HeightFiveSeven

So get out on the floor to the record store/And girl, get it how you live.

2012-01-23T18:52:00.000-08:00

“Okay, everybody cough up some green for the little lady.”

- Nice Guy Eddie (Reservoir Dogs),

on tipping a woman who ~~has a blog~~ works at a diner and needs cash to ~~buy records~~ pay her rent

If you are human and sometimes feel bad about yourself and your appearance, nothing tops Reservoir Dogs' slowmo stroll during that intro for a self-esteem booster. It's a sugary slice of cinema cake that I try to replicate in a sundress and some George Baker playing in my head during my walks down the street on most hot days in Los Angeles. (Ladies: Cameo's “Candy” has a similar effect on your psyche. It'll make you feel so pretty! Gentlemen, I'm not one of you, so I can't give you advice here. “Lend Me an Ear,” maybe?). Tarantino stole the suited-up crew idea from John Woo, Danielle who went to film school tells me and which I have since verified, and I have infallible disdain for troupes of phony Gs who get church clothed and then say lines that have no real connection to their actual lives (MMG REFERENCE - oh, what I meant was “Poorly-Thought-Out Vehicle Tie-In Branding Music Group” reference). Fakery appeals to me so hard in the scene, I hate to admit, but the appeal of the movie is largely just because future life partner Danny Brown and his cousin and friend were dogs once.

Smart and grouchy, shit-talking fake gangsters eating pancakes and drinking coffee, every last one of them at the breakfast table are reciting lines to which they have no real connection in their non-acting lives. (I mean, other than Lawrence Tierney, who probably killed a guy at some point.) I am seduced nonetheless, though, thanks to the charms of Keitel and Roth, with a dash of Madsen thrown in because I like 'em tall. The scene was filmed at Pat and Lorraine's, in Eagle Rock. And a mile and a half away is Permanent Records, where I went last month, spent money, hung out with the store kitty, and bonded with the female proprietor over old men, sexism, and records (“'How could someone with BREASTS possibly know who Robert Fripp is?' AHAHAHA” – her and me, joyously doing our impressions of cranky old men shaken by ladies looking through their records at yard sales).

We quickly became the best of friends. “Your money’s no good here,” she said when I took my selections up to the register, and let me have my whole stack for free. J/K! This happened in my daydream during my drive home.

“Straight shots of sternum.” Avert your eyes from my bony collarbone for a second, and you'll find there's a naked lady in this picture.

Watch for my new VH-1 series, Get On My Level, starring me as a Joan Didion/Erica Mena hybrid.

Various, Just A Taste (ABC/Dunhill Sampler, 1971).

It was the cover that caught my eye - the model doing an exact naked replica of my pose every time I'm within 100 yards of my future life partner Danny Brown - but the contents were acceptable enough for me to hug it to my bosom and declare it would be coming home with me. A sampler of artists recording for the ABC/Dunhill label's upcoming releases for 1971, it's got John Lee Hooker, Genesis (progrock signed to Impulse, SO DOPE! - Impulse folded into ABC/Dunhill in the early '70s, hence Genesis' appearance on this comp), and “Journey to Satchidananda*,” by Alice Coltrane and Pharoah Sanders. Hey, did you guys know Fly Lo is related to Alice? It's kind of an industry secret. He doesn't really like to talk about it, except in every interview and on his Facebook wall. Also, based on my habit of typing pharoahe instead of pharaoh like spellcheck would prefer, it's clear that Monch's hold on my brain continues in 2012 despite the fact that I (shamefully) haven't listened to W.A.R. all the way through as of this writing.

(Bonus, maybe-it'll-turn-up-on-Jeopardy!-someday fact: Pharrell's dad's name is ~~Pharoahe~~ Pharaoh.)

* “Sachidananda is a combination of three attributes: Sat = existence, truth, real. Chit = consciousness. Ananda = bliss. Conscious blissful existence.” Why thank you, IndiaDivine.org.

Side C, track 1: “Every Day I Have the Blues,” B.B. Kaaang, who, no disrespect, has always been more compelling as a doo-wop-ish type than a bluesman. “I Count the Tears,” Leiber-Stoller na-na-nananana loveliness, is always my pick on the table mini-jukebox at the '50s-themed diner in my hometown. He's got a beautiful voice that I want to hear singing a goofy love song rather than a heavy blues song, and his success teaches me that diabetes is no match for the human spirit! Even that HACK Adam Morrison has TWO championship rings! Guess how many non-diabetes-afflicted Vince Carter has, you guys. Oh wait, no. Don't do that. It'll make you sad. He has the same number as Baron Davis, McGrady, Elton Brand. And for my semi-old-timers in the place: Iverson. Wilkins. Kidd. Sadness! Reggie Miller's part of this club too, but he can fuck off.

Side D, track 1: “WATCHA GONNA DO????”, which is not that song about the possibility of giving it to you and then asking what you'd do with it if you were to receive it. WTTP, SAN DIEGOOOOO.

The Isleys, Brother Brother Brother (T-Neck, 1972).

Ron Isley has a stronnng creepy-old-guy kind of vibe to him, which, sorry, I will always insist upon despite your protests, and when I am feeling like doing a Dre or Quik impression I'll just say “truth hurts” to wrap up my point. Don't tell me you don't see it in his face. I’m just saying what you’re thinking, you guys - the Terrell Suggs of ladybloggers; that's me. Ron's face desperately tries to say Panties off, ladies, I’m 70 years old but I still got it, laydeeeees (even though he does not, in fact, got it, and did he ever, really?). He can’t help his creepy face, though. I should be nicer, because my face apparently says I love cops given the way they flock to me at Starbucks. My face therefore says nothing about me as a person and what I hold dear. It's just my face; nothing symbolic there. (So I'm sorry, Ron. I'm sorry I said that thing about your face.) That face and his tiny stature (he's what? 5'3"?) takes nothing away from his stage presence, as this proves. It also proves he's always had a case of creepy-old-guy face, even at age 24 in 1965. (Sorry again, Ron. Your persona on those Kells collabs was believable but I'm still mad at you for thinking you could get away with the line Copped me some weed now. EW, STOP IT, GRANDPA.)

“Brother Brother” will probably make your eyes well up if you have a brother, a stepbrother, a friend of the family you grew up with who's like your play-brother, or if you just have a human soul and can feel things, shout to Carole King. But “Work to Do” is godbody and I listen to it thrice weekly even though I cannot identify at all with the protagonist, a man who wants his woman to understand he needs to get shit done. It’s typical of me that I love it, given the thematic consistency between “Work to Do” and Mos’ “Travelin’ Man” (I'd rather lounge around nakedly with you than do anything else, but someone's gotta pay our fucking rent, WOMAN). Real quick, Chris Jasper on keys: thank you, sir. And since it's been 2 paragraphs without a Detroit rap mention: Vessey's “Work to Do.” Yep.

