Prime Minister IyadAllawi, has the support of many Sunni Arabs.” [MuhannadFala'ah / Getty Images]
The Wu is present in all aspects of my life. A special thanks to the Clan, Iraqis who turned out for the rally (especially that little girl, WHAT), and photog Mr. Fala'ah for making my normal breakfast routine of the LA Times and English Breakfast tea infinitely more hip-hop this morning.
“Our troops need to leave Iraq/ And Rap ni**as need to go on strike, so we could get more cash” - Rae.
No dark sarcasm in the classroom with these kids 'cause they're too busy making me bawl and clutch my hands together and cry out with joy over their vocal stylings. I got that familiar ol' lump in the throat that hasn't been this intense since that week the Saints won, I first saw that Google commercial, and I realized all my favorite rappers are deceased. Oh dear.
I thought I had grown tired of Phoenix, so it's quite a feat the way the PS 22 Chorus is punching me in my emotional center, appealing to my girly sensibilities and fondness for children and organized singing, and making me love this song even though Phoenix are dullsville and over-playedsville thanks to being on constant rotation at Forever 21 (where, coincidentally, there's this butterfly dress I need to complete my life and make me feel like my time here hasn't been a big waste. Size S. So girly and pretty. Gimme. Thanks in advance, baller.)
Anyway, press play! You're not any less of a man if you get a little teary-eyed over this one, promise.
The future Jeopardy! champ in me also feels it's important to add the tangential fact that the film Lisztomaniawas the first to use Dolby Sound (so says my sometimes-enjoyable-but-rarely-dependable boyfriend Wikipedia.)
I passed a certification course in Music Nerdery, then got licensed and bonded. I now practice it on a daily basis. This leaves little time for nerdery of other kinds. But sometimes I like to geek out to a minor degree about things that are beautiful, stark, and foreign--yes, exactly like a 1990 demo of 36 Chambers as recorded in a Japanese semi-conductor factory!, and like these movie posters from Poland.
The red, the black, the white, the sharpness, it makes me feel good both on its own and because it reminds me of the Mad Men opening which, in turn, reminds me of the redheaded curvy Amazon of a woman I was clearly meant to resemble and who I will look like in my next life if I act right and please the gods*. The Guardian calls the posters "deadpan masterpieces" and says these renditions from the Warsaw-based studio Homework are "building on the long tradition of Polish-language versions of Hollywood posters" (??), which you can just go ahead and add to the list of things I did not know about Poland.
Gone with the Wind--even though clearly this one should be Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, yes?
"Oohh, those are pretty and I like them," said Shep Fairey at the exhibit in London, just before continuing to kill it in the world of plagiarism by ripping each one from the wall, adding or taking away words thereby obliterating the images' original context and meaning, screenprinting them on t-shirts without the shame that would normally prevent somebody from performing such an act, then scampering off to play some awful music on his laptop, and it's all just a big time-consuming attempt at filling up the holes in his ego since he's still mad at his parents for giving him that name. (Every art-related post on here must have some Fairey vitriol, plus he's fresh on my radar again because of his Colbert poster getting him all kinds of new and annoying shine in the world of media. Real quick aside: this is an excellent piece in which Robbie Conal, in describing his feelings about Fairey's behavior, said, "I'd want [the songwriter for] Little Anthony to get some money if I'm going to do 'Tears on My Pillow'," which I have adopted as my entire argument in the case of intellectual property. The defense rests, your honor.)
Polish musical accompaniment! Lejzor Czyz and Fiszel Czyz are 2 of the the most Polish names in the world (look at that--only 4 vowels total between them) and they happen to be the real names of Leonard and Philip Chess, of Chess Records, which signed everybody good in the '50s and '60s, including John Lee Hooker, who then made this piece of sexual energy below known as a blues song. And even though this is from 1967, way past him leaving Chess, let's just all not care about that. It's sharp and stark, like everything else I love at this particular moment, plus when Black Milks boosts that chorus to make his next beat of fire I'll feel so smug (in a really adorable way, don't worry). Also, any connections you attempt to make between Fairey's co-opting of others' works and Black Milk's musical alchemy in using an old drum pattern as a starting point shall be willfully ignored. Even if you are playing devil's advocate, which I enjoy most of the time.
Everything on my precious Internet today was either about middle-aged men and their sloppy bodies fornicating, or middle-aged rappers disgracing themselves. Thus, the trouble: my craving for information often yields upsetting and useless rubbish that I must wade through in order to catch the most valuable of music nerdery, breaks, what's new in the world of bikins, and tomboyish news items. Stay tuned at the end of the post for a shocking twist, however (YouTube is involved, as usual):
1. Russell Simmons uses condoms. With ladies. Big condoms. Because he has a large penis, very large, oh and also he's NOT GAY. This lame story about a "witness" seeing him drop a Trojan Magnum condom outside some lame party that no self-respecting Buddhist would attend is so clearly planted by his lame and lazy PR team with nothing better to do that I resent the implication that I'm an idiot and would fall for such a fabricated tale. Also, I do not appreciate the inevitable visual imagery accompanying this story. A bald yoga enthusiast with a prophylactic on is the opposite of what I want to make love to, even if he is friends with the Dalai Lama. Therefore, not taking into account the Def Jam years, I shall simply say: Russell, EW.
