Tire Loma Da Nigbehin

from the LP Nigeria 70…, Strut Records, released: 2001, recorded: 197?



This past decade really spoiled us westerners with a seemingly unending glut of top quality compilations covering popular African music in the late ‘60s & ‘70s, exposing us to the considerable depth of localized talent found across the entire continent, far more sounds and grooves than the Fela or Ladysmith records we’d heard before. Of particular interest to us heads are these comps which focus on the fusion that was created when western musical trends cross-pollinated with the indigenous rhythms and cadence; the result: bloody fucking brilliant! The western African nation of Nigeria has proven to be of particular interest, and having the densely populated & relatively metropolitan capital of Lagos as its hub helped to forge a record-pressing industry that was nearly on par with those in Brazil and Colombia at that time. I couldn’t find any information on this particular group, but they sure as hell know how to develop one funky-ass groove---that explosion of fuzzed-out, psych rock guitar near the end of the song (right at 4:06) grabs me every time. Dude, homeboy in the cover photo is stylin’ yo, from the diagonal fade to those “fuck-off” boots, you know these cats came to party!

Start It Up

from the LP Mighty Fire, Elektra Records, 1982



The breeze coming off of the mountains has already begun to warm a bit, and the musk of flowering trees hangs heavy in the air, which is not an easy task given how dry our climate is here. While I am most assuredly stoked for winter to be gone, the warm cycle does bring with it a slew of yard-related chores that one becomes easily accustomed to not worrying about when there’s snow on the ground: picking up dogshit, weeding flower beds, and the worst of all, mowing the lawn. Yes, the grinding mechanical hum of lawnmowers & weedwhackers can be heard starting up all around the neighborhood, and the hunt is already on for any standing dandelion in sight (for one reason or another, those cute little yellow flowers have come to symbolize laziness & deviance from one’s proper yardcare regime, a norm which is annoying as fuck but I’m not gonna be “that guy” on the block). Mighty Fire was a short-lived but above-average LA crew that churned out some very smooth boogie jams at the beginning of the ‘80s; I fully realize they weren’t referencing lawn chores literally here, but the encouraging nature of this track’s ambiance puts my head in a good place for the work that has to get done.

Mama Weer All Crazee Now

from the LP Sladest, Polydor Records, 1973



Many of us Americans lived through the big hair & perpetual misspellings of Quiet Riot in the 1980s, completely unaware of the fact that they didn’t just steal the idea of poor vocabulary skills from British glam rockers Slade, they flat out covered their songs too. Admittedly, when compared with other glam icons like Bowie or T.Rex, maybe it shouldn’t be too surprising that they were largely ignored over here, but a few of their tracks kick ass, this being one of them; essentially a wake-up call to the older generation, this blistering glam-pop gem delivers exactly what it promises. I have to admit though, this album cover never ceases to make me laugh---right, like that little bit of glossy front-lighting helps soften the impact of these poor sods collective fugliness, “…we’re gonna need a bigger light…”; thus, while the music rocks, their appearance does little to quell American assumptions about British musicians’ frightful looks. Thankfully, the music is more important, so there you go.

Give I Grace

from the LP Unconquered People, Tuff Gong Records, 1979



Sometimes we all get a little hot under the collar, some of us more than others (whoops; but I am just as fast to get over it), and often that rapid-fire release of adrenal rage is nothing more than projection---in that, perhaps we’re more drawn to exogenous examples of our own personal shortcomings, leaving us primed to judge that which we can negatively relate to both quicker & harsher than other things that annoy us. It’s a continual process of refinement, one which I readily admit still escapes me from time to time, but the humility comes faster each & every time you try to get better (even when you screw up for that matter). Izzy Vibe’s prayer here is equally fitting for both planning ahead & post repentance, “…give I grace in the morning, give I grace at noon, give I grace in the evening, and keep my heart in tune…” Amen brothers & sisters!

