The Weight

from the LP Music From Big Pink, Capitol Records, 1968



Just as I was sitting down to type up a new post I was met with the awful breaking news of legend Dennis Hopper’s passing today at his home in California, from complications due to prostate cancer; he was only a year younger than my father. His acting work through six (count em: 1950s, ‘60s, ‘70s, ‘80s, ‘90s, and 2000s) fucking generations speaks for itself, and his humanitarian work over the years exhibits a real passionate commitment to human rights. That said, the man was no saint, nor would I presume he would have wanted anyone to think of him that way---shit, who does?! This song felt appropriate. Rest in peace.

2-4-6-8

the LP ABC, Motown Records, 1970



Sad to hear of the passing of Gary Coleman earlier this week, particularly considering the tumultuous scenes which defined the latter part of his life, though his story is truly an American tale. He was often quoted saying that he wished he had never become famous, although one does have to wonder if it’s that simple---perhaps the more difficult journey comes once that fame has passed you by, although I admit that the idea of having cameras in your face, in perpetuity, would be enough to drive one nuts. I hope he was able to find some peace before he died.

The Bizness Mixtape

Side A, 1996



Any raver that lived in or near Ohio during the mid – late ‘90s will be familiar with the Cincinnati Bomb Squad (CBS), a crew of generally young kids that managed to pull off some of the bigger parties in the Midwest (excepting for Chicago) during that time period; one of the factors that indisputably helped a great deal was the fact that their team of associated DJs were tight as fuck, garnering strong reputations in their own right far outside the Nati-bubble. Ria ‘Mowgli’ Matlib spun at virtually every CBS party I went to, often tag-teaming with his buddy Troll---the best CBS parties were the joints they threw at that grubby-ass warehouse downtown, and supposedly this Adam kid owned the building, or a couple floors inside it anyways, and the parties there were fucking NUTS yo, everything an “illegal” rave should be. At any rate, Mowgli and other junglists were getting sick of being stuck in tiny rooms with shitty systems, so (in his own words), “…this mix was made so that house-heads from the Midwest would get more in tune with jungle…the response I received from these house lovers was overwhelming…” Maybe that’s what it was about CBS parties that felt so good as compared to the joints we were throwing in Cleveland, a genuine belief in unity of purpose---albeit, with plenty of shade still, this was the Midwest folks. Mowgli didn’t need to convince me of anything, and his mixes continue to move my body & soul nearly 15 years on; you can’t FUCK with that Sade remix about 30 minutes in!

Billy

from the LP No Control, Epitaph Records, 1989



Shooting dope never held any allure for me, thankfully, although virtually every other drug on the planet did, but opiates just never really made a lasting impression; this is perhaps atypical, considering my enthusiasm for almost all other downers, but smoking heroin a few times was enough for me to decide that I didn’t need to explore any further. To be totally honest, I was sort of like: really? this is what people throw their lives away for?! Not to judge those who love(d) it, seeing as how I quickly went about destroying my own life too (with a plethora of other substances), but I just never got it. Thus, excepting for the “…needle & a spoon…” reference, this mid-career burner from hardcore mainstays Bad Religion is pretty damn close to autobiography for me in my angsty youth, in more than one way (wink); believe me, I don’t take anything for granted, and I fully recognize that had any number of minor variables not worked in my favor along the way, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now typing this. I can only imagine how many peers the band’s founders Greg Graffin (vocals) & Brett Gurewitz (guitar) had lost in the decade leading up to this album and song; considering Gurewitz took a substance-related leave of absence from Bad Religion in the mid ‘80s, I’d guess quite a few probably. In any critical situation where there are survivors and also those who pass away, the people left alive are often crippled for years after with a strange form of guilt surrounding why it’s them still walking around and not X, Y or Z person. It leaves you questioning everything, “…so where is the justice when no one is at fault and a human life is tragically wasted…how fragile is the flame that burns within us all, to light each passing day, yeah…” I guess the only solace to be had for those of us left behind is trying to pass that good luck along, in word & deed, with the earnest (delusional?) belief that we can somehow atone for our continued existence in this way…