The Isleys were from Teaneck, NJ, so their label is T-Neck. Cute pun and I love it, just like when extremely talented and non-gimmicky music professional Tyga says Got my shirt off/The club too packed. The club's 2 Pac-ked! Pac Blood! Pacs on Pacs on Pacs! All middle finger on a gurney everything! Shirtless back! Really, though, that's a pretty great line. There's no way Tyga wrote it. And though there were other Isleys on the record, the main Isleys were a trio on Brother so their publishing company was called Triple Three Music, which, no disrespect, is stupid and redundant. This is just like that time I heard there was a song called “100 Hunnit,” or as I correctly call it, “Ten Thousand” (100 00), with a visual featuring Meek and Wale in an Olive Garden parking lot, out-grinning each other and trying to downplay the erotic tension between them. It's exactly like Rabbit v Doc at the Shelter, according to your 12-year-old cousin who genuinely believes the big bag of lies MMG is selling. According to me, it's a video redeemed only by the fact that I find Meek Mill to be quite charismatic in front of a microphone. Wale can still fuck off, though.

Latimore, It Ain’t Where You Been… It’s Where You’re Goin’ (Glades, 1976).

One time I heard it's not where you're from but where you pay rent. But then, just when I was coming to terms with that concept, then I heard it's not what you make but how much you spent. And there was something about a shinebox and a gypsy. Turns out that, years earlier, Latimore brought the important message that it ain’t where you been - it’s where you’re goin. So moved by this belief, he turned it into the title of an album and did a cover photo shoot on the set of “The Symphony” video or, wait, was it the set of “Scalp Dem”? Either way, 'More remembered to bring some raw emotion looking at the camera lens, probably thinking to himself Don't stop, get it get it (they say that in Miami, where the Glades record label originated). He also tied his shirt at the midriff without losing an ounce of masculine fire, a thing that Prince is able to accomplish in everything he's ever done, ever.

The album's got the break from Gangstarr's “Royalty,” with the line about puffin lah that lyric websites hear as "puffin lye," which is much more painful and the mistake makes me cringe. I feel embarrassed for the Internet like it's a person, the same embarrassment I feel in my tummy whenever I hear the hideous earnest goofy Beatles version of the Isleys' “Twist & Shout.”

It Ain't Where You Been was produced by Steve Alaimo, who also did that lovely Timmy Thomas song (featuring me in the video, wearing my finest brown wig - but not the other Tim Thomas, the true Tea Party patriot) and Betty Wright’s “Girls Can’t Do What the Guys Can,” a song that speaks the truth – Girls can't do what the guys do/And still be a lady—except when it comes to being President and collecting records and liking sports. (We can do those 3 things without compromising our femininity.) It Ain't Where You Been also has the “A Million and One Questions” break on it - Premier evidently never went anywhere without his beloved Latimore record in the late '90s - but Latimore III is the superior album. Latimore also thought More, More, More, Latimore would be an acceptable name for an album. Cute, but not as good as my “Womacks on Macks on Macks.” I say this with conviction but still softly (as if I played piano in the dark).

Earl Klugh (Blue Note, 1976).

Wikipedia would like to gently remind you that his last name is pronounced “Clue,” because Wikipedia evidently thinks you're an idiot (But there’s a G and an H, Wikipedia! Surely it’s pronounced “KLUG-HUH”).

Purchased on the strength of the credit “Harvey Mason on drums”* and the presence of a song called “Slippin' In The Back Door,” which I like to think is the sequel to Main Source’s “Lookin’ at the Front Door” and the prequel to War's “Slippin Into Darkness.” Aw, but these 2 factors are not enough to save this record from back-of-the-shelf banishment and I'm glad it was cheap. If Jeezy's payin Lebron, I'm payin Marcin Gortat; bye bye 4 bucks, which is fine because nothing about the thing speaks to me. I listened to it once, then returned to my priority activities of reading the "purple banana" discussion on the Prince message board, watching that Gibbs video and cringing at the Beats by Dre cornball product placement but smiling at the "studio in the bedroom closet" scene, and listening to that freaking Cee-Lo banger and daydreaming about romance. Ooh, or that Kool AD one, and daydreaming about bass, sweet JESUS what a song.

*Google, please. Google the hell outta him. Then listen to Withers’ “I Wish You Well” and marvel at the simple/powerful backbeat courtesy of Mr. Mason – but don’t steal my idea and play it in the delivery room when your firstborn enters this crazy world. IT’S MY IDEA. STEALING IS WRONG.

Spirit, Best Of (Epic, 1973).

The only way I could ever tolerate Tebow and his Christ-y dullness is if he were to enter and leave every press conference to the sound of Norm Greenbaum's “Spirit In the Sky.” That would be so fucking incredible, I mean, can you imagine. I'm sort of a weak person and music drives me to make bad decisions sometimes, especially if it's beautifully-produced music that starts with an echo-y guitar riff that leads into handclaps powered by the pure gospel truth, so I'm telling you that intro/outro for a boring Tebow Q&A session would be enough to make me start believing in things of which Christopher Hitchens would disapprove. Anyway, a band named Spirit is going to elicit these kinds of thoughts in me, which is fine because the band Spirit doesn't elicit anything in me other than I liked this LA band the first time they existed, when they were called The Doors and even then I didn't particularly care for them. Their producer was Lou Adler, responsible for producing overlapping-harmony heaven “I Saw Her Again” (BEST Mamas & Papas song, oh god those CHORDS), siring talent-deprived dirtbag Cisco Adler, almost redeeming himself by directing Up In Smoke, and, during his golden years, bravely taking on the chief tasks of counting his racks and filling a regular courtside seat at Staples next to Jack. Spirit just wasn't very memorable band. “Mechanical World” is spooky and dope, though. That intro is a killer.

Grover Washington, jr., Paradise (Asylum, 1979).

Like me, Grover loved basketball and Bill Withers. Only one of us dedicated a song to Dr. J and played sax on “Just the Two of Us,” though. “He should go play smooth jazz,” James Brown once claimed about Grover, as told to Jonathan Lethem, and I concur. It was a cold thing to say, but sexy in its coldness because it was true. “We got something else going...nothing smooth about it," James added, ice-ing things up even further. Paradise is smooth, for sure, but it's also boring, apart from the controversy a few years back when Grover had to change the name of his song “Icey” to “1017 Brick Squad.” It was a pretty big deal; not sure if you remember. The rest of the album is smooth and deadly boring, including the title track with a video full of images of the alleged glory of nature (whales breaching, squirrels squirrelling, a butterfly landing gently on a flower),

in what has to be the most solid example of heavy-handed earnestness coupled with goofiness since Shock's/Humpty's verse in “We're All in the Same Gang” (KDAY with the assist - yesterday during my drive home from Trader Joe's). Kill a black man?, Hump says, Yo what are you - retarded? I understand that the question is probably not directed at me, but I'm not retarded, thank you; I'm simply trying to sort through this pile of conflicting emotions you've just laid at my feet, sir. What am I to do here? Do I laugh at your big funny nose and the fact that you just said “retarded” (always funny), or do I go volunteer at the local community center? And is it possible to combine liberal emo social-problem heartache with a groan and eye-roll? It is! I just did it!

The smoothness of Grov's alto sax cries are a nice contrast to the semi-rough/rugged history of Asylum Records, started by the tiny and rich David Geffen, recipient of a Spector punch in the face that one time. Geffen was also the ringleader of the first gay mafia, as opposed to the more recent gay mafia about which Fat Joe informed me. Grover's smooth cover portrait is by John Collier; I don't know if it's called Venus Flytrap with Saxophone Turns to Monasticism, but it should be. Collier was known for painting scenes of Christianity as a Caucasian sport and I do not know what this has to do with smooth jazz. So is the cover image sincere or ironic? Unclear as of this writing. I have the same question about Don Trip's “King Kong” tat. Whatever man, the record was 99¢. Nonshoutout to me for not picking up Walking with a Panther from the same bin, though. Oh, I'm sure I'll see it again, I think to myself all the time in these situations, because I'm an idiot. I do see it again - but it's not until a year or two later.