Final Stretch

from the CD Bright Channel, Flight Approved Records, 2004



At my age, when I go to a show I typically expect that most opening acts (particularly of the local variety) will mostly suck, and I’ll be damned if that hasn’t often held true at concerts across this glorious nation, for decades; that’s why my pal & I were taken by complete surprise upon witnessing Bright Channel’s opening set for Dinosaur Jr. in Boulder a few years back. There we were, readying ourselves for bottom of the barrel suckage, nursing a pint of Guiness and wondering what non sequitur paths of shouted conversation would ensue during the opening set, when suddenly---WHAM, the thundering steely rhythm section of Shannon Stein on bass & Brain Banks on drums literally almost made me spit out my sip of stout. Indeed, these individuals were not fucking around, and both my friend and I exchanged bewildered glances followed by a heartfelt “fuck yea!” in unison, leaving us freed from our pessimistic expectations and liberated to cut loose (see: chugging said beer and rocking out). Bright Channel preceded the shoegazer revival by a few years, so it wasn’t surprising when I learned that none other than Steve Albini himself helmed the boards for this album. The lyrics are cryptic as fuck, matching well with the edging-towards sinister vibe their sound espouses, “…empty structures touch the sky, shiny new castles made of mirrors; it's more than just a fantasy, this is the end staring patiently…”

Rock Creek Park

from the LP City Life, Fantasy Records, 1975



Let’s face it, having sex in the outdoors is, well, GREAT (squares, go home); thus, the key to a successful tryst au natural really comes down to careful discretion in picking the location, and be that in the mountains or at the beach, the forest or the pasture, the paramount concern during planning need be privacy from other humans---well, unless you are seeking to get caught, in which case, good luck with that (I’m not judging exhibitionism here, ‘different strokes…’ and all that, but there are appropriate places to be watched by individuals whom you can be sure actually want to see you naked). The first time I fooled around at the beach was exhilarating, hearing the waves crashing and birds squaking above---in all honesty, it took me a little bit to loosen up, but it was magnificent. This oft-sampled, lusty little number from Donald Byrd’s backing crew the Blackbyrds extols the raptures to be had, “…doing it in the park, doing it after dark, oh yeah…”; Rock Creek Park is a real place, more than twice the size of Central Park and located inside our nation’s capital. I would be remiss if I didn’t share the following advice, having contributed the above story: if you plan on fucking at the beach, either bring your own lounge chair or steal one from a condo beachfront, because trust me, a towel or two is NOT enough to keep things pleasureable (re: sand)---we also found that some people keep there catamarans locked up on the beach, and those are astonishingly functional as well, although ethically murkier I suppose, being responsible adults now…

Electricity

from the LP No Parking on the Dancefloor, Solar Records, 1983



Roller skating rinks were still the jam back in the ‘80s, and the DJ at the establishment out in Golden Gate which my friends and I used to frequent had a grip of tracks that you could rest assured would get spun every single week, including Madonna’s “Lucky Star”, Kool & the Gang’s “Celebrate”, Eddy Grant’s “Electric Avenue” and others, but my favorite was this electro-boogie transmission from disco funk mainstays Midnight Star. Looking back now, that rink was pretty skeezy & full of shady characters, but that was part of the appeal I suppose: good tunes, good skates, Galaga & Joust in the arcade, the quasi-mythic “suicide drink” from the snack bar (essentially a mixture of all the sodas on offer), and the opportunity to find drugs or be inappropriately touched in the bathroom.

Land

from the LP Horses, Arista Records, 1975

I picked up a copy of Patti Smith’s memoirs (Just Kids) a couple weeks ago, and I have to say, it’s full of the most inspiring words I’ve read in a long fucking time people---if you have even the slightest twinge of artistic daydreams within your being, I implore you, go get this book! Patti is verbose without being the slightest bit self-indulgent, fearlessly honest, funny in her minimal way even, but most of all she carries on the tradition of storytellers from the past, weaving narratives that whisk the reader away to a time that seems so foreign against the backdrop of our computerized, TMZ-ridden, Walt bloody Disney modern world; to be completely honest, reading about her & Robert Maplethorpe’s triumphs and tribulations really brought home how distant the ‘60s are from now, and their stories could likely never happen today. SO, in honor of Ms. Smith’s willingness to open up and give us all a pinch of that wildfire, I will attempt to concoct one of her brand of poem / prose / song collages:

Death dancer dance on

in a glaze of swirling galaxies,

dripping like ornaments

from your Godiva gowns;

night-eyes, your cosmic strides

peel leather silhouettes

from my insides.

and I cry,

loneliness lacks a heartbeat,

wisdom stays in bed;

bind me with your reptile strings

let me drown inside your head…

Moment of Truth

from the LP Moment of Truth, Noo Trybe Records, 1998



Amidst all of the symbolic anniversaries & holiday festivities of this last week I forgot to post on the passing of a legendary MC: Keith ‘Guru’ Elam succumbed to multiple myeloma (essentially, cancer of plasma-based white blood cells) last Monday, at the age of 48. Rather than focusing on the drama & quarrels surrounding him that seem to be continuing post mortem, I would rather focus on all the incredible music this dude blessed us with while he was here; yes, Guru’s Jazzmatazz series was always dope, but for your humble narrator here, his star never shone brighter than during his days spent alongside DJ Premier as Gang Starr. The combination of Premier’s supernatural ability to lace sick beats & Guru’s informed monotone parables added up to one of the dopest duos in hip-hop history, hands down. Although I tend towards their earlier stuff, this track seems too appropriate to pass over---personal confession, this song actually brought tears to my eyes once when I was living in Cleveland, first time I ever heard it in fact, my life was such a mess at that time & it really delivered, still gives me the chills. Thanks Guru, rest in peace.