War in the Asteroid Belt

from the LP …Destroys the Invaders, Greensleeves Records, 1982



This last week marked the 30^th anniversary of Pac-Man, the first true amalgamation of pothead fantasy come to life as an exogenous pastime---what better way to identify with stoners than through a video game in which your primary objective is to eat?! Ms. Pac-Man far surpassed her hubby in popularity, which is fitting I suppose; remember those amusing interludes showing how they met and then had Pac-sex, producing little Pac-babies? Living in an age now where video game controllers look similar to a fucking airplane cockpit, I pine for the days when all you had to worry about was a joystick, perhaps one big ass button---hell, I still can’t pull off all the moves in Pro Wrestling using the classic NES ’85 controller! Dub mastermind Lloyd ‘Prince Jammy’ James was clearly hooked on Atari during the production of this space-dub masterpiece; even having been mentored by the master himself, King Tubby, no one could have predicted the monumental amount of influence Jammy would wind up having over the direction of music in Jamaica. Along with producing Black Uhuru’s first album, Jammy went on to produce the first all-computerized dancehall single (Wayne Smith’s “Under Me Sleng Teng”), thus setting the course for all the Sean Paul’s out there today. Grab a phat spliff along with those high-end headphones I know you’re rocking, and come join the fight…

Look Towards the Sky

from the LP Give Me Your Love, Uno Melodic Records, 1981



What an incredible leap forwards this past week, concerning that announcement of the first synthetically built cells---yes, I think it’s a good thing, even given my penchant for all things relating to a dystopic, cyberpunkish future. Ultimately, this will likely help us in the medical world long before there are warring armies of artificial intelligence or adoptable android kids, ala AI; frankly, I love that movie, and the idea of being able to rent Jude Law for my own devious purposes sits pretty damn well with me. In all seriousness though, many scientists & researchers believe these synthetic (perhaps soon programmable) cells hold more immediate promise than stem cells do, and seeing as how we’ve all been sold a Disney-style fantasy about stem cells solving every conceivable medical issue in the future, it’d be nice to have a product actually deliver while we’re still alive to enjoy its benefit. Predictably, all the religious idiots have their granny-panties in a bind about any potential for man-made life, as if the world may actually go “POOF” the very second living, breathing things are created in a lab. I’m no atheist, but come on people, get the fuck over it! Many of the diva’s who came out of the jazz-funk and disco scenes of the 1970s had solid gospel foundations from youths spent singing in church, often several days a week---this was the case for NYC-based singer Sylvia Striplin. This was her only solo album, a rare disco-funk gem that was produced by none other than Honeypot favorite, Mr. Roy Ayers; mint copies of this catch over $500 on the collector’s circuit. It’s all about the bottom end here, chunky-ass beats with a mad funky bassline, and that synthesizer seals the deal.

Fume

from the Loser EP, Bong Load Records, 1994



BALLOONS BITCHES!!! Back in the ‘90s, my friends and I always enjoyed helping out at those afterhours functions built primarily upon the idea of someone showing up with a 40 lb. tank of nitrous oxide; being people who possessed said tank and a functional connection at a racetrack south of the city who was well-versed in the fine art of water-filtering sulfur from the nitrous, we lucked into many random connections that proved enormously useful during those mad times. This is classic Beck---not the smooth Scientologist songwriter of today, but instead the bent & broke hitchhiker of yore, renowned slacker and couch-surfer extraordinaire; while I certainly respect his maturation in musical style (albeit, I definitely do not get his whacktarded choice of “religion”…frankly, I’m still kind of hoping it’s a big joke or something…), it’s the old school Beck that captured my postmodern heart, and it’s those light-hearted tunes which really tickle me pink. The studio banter in the middle of this track is hilarious (i.e. “…and I really don’t think that I know what, to do...”), as is the sonic metal coda which closes the track, but it’s Beck’s wordplay that never fails to have me laughing out loud, “…my friend picked me up about quarter past 5, we stopped and got some donuts and we took a little drive, we had a can of nitrous, we rolled the windows up, now we're breathin' deeply, breathin' deeply…we spent many years always tryin to get high, smokin' broken pencils and beatin' up kids (?!), talkin' to the devil and drinkin' a coke, now we're totally rockin', totally rockin'…there's a fume, in this truck, and I don't know if we're dead, or what, the fuck, or what, the fuck is going on…”