The MC5, High Time (Atlantic, 1971).

Danny Brown knows one third of the Belleville Three (Juan Atkins), and this pleases me. I feel like musical persons from the same part of Earth should support each other, except for the case in which it's me and the person I'm supposed to support for geographic reasons is Game. Apparently, just being tall and foxy and raspy-voiced is enough to get the Fader to post your mixtape, so I should be listening to Mr. Blonde's banger right now instead of here with all of you. (Are You Gonna Bark All Day, Little Doggie, or Are You Gonna Bite, it's called. Produced by Skywlkr except for Jake One on tracks 6 and 10). Getting back to Detroit, though - no bad punk rock, and no corny rappers! None! Right? I mean, Royce is ridiculous sometimes, but if I were from Michigan I'd sock you with the strength of Ndamukong Suh's cleated foot if you talk bad about Royce. Loyalty, bruh. Then I'd swaggeringly be gone in the night wearing my baggy shorts, like those hoodlums the Fab Five. Anyway, the Motor fucking City 5 got some Dopehead support, and this pleased me too (I smiled and said Awww). Now all I need is Danny to drop I Done Kicked 'Em Out (his next mixtape) for the circle to be complete.

The record was produced by Geoffrey Haslam, who also produced Eddie Harris' Bad Luck is All I Have and I Need Some Money, album titles which reveal that Eddie "Rugged Schleprock" Harris is the Sean P of midcentury hard bop. (He has the alternate nickname Eddie "The Reason Why I'm Talking Shit" Harris, which was not produced by Haslam but is no less Sean P-ish in title). High Time was recorded at Artie Fields Studios in Detroit, where 2 years later the Ohio Players would record Pleasure, making the studio a brick-and-mortar embodiment of a Danny Brown song - Detroit, sexual pleasure, bass, a song called "Miss X" (Ohio Players), and a song called "Laid It" (MC5), on an album called, no less, High Time.

Dave and me, bout to eat some cookies and play a spirited round of Yahtzee.

David Banner, “Like a Pimp” 12” (SRC/Universal, 2003).

You ready for this? You sure? Because it appears that you are not. Listen, there are people in my face, damn near every day, askin a million questions like Logan where you stay. But when this comes on, meet me down at the local dancefloor because, sweetie pie, it's goin down. Chad Butler's voice on the hook (“Take It Off”), the very same Chad Butler to whom one Daniel Brown pays tribute, flow-wise, in “I Will,” is what gets me out of my dress, but he's gone and my affection for him can only go so far in the living world that I still inhabit. Therefore: Banner for President, the bumper sticker on my Prius says.

There are rules regarding dignity in lyrics. With the exception of the hit 1996 song "My Boo" by Ghostdown DJs, for example, the term freak me, boy should never be said out loud by a grown woman. Nobody but Schoolboy Q can get away with the string of words "raining in her cervix," which is oddly sexy. And unless it's a song by David Banner, a song addressing a lady self-loving on the dance floor should never happen. Lavell, you got it. If your game is on, gimme a call. Don't try to cage me in an attempt to convince yourself you're ready to settle down with a lady with a master's degree, though. I'm not Captain Save-A-Rapper, you feel me.

Banner for President, mostly for the fundraising parties that I'd totally come to, not least because I suspect it has an open bar and he'd ask for donations to Heal the Hood at the door, thereby combining my two loves of charity and getting tunrt up. What the hell possessed him to do that “Air Force Ones” remix, though, is a mystery that I shall never figure out. It is the darkest of secrets, like what lies in the sludge of the Mississippi River's bottom. Remember the original, though? A terrific song about a thing I do not fucking care about (men's shoes).

“You go to Tougaloo, but I know you still flip” is the most accurate and succinct description of every post-feminist young woman in this country I believe I have heard yet. This song’s an ass-friendly, bass-y criticism of our collective tendency to think in stupid, overly simplified binaries ("college degree to use for one's future career x acting out sexually? IMPOSSIBLE" - America), plus it's 9 years old but has gathered no dust. Running trains, bad table manners, shake something, bitch, HA DAVID I DON’T THINK SO, NICE TRY, BUDDY. The seductive power of melody coupled with words that rhyme in a steezy cadence over said melody makes me believe it as truth, until I catch myself and remember the seduction is necessary for capitalism to flourish but the words behind the seduction might not be the most genuine. David Ruffin says beauty’s only skin deep, promises he’ll take a sweet girl over a pretty girl any day, and then he brings hot piece Tami Terrell to the Motown Picnic to show her off. And the dude rapping about pourin it up, not giving a fuck, and girls’ mouths doing him and his friends favors might actually have a master’s degree and do charity work, just like the schoolteacheresque girl behind you in line at Trader Joe’s might have been listening to “Like a Pimp” in the car on her way to Trader Joe’s.

Eddie Kendricks, Vintage '78 (Arista, 1978).

In planning another record-store-conquest trip - this time to the deep American south, because I want to feel even closer than ever to Banner now that "Like a Pimp" is in my head - RoadsideAmerica.com directs me to Birmingham and what they refer to as a "goofy statue of Eddie Kendricks," which offends me down to my bones. The word goofy in describing anything Kendricksian upsets me. It's undignified. (I take the reputations of musical men whom I do not know very verrrry seriously.) If you're not as sensitive as me and you're able to continue your search for record stores in Tennessee and Alabama, I recommend the Let's Go guidebook series. I want you to be happy, so here's a treat: when you type let's go into the Amazon search box, Trick Daddy comes up as the #2 result! (Accidental joy is the sweetest kind of joy.) I hope to return from the trip with my hatred for SEC football teams intact and a picture of myself hugging up on Eddie. The statue. In a highly dignified fashion. I mean, I'll probably wrap one leg around him like he's the pole at Magic City, but then I'll make a big, dignified donation to the American Cancer Society to counteract my childish behavior.

Wiki says Eddie left Motown in 1978, with the requirement of signing away the rights to his royalties, which saddens me because 1) what the fuck, that's missed-out-on boatloads of cash from baby boomer movie soundtracks alone, and 2) what the fuck, why had I not heard this before since I am a Temps obsessor, real fucking talk. But then, De Passe Entertainment, all rights reserved, alleges that Eddie did coke with David Ruffin in a key scene from that late-'90s Temps TV movie and I don't think I can really trust that source, either. The album was produced by Jeff Lane of B.T. Express fame, AKA Jeff Lane of “Do It ('Til You're Satisfied)” fame, AKA Jeff Lane of “Jeff Lane, Logan Is Eternally Grateful to You” fame. But Vintage '78 won't get a ton of play in apt. 680; it's mostly mid-tempo and boring. “One of the Poorest People" is about being rich and really sad, song-subject territory that Drake has taken to soaring new heights. Otherwise, the album is I'm in love; I love you; Do you love me; I'm a fool because I love you. Eddie was in his late 30s when this came out, and that's a tricky time for an R&B god, I suppose, unless you're one Robert Sylvester Kelly from Chicago, IL, who is not bound by age and who will be sexy R&B Jesus forever and ever amen. But "How's Your Love Life Baby" is a pretty opener, sparkly and melodic with sad lyrics, like this band the Smiths that your older cousin taught you about.