Impressionism

from the LP The Strange World of Bernard Fevre, L’Illustration Musicale Records, 1975



Having major Spring showers here today, it even began to snow for a bit; anywhere else that would a downer, but out here weather like this is practically a novelty for crissake, so I’m enjoying the hell out of it---soaked in the tub, ate a savory warm lunch, smoked some dank wonderful, and now I’m zoning out to the enchanted sounds of Bernard Fevre. The recent rediscovery of so-called library music has proven to be rather fruitful for all the beats-heads out there, although I detest the genres given name; to steal a line from the wonderful Stereolab, how about calling it “space age bachelor pad music”? Whatever you want to call it, these spacey slices of electrical atmospheres are marvelously hypnotic, particularly when one is stoned and gazing hazily out the window at lightly falling wet snow (you know, those big-ass snowflakes the size of a half-dollar). Mr. Fevre went on to much underground acclaim in the dance music world as ‘Black Devil’, but it’s his early experimental stuff that really gets us geeks wet!

Deixa Não Deixa

from the 7” single, Tapecar Records, 1971



Cutting smoothly between fierce jazz-funk, breezy bossa nova & full tilt samba-soul, this Brazilian burner by singer Rosa Maria keeps me coming back for more every time---I think the tambourine during the chorus seals the deal. This song is tight without feeling the least bit stuffy, familiar but somehow twisted & new, as refreshing as drinking a fucking caipirinha on the strip at Ipanema beach in Rio! Considering the size of their population, one has to imagine that crusty record stores across that vast nation must hold an infinite array of ‘70s fusion treats like this, so it’s no wonder that Brazil has continued to be a crate-diggers destination for decades. The title of this song loosely translates to “let’s not leave”, and I gotta tell you, if I was at some joint right now with a full live band jamming on shit like this, I wouldn’t leave until the sun came up.

School Days

from the LP Illusions on a Double Dimple, Harvest Records, 1974



Indisputably one of the most underrated bands from their era, German prog monsters Triumvirat crafted intricately woven soundscapes worthy of their own lazer light shows, having a sound that was equal parts Yes & ELP but inimitably their own; arguably, they outdid ELP at their own game, and somehow came away with catchier tunes also, in my humble opinion. As was the case with countless European crews at that time, all the musicians heard here spilled over with prodigious talent, but Triumvirat always managed to insert a bit of a campfire vibe inside those monolithic halls of keyboards and electronics. This album and the one after it, Spartacus, have provided many a night’s soundtrack for Halo sessions on the X-Box.

Weedking

from the LP Propeller, self-released, 1992



Happy holidays to all you stoners out there! Being a teacher, I have to keep a low profile today---as I mentioned last year, I have numerous students who will, no doubt, be attending the local smokeout & other 4-20 festivities. That’s alright though, I’m with all of you in spirit (I’m sure they already guess this), and in a place of deep stoned-ness. What is it about this divine plant cannabis?! “…and if it all goes well we'll laugh a lot, and then we'll all take photographs, of what we made…” It’s amazing how this modern global marijuana culture can validate one another so quickly now, posting pics and video footage of toking celebrations spanning the globe as they take place, the whole world getting baked…well, those that puff anyways. Robert Pollard and GBV were always avowed boozehounds, but this song of theirs confirms the assumption that they were, indeed, also confirmed heads. Party safely my dear Honey-fiends, and bask in the warm glow of a collective high, “…for the dreams of the weed king we all sing…”