Starlighter

from the 12” single, Endless Summer Recordings, 2009

Nantes may initially seem an unlikely locale to foster one of the biggest chill-wave scenes on the globe, but anyone who grew up near the water won’t be terribly surprised when you do a Google Maps search of Nantes and find that it sits upon the mouth of an inland waterway from the Atlantic Ocean---there is something about a large body of water that lends itself to this song’s sense of abandon, the debut 12” from Valerie collective duo Jupiter (Quarles Baseden and Amélie de Bosredon). While I admit that the cheese factor here rides a fine line, it’s got just enough drive in the pocket to keep things minty fresh instead of sugary sweet; where Sally Shapiro edges towards the trance end of the spectrum, Jupiter strays determinedly in the direction of ‘80s italo and post-disco, tossing us a warm bone from the humid French coast. Truly, when considering the universally breezy nature of this track, the name of the record label in question couldn’t be more accurate. Vive Valerie!!!

Spring Love

from the LP Party Your Body, BCM Records, 1988



The farmer’s market in this area is already in full swing, and we walked out of there yesterday with a veritable feast of goodies---we’ve learned that you have to get there early if you want some farm-fresh eggs, as they are the first to go, and for good reason! If you like eggs, there is really no going back once you’ve tasted the thick, school-bus orange orb of awesomeness that is the over-easy yolk of one of those farm-fresh eggs. The majority of the produce on sale just came out of the ground the day before and is organic, so it’s as unsullied & tasty as it gets, but there is so much more on offer when you dig around: figgy olive tapenade, fresh honeyed yoghurt, local mead, apple cider, homemade soaps, baked breads, banana empanadas, even all-natural rib-eyes from a nearby ranch of Scottish Highlanders that are some of the tastiest steaks I’ve ever had outside of restaurants. Spring time is fantastic for walking around outside in the mornings, the warm sun kept firmly in check by a persistent cool breeze, the aroma of lilacs and irises teasing your nose, and dreadlocks everywhere… well, in this area anyways. Stevie B was basically unopposed as king of the freestyle beats, considering the whole genre was dominated by, um, women; frankly, it was a wise move on his part (the Jheri-curl mullet he’s rocking on the cover notwithstanding), and he had a string of dance hits in the late ‘80s as the scene was winding down. No matter how far away life takes me from Florida, I will never loose my love for that Miami bass sound. Word.

In Dust We Trust

from the LP Exit Planet Dust, Astralwerks Records, 1995



Getting dusted is not an activity for the rookie drug user---indeed, smoking wet (a.k.a. sherm, stix, illy, angel dust, PCP) ranks among the more peculiar buzzes I indulged in way back when, like gravity giving you a swift kick to the dome-piece; quite frankly, the sensational news stories about users high on dust doing all manner of outlandish things weren’t far from the truth, albeit a tad bit overblown, as most of us enjoyed the weird underwater vibe of smoking wet without breaking things (i.e. walls, windshields, and by proxy, one’s own bones…) or tearing all our clothes off while screaming at the top of our lungs---that being said, I seen some people do some funny shit while under the influence. The claims of people having smoked supposedly “dusted” weed back in the day were also largely exaggerated, as anyone who’s smoked wet can tell you that the chemical smell of it, no matter what substance it winds up on, stands out; more likely, many people who thought they smoked tainted pot just wound up with a relatively strong bag of herb, had panic attacks, and attributed their reaction instead to one of the most demonized drugs in our modern history. On the whole, I really dug dissociating substances quite a bit during my Dionysian days, but they aren’t for everyone.