The Best of Tommy James & the Shondells (Roulette, 1969).

The world of straight men is generally not a mystery to me. I mean, I got thrown off a little last week, when I discovered that 1) Kyrie Irving is Australian (????), and 2) everybody think Chris Bosh is gay. I watch a fair amount of NBA and these key nuggets somehow escaped me. I felt a little left out of the boys' club. Otherwise, though, I'm pretty clear about hetero-masculine needs and desires, which are generally those of straight women except we get paid less than you do while at work and we say Awww more often and we can give life with our curvy, sexy bodies. I think I know a little bit about straight men. And "Crimson and Clover" - the sound of a straight man's brain while he is looking at a pretty woman - is a lot of the reason why. Are there any other songs on this album? I do not know.

January 1969 - Super Bowl III, Namath waving the finger. Number One. Number Onnnnnnnne. The Beatles' concert on the roof, Billy Preston's key stabs stealing the show. “Crimson” was the top-selling song, bookended on the charts by “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” and “Everyday People.” If I were around back then and I had just bought the “Crimson” 45 and invited you over to listen, I'd totally say Trust me, you guys. You want to be high for this as I'm bringing the tonearm over to the little black round spinning disc. Roulette, by the way, was supposedly a front business for the Genovese crime family, which makes the label that Tommy James recorded for significantly more interesting than the one that is currently home to Rick Ross. Roulette, self-made. MMG's just affiliated.

Meat Puppets, Meat Puppets II (SST, 1984).

The only people I want talking to me about Jesus Christ are Prince and Stevie Wonder, thank you, so keep your auntie off my doorstep. The only people I want talking to me about hell are James Brown and Cobain, even if Cobain's words about a lake of fire are not his own and are those of the brothers Kirkwood, Cris and Curt (blue & red shirt, and plaid shirt, respectively). It just felt right to add this to my stack that day at the record store, even though it won't exactly compete with Black Ivory for time on my hi-fi (it's Larry Blackmon Week in apt. 680). I had Nirvana on the brain because of those Little Roy covers. Plus you can't go wrong with supporting anything on SST Records, which Rollins will talk your ear off about during his radio show when you're driving back to LA from your mom's house. Then he'll regale you with his memories about the time he and Darryl Jenifer dared Mike Watt to not wear a plaid shirt that time in Tallahasee and it turned into a big mess of misinterpreted jokes and hurt feelings. But then Rollins'll play “Hot Pants Road” later in his set and you'll think Aw, this guy's not so bad.

Thee Oh Sees, Carrion Crawler/The Dream EP (In the Red, 2011).

“Dedicated to the memory of Jay Reatard, Jerry Fuchs and Gerard Smith,” says the sleeve. I have no idea of any of these men were good people. But just like how I don't watch football for the purpose of seeing men "being good people" (I watch it for the pleasure of well-executed drives, completed passes, sacks, punt-fakes, Jacoby Ford, Mike Tomlin's Omar Epps face, and Polamalu's hair), I don't listen to music to hear somebody being a good person. 83% of my records would have to be thrown out if this were the case. Yes, even you, Sade. I'm looking at you, mama.

Where do bad folks go when they die? Tebow will give you one answer; I'll give you quite another, plus I have a Prius and an apartment stuffed with records and I do not fear female power or sexuality so I'm way more fun to be around than Tebow. I walked into Permanent with this one on my list, found it, and in a sign that I was doing the right thing, the store owners played it (LOUDLY). “Chem-Farmer” was a real pleasure as I walked around adding vinyl to my arms, probably with an extra little swing in my hips. One Eyed Fat Girl Publishing is behind the record and this only sealed the deal for me since the name is so very RA-the-Rugged-Man-esque. RA had that imprint for a week and then shelved it, remember? Oh wait no, that was One Eyed Fat Slut publishing.

Permanent Records

1583 Colorado Blvd

Los Angeles, CA 90041

Pros: Adorable store kitty! They play music LOUD, like your weed. Nice proprietors ~~who'll give you~~ who gave me a free bag - maybe because I spent lots of money, but more than likely because I am charming and people just like to lace me wherever I go.

Cons: No pancakes. No sightings of older-man-fetish object Michael Madsen.

Now I ain't sayin she a record digger.

2012-01-05T05:25:00.000-08:00

“When her hands hunted out these beautiful new sounds, it was the best feeling she had ever known.”

– Carson McCullers, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

Hi! It's me in my sassy glasses. Email marriage proposals to heightfiveseven@gmail, but only if you are signed to a major.

Digging's a dumb name for it, a dude said to me in an email exchange last week.

This prompted a "NUH-UH" from me because I'm set in my ways and don't like to be challenged, ever. Then I realized that what he said is true. We just take it as fact that digging should be the name for it since that's what our great-great-grandparents called it in the old country, but NO LONGER, you guys. Henceforth, I'm not a Digger! I'm a Paycheck-Spender, definitely, but that's not very catchy. I'm a Jump-Up-and-Down-er when I find something good, maybe? (also not catchy). An Enthusiast? A Celebrator of Random Dumb Luck, yes, definitely, when I find that Jaggerz record with the Curren$y break (this has not yet happened. I'm pretending it has happened, putting it out there as a way of tricking the universe into making sure it happens). And I attribute all of my random dumb luck at the last Beat Swap Meet in LA to the fact that I established only three rules for myself: 1) SPEND ALL THE MONEY YOU WANT, DOLLFACE; LIFE'S SHORT, 2) Take your list of Want-To-Finds and Must-Finds (compiled from scraps of paper in my purse and half the pages in my tiny Moleskine), and 3) Look cute, but wear something comfy in a fabric with plenty of stretch (suitable for reaching, hunching over, walking table to table, carrying a stack under my arm). A white cotton T attracts so much record dander, but it's nothing bleach can't fix. And my hair! It looked pretty - if I may be corny for a moment - thanks to Moroccan oil, a thing that makes my unruly Celtic hair smooth and shiny. You can get it at any beauty supply store, it's nothing special, but the name “Moroccan oil” sounds rare and fancy, mostly because all things Morocco- and middle-east-related have exotic cache, like my good friend Jay Elect knows. (“Egypt, Egypt” – the Egyptian Lover; “Egypt, blah blah, I'm here to save you all, I'm destined to blow, my ancestors sent messages telling me so, Egypt, Egyptians...” - Jay Elect, every tenth bar.)

My haul from the day is described in loving detail below, along with the award(s) each record earned. Ah, and points for not going along with me blindly, young man in my story to open this post, just because you maybe want to see me out my jeans. Digging is a dumb name for it.