2. Mickey Rourke also does it with ladies--one time, he says, it was 14 ladies in a night, and this piece of news somehow ended up in a major periodical despite the fact that nobody has ever questioned his heterosexuality or his ability to act like an insecure frat boy. So unless it's Rumble-Fish era, young beautiful cigarette-and-novel wielding Mickey Rourke, nerdy and hip-blessed young ladies with blogs in the city of Los Angeles would prefer this information be kept secret. Ew.
3. Rae is giving away his beautiful vocal gifts to his dude Fred Durst, thereby decreasing his market value somewhat. EW. Specifically: Wu ew. However, so that I can sleep at night, I have chosen to believe that this is a well-planned scheme by Rae to decrease our expectations of his lyrical prowess only to have Wu-Massacre released and remind us all of his lyrical prowess later on (while wearing something made of fleece with a Champion logo on it). Like what Tarantino did with Travolta! (minus the Champion gear).
4. D'Angelo likes the ladies, and he likes 'em professional. He likes about $40 worth of professionalism, in fact, which he believes is a fair price for a lady giving him some mouth pleasure followed by tight-lipped (teehee) secrecy on the part of said lady. Cash for oral; nothing wrong with that. I live in a hypocritical/Puritanical/hyper-sexualized country that shames men for paying for professional services like mouth pleasure when, really, the shame is baseless and antiquated and results in a dirty and dangerous underworld that is especially dirty and dangerous for female sex workers. Unfortunately, my ability to contextualize the act does nothing to decrease my Ew response.
Alas,
the power of YouTube is undeniable and redemptive. Upon seeing this, the trailer for every Oscar-winning movie ever, Presented by Semi-Independent Studios, in association with Major Studio Conglomerate Subsidiary, I'm reminded that sometimes we fight but goddammit if I'm not deeply in love with the Internet and don't come back to it at the end of the day.
(“Interest in your bold rejection of social norms as evidenced by your dyed hair” is especially enjoyable. Also, don’t miss the Friendly Black Optimistic Advice.)
“I’m sick and tired of somebody saying ‘I love you’ with both arms up in the air.”
“As Is: Bill Withers makes no apologies,” The New Yorker (Sasha Frere-Jones. Of course. Swoon.):
“Withers’s gift lies in the immediacy of his scenarios and in how few words he needed to turn around a thought: his common explanation for how he reached conclusions as a writer is ‘I was feeling what I said.’ His willingness to express his most awkward emotions was matched by an intolerance for unsubstantiated shows of emotion.”
The build-to-crescendo progression here makes me feel happy, joyous, and free. Thanks, Bill!
– Dre*, Scarface, Tupac, actually every rapper after a 4-to-6-month hiatus,
and ME! of course, once I’ve moved into my tiny tiny apartment home. I dragged and lifted and packed and worked and I'm pretty sure that's not the kind of work all the MCs from Georgia on my radio are talking about, but the shit was still work. Missed you; did you miss me?
The terms of my collective bargaining agreement stipulate that I may take a period of time off at specified intervals for rest and recuperation and reflection. I have just concluded one such interval, so: America, here I come! GAME FACE. Let me just jump right back into thangs with some music history nerdery that few apart from myself care about:
This day in 1967, The Supremes recorded “Reflections,” which was the greatest song about reflected imagery in popular music until Slick Rick looked at himself in the mirror in '85 and asked Who is the top choice of them all?, then Soulja Boy did the same thing in '08 only he said Wassup. (Then he got money. Then Jeezy made it stay in my brain for weeks after I heard it. You're rude, Jeezy.)
Diana Ross and her unspectacular voice plus Holland Dozier Holland on the boards means happy times in apt. 15. “Stoned Love” is superior, obviously, I mean those horns, c'mon, but “Reflections” has oscillating sequined tambourine loveliness in go-go boots and is suitable for choreographed dance moves in your tiny apartment plus it means I can post a bunch of pictures of people looking into mirrors. Also, you should play this, loudly, in your motor vehicle. Roll up on dubs, I’m not impressed. Prowl the streets in your Maxima with a head tilt and an appreciation for the Funk Brothers, however, I would probably let you kiss me. On the cheek, since we barely know each other. Plus I'll let you touch my booty (a little, then I'll push your hand away 'cause I'm so demure).
(My mother calls this the “Bambi Face,” no doubt a reference to my cervine quickness and agility.)
*Musical assist courtesy of Andre Young; he's sorta like my personal Max Weinberg. Thx, Dre.
mp3. The piano that's so simple and so menacing, the way that I can make myself forget that Storch produced it, the fact that you can tell Jay-Z had a hand in writing it (this is not Dre's cadence. Sorry, Dre)--I LOVE THIS SONG. And I love all those Training Day cops who I'd want to kick it with in real life probably (this only happens in fiction of the cinematic kind; otherwise cops and I will never ever kick it), I love Denzel's Monte Carlo, I love Eva Mendes' rust-colored wrap dress when she brings Salvadoran food out to Hoyt. I am still not loving that this song is from the album 2001 which was released in, um, 1999. (Oh, sorry. 95 plus 4 pennies.).
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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