It's So Hard

from the LP Hydra, Capricorn Records, 1974



Throughout the 1970s, the search was on for record companies to find the “next” Lynyrd Skynyrd or Allman Brothers Band, with Southern rock having developed into a real scene in and of itself, merging the elements of country, blues, & rock into a chugging torrent of boogie that was as American as handguns or Tickle-Me-Elmo; largely, it was a musical chowder born of childhoods spent growing up in the dilapidating south while the culture was changing at light speed around them…well, that and excessive amounts of pot smoking. Hydra came together in Atlanta, and though they never gained the recognition of their influences, their highly proficient level of jamming allowed them to share stages across the country with many well-known hard rock acts of that decade. Gotta love those dual lead guitars, and that bizarre cover art!

C.R.E.A.M.

from the LP Enter the…36 Chambers, Loud Records, 1993



“Cash Rules Everything Around Me, CREAM, get the money, dolla dolla bill ya’ll…” My feelings about federal-level politicians all being douchebags was firmly validated with the recent passage of the so-called “financial reform bill” in the Senate, with all signs already pointing to the inevitable removal of the one good thing left in there (that being derivative regulation) during committee in the House; as feeble as this bill is, it still annoys Wall St., who will unlikely dump all their money into the GOP as punishment, having done the same thing for Obama with the DNC just 2 years ago. Now that the Supreme Court has ruled that corporations have no limit on how much they can donate to political campaigns, it’s certainly shaping up to be one hell of an ugly autumn on television! Fuck it, I’m stuffin money under the mattress, yo. Staten Island may have been the last NYC borough to catch some rep in the hip-hop game, but that didn’t stop the Wu-Tang Clan from coming out of the gate as if they owned the whole fucking scene; wise move congealing into a “…sick tight clique…”, because nobody’s going test a whole pack the way they might with a lone wolf. Raekwon the Chef & Inspectah Deck deliver some fresh verses while Meth holds down the famously memorable chorus, but it’s RZA’s piano-laced beats that caught every head’s attention, transforming the intro from an obscure 1960s soul number (the Charmels’ “As Long As I’ve Got You”) into an eerily haunting soundtrack for the oft-told, but no less real, tales of selling drugs to get by in the hood. Wu-Tang’s plan of an all-out assault for their introduction into the world of professional rap worked amazingly well, giving every member of the Clan a lengthy solo career of their own, albeit to varying degrees of success.

Dance Wit Me

from the LP Rufus featuring Chaka Khan, ABC Records, 1975



Chaka Khan. Chaka Khan. Chaka Khan everybody, everybody Chaka Khan. You can’t fuck with Chaka Khan! Her voice has always balanced the ideal amounts of both smoky & gravelly elements, delivering these lines as if her very life depended on them, “…if what you feel is real, then we gon’ get down and groove; I love the way you party, love the way you move…dance wit’ me, baby baby, dance wit’ me…” And who could say no? Without her, the Chicago band Rufus would have probably just been another local funk crew who played opening sets for touring headliners, but Chaka cast a spell on anyone who listened to her voice---shit, all you had to do was take one look at all that riotous windswept hair, those bewitching eyes matched with her knowing smile, and just as you were frozen in awe of the Nubian goddess before you, her Siren song hypnotized all who have ears and your ship was sunk. Although most of their hits were slow burners (ala “Tell Me Something Good” or “Sweet Thing”), Rufus was always primarily a hard funk band, and while Chaka always steals the show, one shouldn’t underestimate Bobby Watson’s fatty bottom bass, nor the heady vamping of Kevin Murphy on keys. If you can’t dance to this, you got no business having feet.

On the Beach

from the LP What Does Anything Mean? Basically, Statik Records, 1985



I was 14 years old the first time I really got off on LSD; we’d dropped acid a couple times in middle school before then, but it was either bunk or really weak, because I was taken very much by surprise that one autumn evening when those two doses of purple shields I’d taken earlier began to come on, strong. Admittedly, my heart was pounding pretty good and I was getting a little scared, but thankfully our pal Marshall (who we all called ‘Sheesh’) had brought a boombox along for the journey, and right as the tall grass I was lying in began to streak upwards, swaying to the music like emerald spires shooting thousands of miles into the electric dusk sky, I happened to glance at the rising moon----that moon saved my ass man! I glimpsed my mother’s face smiling down at me with the most serene look, and it was all my mind needed to proceed joyfully through that rite of passage, dancing around to Jethro Tull & the Beatles, tripping the light fantastic. “…I thought I heard her calling, hush now don't you cry; figure in the sky, figure in the sky… can't stop myself from shaking, my mind at last is waking… hadn't time to analyze, what I saw before my eyes, but nothing would surprise me, here on our beach…” The Chameleons resided in a gauzy, guitar-driven world that attracted a bigger audience in their native UK than over here, although American college radio gave them a cult base. Their lyrics often play with double meanings, and they even took their meshing of drugs & religious imagery onto the art for this LP, one of coolest and trippiest covers of the decade, in my opinion.