Ramsey Lewis, Solar Wind (Columbia, 1974)

I'm pretty sure Ramsey himself did his own gear styling for the cover, the theme of which is “Mod Squad detective who also does security for James Brown during the Black Caesar recording sessions.” The contents of the album, however, were lovingly overseen by Epic White Man, Stax capo, “In the Midnight Hour” writer, Logan-Walking-Down-the-Street-in-Some-Little-Ho-Shorts anthem “99 and a Half Just Won't Do” producer, godlike individual with god status, the GOD, Steve Cropper, so Solar Wind was therefore a good purchase and a solid addition to apt. 680 - though it's not nearly as good as Ramsey's Sun Goddess, I'm sorry to say. That's because Solar Wind doesn't contain the song “Sun Goddess,” produced by Maurice White of Earth Wind & Fire - a production truth that is so obvious once you've found it out and listen to the song again. It's just got that controlled/chaotic EWF sound that comes from knowing how to wrangle 57 band members - and, in later years, it was loved so hard by Ant Banks that he laid it over a fun, slappy beat and then gave it to his friend to rap over (and even added an R&B hook that's corny yet enjoyable). Maurice White is terrific but Maurice will never be the god that Steve is, since not only is Steve part lion, he's also a god, he is, and I know I use that term for every decent non-rap musician over age 50 and for rappers who were either in KMD or CoFlow at one point, or in OutKast currently, or named Danny Brown currently, but a god is a god and goddammit if I'm not going to use my little corner of the Internet to praise a god.

An actual deity, here on Earth, Steve had some production skills that would really do some fantastic work to your ears/heart even if the Stax studio on McLemore didn’t have that sloping floor* that made everything sound clear and huge, with just enough bass to convince you to take your pants off. (“If you ain't claiming McLemore,” goes one of my life mottoes, “fuck y'all hoes.”) If I were from Memphis, I'd get wet-eyed over all things Stax, Comin' Out Hard comin out hard of any vehicle (MORE808 is one of my other life mottoes), and DJay’s “Eiffel Tower/apocalypse/Tennessee/mixtapes” analogy in Hustle & Flow (his speech at the club to Luda!). I wouldn't get wet-eyed over last summer's super good Don Trip mixtape Tennessee Accents for 57 Minutes, err, 'scuse me, Stepbrothers; I just like it a lot, so I'd bang it a lot.

*it used to be a movie theater

Most Sounds-Like-A-Blackstar-Song Title, in “Jamaican Marketplace.” And, because I just typed that, Ramsey's record also provides the Strongest Yet Most Tangential Reminder That I Need the “You Already Knew” Instrumental.

Nice version of “Summer Breeze,” nice Moog, nice bass, but overall the record is a little too nice and not enough not-nice. Sure I could walk down the street to it, but I wouldn't feel very sexy. Wilson, like Quelle & Danny and Purrp, understands my walking-down-the-street needs in a way Ramsey never will.

Ballin' Jack (Columbia, 1970).

YES, humans of planet Earth. Yes. This some stuff that, as they say, goesssssss*. It's aural Viagra - the most mutually beneficial kind, because it works on your girlfriend too, who is currently busy taking her dress off; oh, there it goes, you didn't even have to talk her into it! Ballin' Jack's gutter riffs coming from the hi-fi did all the work for you.

The “Never gonna let em say that I don't loooovvvve youuuu” in the Beastie Boys' “Shadrach” was Jimi to my 15-year-old ears. I was positive about this. But I was incorrect. (Turns out I was incorrect at age 15, many times, about many things). Most Pretentious: Me at 15, such a fucking know-it-all. Then I got right during junior year, straightened myself out, did some research, and discovered Ballin' Jack, Best Paul's Boutique Tie-In. Ballin' Jack toured with Jimi, hence the vocal/stylistic similarities, and Ballin' Jack was from Seattle, home to longtime aural stimulator/Logan's fantasy phone-book-out-loud-reader Ish Butler, he who makes me blurt out, “Sweet Jesus, that voice” every time I watch this. (Oh, he says at the beginning, I thought it was comin in hot. Not even rapping at that point!, he's swoon-y just in his everyday talk! Sorry, what was I saying?)

Ballin' Jack. What an album. It slaps, people. Or in less E-40 speak, more Loganspeak: “You guyyyys! OH MY GOD! SO GOOD! It'll make you sell your Raf Simonses and next thing you know you'll be wearing some old Chucks in a busted old Camaro and picking me up so we can make out behind the bleachers!” Biggest Failure: ME, for not having owned Ballin' Jack already. The record also wins Best Cover Font; just like everything out of Wiz's mouth sounds like it should be in Comic Sans, every guitar part on this record sounds like a weed/sex/fight riff due to the use of the PreMetallica Jagged Serif typeface (72 pt.) on the cover. Thanks to frontman Luther Rabb, this one also gets Best Appearance in Today's Haul by a Singing Bassist. There's Lemmy, Bootsy, Geddy Lee, Phil Lynott; these are the greats. Rabb's not one of the greats, but he's a member of the club.

*

The group’s name also provides the Best Title of a UGK Song That Never Was. It’s track 10 on a Bandcamp-only album that's too secret for me to share and anyway the link's expired, and it's about cars of course. Chad starts to sound really irritated around the end of his first verse, because he's tired of dealing with this bullshit and he just wants to live, can he fucking LIVE goddammit and take care of his lady and his business, and the hook goes “Got new shoes for my baby ‘cause I’m ballin, Jack.”

Logan's Run soundtrack (Jerry Goldsmith) (MGM/Polydor, 1976)

Most Throne-Sounding Song Titles: “Flameout,” “The Truth,” “End of the City,” “The Monument.” Most E-40-Sounding Song Titles: “On the Circuit,” “Intensive Care.”
Song That is, Shockingly, Not About Oral Sex or the NFL: “The Dome.”

We'll all enjoy ourselves in the future, Logan's Run says. Take me there, someone! Take me, even though the future evidently sounds like big stupid crescendos and cheesy flutes, the way old-timey movie-music people predicted the future would sound. How sad that they had no idea drum machines could make snares sound so warm, nicely exemplified in this song with a Logan's Run mention (We ain't jokin/For security we on this run like Logan/Kamaal's doin the hustle/And you backstage voguin), produced by The Ummah, a wonderful musical-collective gift from the universe that I wish was still here because I'm in love with the past. I still wanna go to the future, though - it's sexy and streamlined! The thing is, because it is so alluring and perfect, we're not long for it. Sexyfuture is just a tease; beware. Logan's Run takes place in a “hermetically sealed post-apocalyptic pleasuredome,” where humans don't really need to work and they're free to pursue all of the pleasures of life, just like the rap game circa 2011. Eating and drinking aren't necessary, and when they feel like sex they just use a teleporting device to make it happen (just like what Twitter is to rappers, 2009 - present). The only catch in this idyllic existence is that nobody's allowed to live more than 30 years - just like the rap game - with the corresponding downside being that future life partner Danny Brown would be forced to become a Runner in order to escape the fate of being killed at 30. The upside is that I would then willingly become a Runner, because what fun is a world without Danny Brown to describe getting rich/sad/triumphant/fucked-up in it?

George Duke, Liberated Fantasies (MPS, 1976)

COME THE FUCK ON. BEST NECKLACE, obviouslyyyy.

Most Prince-ish Credit: “Amanda B. Reckondwith on vocals.” (Real name: Janet Ferguson.) Next I suppose you're going to try and convince me that Vanity wasn't that sexy lady's real name-? (Real name: Denise Matthews).