Heartland

from the LP Jeopardy, Korova Records, 1980



I spent a brief tenure flunking out of college in the middle of Indiana, about as “heartland” of a place as one can find around this country anymore, rows of corn and soybeans as far as the eye could see; for a boy that grew up at the beach, getting high in the middle of a cornfield was surprisingly exhilarating, the dappled night sky above us untainted by city lights and the contiguous silence of the countryside pairing to produce a truly alien landscape to any urban spawn. In fact, I never went to class at all. My poor mom & dad, arriving for parent’s weekend only to be met by the faces of puzzled professors, one after another, explaining to them as soothingly as possible, “…um, well, I’m sorry to have to tell you, but I’ve never met your son before…what did you say his name was again…?” Looking back, I’ve gotta say, I’m thankful for my time in the heartland: days spent with my fellow flunking allies, driving aimlessly through the quartered counties, Graffix hookah firmly entrenched in between the driver & passenger seats, clam baking all the while---nights spent tripping on weak microdot and chugging cheap tequila, hitting up girlfriends for the use of their cars (no shame) when Travis was in dispose (namely his sisters wreck, but that’s another story for another day…). Shit, we probably listened to Dark Side of the Moon & the Dead’s Europe ’72 over a hundred times that fall… Here’s to rural Indiana! Happy birthday Verratti!!

Can You Feel It

from the 12” single, Trax Records, 1986



The prefix “deep-” has been applied to virtually every style of electronic music, with all the subcultures found within that umbrella of beats seeking to trawl the depths of each respective groove, a pursuit for endurance over the immediacy of an archetypal peak-hour anthem; this classic cut by Larry ‘Mr. Fingers’ Heard is a sublime example of early deep house, released while the mothership of house music itself was still in its infancy. Back then, the idea of having no lyrics in a dance track was tremendously risqué, and typically a portent of commercial doom, but this slick number rose to become one of the most essential building blocks of house’s early family home. It’s hard for some to believe that the Midwest is truly the birthplace of electronica, but anyone who’s lived there knows the deal, and I’m ceaselessly grateful for my schooling.

Pi

from the LP Madvillainy 2: The Remix Album, Stones Throw Records, 2008



Being sociologically minded, I tend to focus more on the patterns that exist around us, but sometimes those exceptions to the rule prove impossible to ignore--- beats-smith Madlib and rapper MF Doom (both of whom I’ve already covered here in the Honeypot) contain exactly that kind of magnetic immunity from the barren wasteland which is modern hip-hop. I remember when this collaboration first leaked out to the underground press, and it made perfect sense: 2 coasts, 2 histories, but a similar push towards all things different and, above all else, the headiest of the heady. Madlib helps the idea deliver twice here, but you know me, “…the hashish fiend, he just came from over there, the grass is greener…”, my views on the beats are herbally biased.

I Don't Wanna Go There

from the LP Farm, Jagjaguwar Records, 2009



When one considers these dire economic times matched with the increasing market takeover by digitized music, it’s refreshing as fuck to see the sun shining on the world of LPs; when stores are opening up that only sell vinyl---no CDs man, just the black wax---that’s a good sign. Shit, even Target and Walmart are selling record players now, so you know they’re moving units! What’s even more incredible is seeing how the heady, grungy local music store has wound up outlasting the corporate behemoths (ala Tower or Virgin Records), and to a large degree that’s on account of vinyl sales; case in point, I went down to Twist & Shout yesterday and dropped over $100 on records without even making it past the letter ‘N’ in the "NEW RELEASES ROCK" stacks, and the portion of their space that’s dedicated to CDs continues to shrink with each passing month it seems. As was the case with this LP, many bands include coupons or links for free computer downloads of the album’s mp3s, completely removing any lingering reason for the consumer to buy a CD. Bloody brilliant I tell you! This offering from the reformed Dino Jr. blew my mind last year, and duly proved that, indeed, sometimes (albeit, rarely) a reunited band really does have more to say; in fact, it’s as if they never broke up in the first place, with this coming across like the true successor to 1988’s Bug. And how ‘bout that cover art?!!!

Hallucination Generation

from the LP 99%, Play It Again Sam Records, 1990



Jack Dangers (aka ‘Meat Beat Manifesto’) always seemed to be equally interested in both dark and light, crafting loops which managed to be sinister & facetious at once, wry smiles behind hypervigilant eyes. The influences are broad (me like-y) and seemingly divergent: Chrome, Nitzer Ebb, Gristle, Detroit techno, golden era hip-hop, even some flourishes of psych rock can be heard across his discography. This was the first album of his I owned, on CD no less, so maybe that’s why I still love it so much---admittedly, it’s a pretty bare-bones affair, but it still rocks my fucking world. It’s like tripping inside of some twisted carnival ride, a haunted house or something, “…those innocent fun games of the hallucination generation…”; that sample of some chick attempting to talk, presumably taking a stab at explaining her chemically altered state, and just collapsing into a knowing psychedelic giggle absolutely slays me every time. Not to mention, one of the cheekiest band names to ever cum around, hands down (puns fully intended)!