Rainbow in the Dark

from the LP Holy Diver, Warner Bros. Records, 1983



We have truly lost a great one… Ronnie James Dio was not only heavy metal’s elder statesman, he was a beaming example of what it means to love what you do and not take anything for granted; this man’s first band was in 1958, so he already possessed maturity by the time Blackmore enlisted him to front Rainbow in the mid ‘70s. Every interview clip I’ve ever seen of Dio he was smiling, visibly stoked & verbally grateful for what rock ‘n’ roll had given him---let alone, what he’s given rock. Beyond the devil-horn fist pump that’s become ubiquitous at concerts of all types, his vocal delivery served as one the biggest influences on NWOBHM acts in the 1980s (Maiden, Saxon, Priest, et al.); this song was his solo group’s biggest hit, culled from an album that caused quite a bit of ruckus upon it’s release, due to the cover art’s portrayal of a demonic creature seemingly drowning a Catholic priest---an image that wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow by today’s standards. What many people might not realize is that Dio was also actively involved in many humanitarian endeavors, including him & his wife’s charitable organization that helps sex workers & homeless women in need. May he rest in peace.

I'm On the Lamb but I Ain't No Sheep

from the LP Blue Öyster Cult, Columbia Records, 1972



When coming up with a description of this band it’s difficult to avoid the standard narratives about them being a musical laboratory creation, or some such inventive way to highlight the fact that Blue Öyster Cult (BOC) was, indeed, formed & informed by rock music critics (Sandy Pearlman & Richard Meltzer); however, once you’ve listened to their albums enough you realize something: who fucking cares who put them together, because it works man! This is reptilian amphetamine mayhem, abstruse and cryptic in all the right ways, ultimately psychedelic without falling prey to any of the fey trappings that word normally conjures up. My brother-in-law had a couple BOC albums that attracted me from a very early age, not for the music inside initially, but due to that powerfully mythic-seeming symbol which came to adorn nearly all their LPs---when matched with their weird name (taken from one of Pearlman’s poems about a race of aliens who secretly guide the history of humankind), that icon seemed to assure my curious mind of their being hidden hedonistic treats inside…and I wasn’t wrong, “…I cross the frontier at ten, got a whip in my hand, baby, and a girl or a husky at leather’s end…” Woof!

Italo Classix Mix

mixed: 2009, tracks: 1981 – 1986



It’s wonderful to see italo music beginning to get the recognition inside the USA that it has always deserved---if people only knew the extent to which these records influenced the minds & creative processes of American producers in the early ‘80s, impacting both the burgeoning world of beats and the land of top 40 pop. As I’ve mentioned before, the bacchanalian celebration which was disco never stopped in mainland Europe the way it died an ugly, homophobic & racist death in America and the UK; in fact, until recently, many folks over here continued to dis on italo records for being cheap and flimsy, although some of us were hip to the magnetic glow before our youth’s became retro. As much as I complained during my formative years, growing up in south Florida was actually a huge blessing for the music obsessive in me, exposing my inexperienced mind to all sorts of music that most kids outside of NYC or LA never heard. This is a tape by Danish DJ Flemming Dalum, better known as ‘the King of the Cut’ (for obvious reasons once you listen to his flawless fusion of italo “hits”), a man who actually made several trips to Italy right as these records were being made; thanks to Marcello at ID Blog for this one. Now, put on some Wayfarers, strap on your headphones, and get ready for the hottest preview of vintage italo burners you’ve ever heard!