It's George on keys on this one, George on the mic, George's smiling face and big beautiful cloud of hair. Liberated Fantasies was put out by the dopely-named German jazz label MPS - Musik Produktion Schwarzwald (“Music Production Black Forest”). MPS was the label responsible for Hans Koller-Wolfgang Dauner's classic, claaaaaaaasic banger Kunstkopfindianer in 1974. Mannnn, we sure made some sweet '70s love to that one, remember? I think there was some lager and strudel involved too, and you insisted I wear a Heidi costume, because you said C'mon baby, why not, being the big ol freak that you are.

Thanks to that cover: Best Smile. Artwork and photography by Cal Schenkel, a person who managed to overcome the name Cal Schenkel and make a living designing covers by the Mothers of Invention and Zappa (solo), Captain Beefheart, Tim Buckley. Cal is also responsible for THIS source of childhood nightmares for a young Logan flipping through her dad's records on the living room floor:

HOLD ME. And turn on my nightlight after you tuck me in.

Christ!, the unadulterated freakiness of this thing, The Persistence of Memory but with keys, like something I’d see in a Red-Stripe-chased-with-Valium, passed-out-on-the-couch dream, not that I'd know anything about that! HI MOM. Even here, though, George remains a man not afraid to smile on an album cover. Unless you're George Duke or your last name is 3000/Benjamin, smiling on your album cover is a 1-way ticket to Cornballville. (I have pretty strict guidelines when it comes to masculinity, particularly for musicians. I'm trying to let some of that go in 2012. Check back with me in mid-February-?)

I can also see ?uestlove doing some sort of nod to this, except he'd put a drumstick in those fingers. Then all the blog boys would scurry about until they found the source that sparked the new.

The Blackbyrds, City Life (Fantasy, 1975)

Biggest Ego: Donald Byrd, for creating and naming the group after his damn self in the early '70s. I guess LOOK AT ME I'M SUPERTALENTED DONALD BYRD I'M THE BEST would've been too ridiculous a name for a band.

Right now the world and my computer are both obsessed with the drawling-outta-control A$AP crew, based in New York and led by the prettiest member, Rocky (A$AP's just his nick-naaaaame). Rocky was named after Rakim, who I'm told was a rapper based in New York. Rocky, then, is a cutesy shortened version of Rakim, like people who shorten Logan to Logey. Logey, in turn, enjoys turning DOOM into the cute “Doomsy” - which reminds me, why are we not all listening to THISSSSSS right now. City Life has the Most A$AP Rockyish Song Titles - like Rocky's, the Blackbyrds' are 2- and 3-word combos that tell you exactly what the song is about, no games or fancy language - “Purple Swag,” (Rocky)/“Hash and Eggs” (Blackbyrds). “Get High” (Rocky)/“Flying High” (Blackbyrds). “Uptown” (Rocky)/“City Life” (Blackbyrds). This one also gets the Label with the Freshest Backstory award, since Fantasy started in SF as an actual record-pressing plant, then morphed into a label. They named it Fantasy after a sci-fi novel, getting the Murs stamp of approval in so doing, and were the first label to record and produce Lenny Bruce on vinyl, thereby getting my parents' stamp of approval. Fantasy merged with Concord Records - named for the East Bay city, back before the East Bay was known for Al Davis, 808, trunk tapes, and, circa 2011, a tiny Caucasian lady and her troupe of annoying, shit-talking friends who go crazy with the cat-eye liquid liner. Their existence is upsetting, both because 1) they are real live humans and not some nightmare from that time I passed out on the couch (Red Stripe/Valium), and because 2) disapproval of them is something that this ladyblogger has in common with Rawsssss. (which I, in turn, disapprove of. I disapprove that I disapprove of something that he also disapproves of. The snake eats its own disapproving tail, disapprovingly.)

The Blackbyrds are probably best known for “Walking in Rhythm,” which, sure, we all know it, it’s an OK jam I suppose, slightly dullsville if you ask me. This album was purchased on the strength of opening jam (Best Opening Jam) “Rock Creek Park,” about doing it both in the park and after dark. Oh. Yeah. And finally, there's the Fact that Connects to a Quality MC of Today in a Tangential/Fresh Way: Donald Byrd, Detroit-bred human just like my future life partner Danny Brown, went to Wayne State, in Linwood (Inglewood pronunciation).

Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song soundtrack (Stax, 1971)

Tightest Commitment to Detail: Me, for making sure I put the correct number of As and Ss in Baadasssss. Most Spirited Handclaps: “Won't Bleed Me.”

Sweet Sweetback is a tale of hoes and cops and a well-endowed black man who uses his penis to convince ladies to doing things for him (way to go, Melvin Van Peebles, just crushing those stereotypes), and its soundtrack was written by the same man who wrote the movie, then directed the movie, and got Earth, Wind & Fire to perform the songs on the soundtrack, which, by the way, he wrote and composed. And then, in his free time, he decided to cast the most appropriate, handsomest, most well-endowedest gentleman he could find in the lead role: himself. LOL, Melvin. L.O.L., buddy. Because we're talking about the moving pictures industry, this walk through history would not be complete without some double-talk and shady business: Bill Cosby put up the key funds to allow this film to be completed. You might recognize Bill from introducing his kids to Stevie Wonder and Lena Horne on those reruns on your TV, and also for Chris Wallace wearing his sweaters. I, however, recognize Bill as that cranky guy on CNN, criticizing rap music for being violent and sexy. Or, wait - do I recognize Bill as the onetime movie producer who helped bankroll a movie about a fellow with a large penis who uses it to sex up ladies when he's not beating dudes' faces? GOSH I'M CONFUSED.

Anyway, the soundtrack is amazing, filled with snippets that show up on Doom records years later, and it was produced by something called Yeah Inc, a dumb name that is still less dumb than the production names Boi 1-da and AraaaaabMuziaaaaiaiaiakkckck. (Ha, I also just found out the producer of that horrible “Rack City” thing that I secretly sing along with in my car is a grown man who thought it would be appropriate to call himself “DJ Mustard.”)

Leon Ware (Elektra, 1982)

Sorry to keep you waiting so long, ladies. Here's ~~Theophilus~~ Leon. “Can I Touch You There,” he wants to know, in a moment of curiosity that's more about the question than the answer, just like Marvin's “When Did You Stop Loving Me, When Did I Stop Loving You,” Curren$y's “What's What,” Nore's “What what what what what-what WH-WHAT,” and my personal composition “When Exactly Did Common Become Corny?, Like When Was the Precise Moment During the Earth's Cycle Around the Sun? I'm Having Trouble Pinpointing It but I'd Like to Know for Personal-History Reasons.”

Regarding the undeniable sex vibrating from that cover photo, all I can muster is a “Leon, what happened to my lacy underthings? They were here a second ago.” Aw Leon, congrats on having the Best 'I Have a Brass Waterbed I Wanna Show It To You Here's Some Zinfandel, Pretty Lady' Face. It's your lust-face that makes me forget you were once capable of innocence in lyrical content and chord progression, like when you wrote “I Wanna Be Where You Are." (I really really want to make this entire post about “I Wanna Be Where You Are.” Trying to show restraint here. I mean, Jesus, what a SONNNNG.)

No breaks on this one, but lots of Rhodes, plus a song called “Deeper Than Love,” which I like to think of as a “fuck off, Rawss” that was just delayed 30 years. Sadly, there's also a corny, not-good song called “Why I Came to California,” which, because it is by a heterosexual '70s man, is of course about paradise being real, hillsides and deserts, dreams coming true, watching pretty girls at Zuma Beach, lalala, good grief, gimme something new, Leon! It's got THE GOD James ~~God's son~~ Gadson on drums, though, so slam-dunk, Leon. Purchasing your record was an excellent decision on my part. Now you and your '70s sexface live in apt. 680 with me - in vinyl form, anyway. Maybe you think my place is paradise, maybe you think I'm pretty; maybe not. Either way, Zuma's overrated and I'll buy anything with your name on it, Mr. Ware, due to your god status for envisioning I Want You, conjuring it up, convincing Marvin, daydreaming about it, composing it, sweating it out, and wrestling with that bitch until it came to be. This album also has the Best Cover With Old-School Weekend Ties, as Bobby Holland was the photographer - Holland did covers for Rose Royce, the Gap Band, DeBarge, and A Taste of Honey, which, in my brain, elicits a Hey LA fam, keep it locked to 92.3, old school and today's R&B! We're taking the 25th caller right now for these tickets to see Keith Sweat at The Pond! After the break, comin back with some MJ, “I Wanna Be Where You Are,” requested by a caller named Logan!

Best Fucking Fact Outta This Whole Haul: Leon Ware did the Deep Throat soundtrack -??? - !! - which had been one of the world's great mysteries prior to an Internet search by Logan, circa Dec. 16, 2011. German 45s on eBay (viewed in super-tight zoom on my laptop's screen) say Leon and a lyricist named Bob Hilliard did the music. It makes sense, groove-wise, when you listen. It's got that Leon feel, even though it sounds like Leon used 2 soup cans and a toy piano to compose. Leon's also from Detroit, so of course I love him, but I'll never know why Leon doesn't shout it from the rooftops that he did the Deep Throat music. This is illogical, like using the name AraabMUZIK professionally when your given name is the much-doper Abraham Orellana.

Dexter Wansel, Life On Mars (Philadelphia International, 1976)

Del, Madlib, Sun Ra, Kool Keith, Ayers, Monk, everyone on Ninja Tune in the '90s, most dudes on Warp the next decade, all members of Parliament and Funkadelic and Parliament Funkadelic, Stevie Wonder, Zappa, and sure,what the hell, Bowie and Syd Barrett and Brian Wilson too; Dex Wansel is the latest in a long line of Space-Travelers sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in my record collection, along with '70s singer/songwriters and the most skilled of all dead rappers. A crying shame that this wasn't in apt. 680 before, I snatched it up at the swap meet based on its rap production pedigree* as well as my red-hot embarrassment at not owning it already.

Side A, track 1: “A Prophet Named K.G.,” which is, sadly, not about the Celtics' forward or Naughty By Nature's quietest member. It does, however, provide the Best Kenneth Gamble Nod in Song Title Form. I like to be reminded of Gamble & Huff, which, along with being a super production duo, also happen to be my two most favorite activities while in Vegas, HEY-O. The other song titles are fresh and cosmic - “Stargazer,” “One Million Miles from the Ground,” and *“Theme from the Planets” being the standouts. I have dreams of interplanetary travel too, Dex! Escapism! Obsolete credit: “ARP by Dexter Wansel” (along with keys, synth, and lead vocals). ARP built good products, Google tells me, and they sold well; “the major problems that developed in the company were due less to design flaws than to corporate mismanagement.” So it was like that whole Rawkus thing.

Gabor Szabo, Magical Connection (Blue Thumb, 1972)
This one's actually not an album in tribute to the unstoppable love that Stringer Bell and I will always share (in my head). Our connection truly is a magical one (in my head). Sigh. “Logan Bell. Mrs. Bell. Mr. and Mrs. Stringer Bell.” Still, I purchased the record based on the fact that you can't really go wrong with Mr. Szabo, there's someone named “Lynn Blessing” on vibraphone, and because of that cover, designed by Tom Wilkes (Safe As Milk, Harvest, All Things Must Pass). Actual Song Title: “Love Theme from Spartacus.” I mean, what. (I have no idea). Additionally, this one earns the honor of having the Most Esoteric LA Connection. “Sombrero Sam” was used by Mumbles Fowler on “The Hunt” by Acey, who remains the only dude in LA who doesn't look ridiculous in a fedora. Fowler then rode off into the Indian sunset, where he is, if not fully ascetic at this point, almost fully converted to the monastic life. Meanwhile, I'm still here living the hedonistic life, taking trips to Vegas, Gambling and Huffing.

Ha, they made soundtrack two words. Stupid Italians!

Blow-Up soundtrack, Herbie Hancock (MGM, 1966)

My prized baby of the bunch, it's an original pressing. That's Veruschka the German Fox on the cover,

and the image is compelling but makes me kind of uncomfortable if my eyes stay on it for more than a few seconds, just like that eXquire cover. Best Magic City/Kang of Diamonds Tie-In: that photo, with Veruschka contorting her body for a paycheck, is a reminder from the universe of what I've learned from strippers - 1) Scotch tape is the best way to get sparkly liquid (glitter + lotion) off your skin, and 2) knowing your angles when being viewed will increase your revenue significantly. Darling, life is performance. Know those angles, ladies. I have no hustles other than the I-work-an-honest-job hustle, but the fact is that we all use the skill set of looking interested, while not being interested at all, just so we can complete our current task at hand - and this describes modeling perfectly. It also describes stripping, office jobs, retail sales, having a conversation with my aunt Jean, being at a bar anytime something other than the Clipse is being played, and, hell, probably rapping for a good percentage of on-duty hours too.

Blow-Up is famous for the Veruschka modeling scene, the presence of a young Jane Birkin in a small role, and for having Herbie Hancock do the soundtrack. What I mean is, Blow-Up is famous in my own life for being perfect fantasy fodder - “sort-of-pretty-but-sort-of-odd-looking white ladies being heralded while Herbie plays in the background.” This is my life when I daydream at work! Best Bassline for an Opener: “Bring Down the Birds,” though the song then turns into some screwball-comedy sounding thing, not very sexy at all. Its “Groove is in the Heart” connection is sort of sexy(?), but supremely unsexy is the fact that I can't figure out why Q-Tip (Jive) appeared on a record by Deee-Lite (Elektra) in 1990. Sex is brought later into the album in the form of “Stroll On” by the Yardbirds, whose audience of bored, uptight humans during their scene in the film could be, I swear, footage from any rap show in LA. Dudes are too cool for school out here.

None of these reasons compel me to borrow this film, Netflix it, or stream it illegally, though I guess I should just so I can be familiar with the films of Antonioni in case I get trapped in an elevator with Tarantino, James Franco, or the Das Racist boys. I already know the best line of the film: Thomas, the photographer, on the primary reason his wife is his wife, says, “She isn't beautiful. She's easy to live with.” This is important for us females to remember, along with the fact that we should never date anyone who refers to women as “females.” The feat of being easy to live with is just as important for males to remember, though, so you can just stop it with that email accusing me of being sexist and only insisting women adhere to this. We all want ease and comfort at the end of the day. Now be quiet so I can think! Also: my slippers, please.

Beat Swap Meet #16
Grandstar Jazz Club
943 N. Broadway, LA

Pros: As always, the entrance fee was a canned good, collected for the homeless; records records recordssssss; Yogurtland afterward, then a nap. Heard Con Funk Shun's “Ffun,” the ffuckin jam, in the car during the drive over!
Cons: I got overstimulated and tired. As always, I didn't bring enough money; therefore, I kind of wanted to kill myself. (See also Beat Swap Meets # 1, 3, 4, 9 & 10). I was one of about 4 female humans in attendance. Our paychecks are still about 7/10 as large as yours, gentlemen, which accounts for some absences because we just don't have as much disposable income, but LADIES: no excuses. Records are beautiful, life-affirming objects that bring messages from the other side. Get into it/get involved.

You will get a sentimental feeling when you hear...“No Diggity” into “Flava In Ya Ear”

2011-12-26T19:53:00.001-08:00

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart/But the very next day you gave it away, you JERK! This year, I’m giving you some peach Optimos and a picture of me in my new MG’s McLemore Avenue shirt. Don't fuck up again, please.

Future husband, please understand that the small of my back is a playground of good feelings for me. (There must be a billion nerve endings there, and I love them all.) I'd like you to be pro-choice, pro-union, and pro-Pro Tools and pro-Pro Keds. I’m surprisingly forgiving when it comes to the contents of other people’s record collections, but yours is no doubt fresh anyway, so the matter doesn’t need to be addressed further. I’d like you to be able to correctly use “screamo” and “sissy bounce” in a sentence, future husband, and I’d like you to understand that 72% of our time spent together will consist of riding in the car, listening to music (we live in LA), and responding with our hands and mouths to all bangers as we hear them. (Hands up high in ecstasy; our mouths singing along, and making out). Please kiss me and tell me It'll be OK when I talk about how I was born in the wrong era and should've been a teenage girl when David Ruffin was seducing teenage girls on the radio in 1966. Although I love my iPod, future husband, I'm in love with the radio--Power 106, where hiphop lives, and Hot 92.3, old school and today’s R&B, 93.5 KDAY, back in the day, of course the Whole Foods liberals on KCRW, and the nonstop oldies of K-EARTH 101, where you can often hear an old Wilson Pickett song called “Mustang Sally,” which, like 30% of Fabolous' songs, is about a lowdown, unappreciative woman who drives all over town in a pretty car that her man bought for her. Its lesser-known remix is a song called “Prius Logan,” about a music dork with hips and skinny legs who drives all over town, singing along with her car radio.

And now, in no particular order, The Best Songs I Heard on the Radio During My Drive Back to LA from Mom's House After Christmas.

1. “Two of Us,” The Beatles.

Because: 1) Spector produced it.
Industry rule # 4,000-somethingorother is that the men with the most unfortunate combination of brain chemicals are always the ones who make the sweetest melodies. Hearing this one also satisfied my Spector hunger in the absence of Darlene Love's “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).” Fuck off, radio gods, for not playing Darlene Love.

2) It’s the perfect BPM, the speed of a horse galloping. It's the musical approximation of riding next to your best friend of a hundred years with whom you are fighting. You're both sad and bitter, but the tightness in your chest says that the relationship is worth saving. You shared a good chunk of each other’s lives and you know you should talk about where things went wrong but what's the point, and dammit, there it is, you just forgave all her trespasses in the span of about 3½ minutes thanks to Spector and his 4 little elves playing instruments.

3) “You and me chasing paper, getting nowhere” sounds like a sweet line from a capable MC who is part of a duo, referencing the early days before they made any money from rapping. Maybe Bun & Pimp C? More likely: Mos & Talib since they seem more willing than UGK are to acknowledge there was actually a time that they weren’t rich.

4) the moments from 03:00 - 03:08. The bass outro, too. Paul is really just the worst with his schmaltzy lyrics and big stupid ego, but he's forgiven here. It turns out a Beatles block was happening on the station when this song ended, and the INSUFFERABLE “Long and Winding Road” came on instead of “Across the Universe,” like baby Jesus, the birthday boy, would have wanted. I glared at my car radio like it had eyes and/or a human brain capable of detecting hatred, then turned it to KCRW, where THIS pleased me because sometimes the radio gods aren't so bad after all:

2. “Christmas Day,” Desmond Dekker & the Aces.

Oh goodness, these Jamaican singers and their voices filled with sweetness and light, yet punch-you-in-the-mouth masculinity at the same time (Barrington, Tenor Saw, Lord Creator)! My feelings about the island are always in conflict, as it is a land teeming with anti-gay sentiment and deeply-entrenched misogyny. Rastas also have that whole anti-oral sex thing, which makes them a people that cannot be liked or trusted. All this goes out the window for the moments that Desmond's voice is filling my car, though. It’s Christmas! And he's got his barrow in the marketplace! God bless us, every one!

3. “The Third Eye,” Roy Ayers.

Secrets of numbers, secrets of sound/Secrets of numbers, secrets of sound/Secrets of wisdom will be found/Baby, baby, baby, look to the sky/Seeking to find The Third Eye. Don't tell Roy, but I'm pretty sure Del found the Third Eye sometime in the late '80s. He turned it into one of the freshest icons in music and never looked back. Ah well. Like Del, Roy's yet another space cadet dreamboat who lives in the warm depths of my heart. And like Mos Def, Roy enjoys writing songs about the sky and about Brooklyn (“Mylifemylifemylifemylife in the sun-shiiiiine”; “We live in Brooklyn, baby” – Roy; “Brooklyn BK BK blunts, stars nighttime, beautiful lady, champion lover not ease up, ism/schism, NASDAQ, skyline, stars, stars” – Mos). A man named Doug Rhodes plays drums on the album from whence this song comes, which is an adorable musical joke made just for me by the universe - like someone named Bob Zildjian playing keys! I’d also like to point out that Roy’s from LA just like J-Swift, and I bet you only 2 or 3 degrees separate us, friends-wise, just like me and J-Swift. I’d like to meet J-Swift. I really would. Before a bad fate befell him (chemicals), he produced this group the Pharcyde, an excitable bunch of rapping goofballs - including their song “Passin’ Me By,” which samples Roy Ayers’ “The Third Eye.” It's true. (I read it on a blog.)

4. “Dream On, Dream On,” Ice Water Slim.

When I made it safely back to apt. 680 I could only find the version linked above, which, even while coursing into my ear canal through my precious, finely-crafted Sennheisers, sounds like it's playing on an AM radio a hundred yards away while I'm standing in a UPS warehouse. Yet the entire MMG squad makes their lousy material on million-dollar equipment - this is the universe's solemn reminder that sound quality will always trump sound quality.

A 1971 b-side produced by Johnny Otis, who was bosslike and from Vallejo just like E-40, this ain't nothin more than a melodic wail by a dude who dreams about a pretty lady. But it is a fact that, currently in the United States, the #1 R&B song is “Lotus Flower Bomb,” about grenade-shaped perfume bottles and lady-areas being like flowers. This fact offends me not only as a person who buys perfume, but as a human female and a resident of planet Earth. Ladies should not smell like explosions or wartime, and we have enough to worry about without Wale laying out rules about our nails and handbags and how tight our, um, flowers should be. I wanna be reminded of tightness, I'll watch Parliament live in '76 like I did on Christmas Day with my family all on the couch, marveling at the interplay of brass and woodwind and cocaine.

5. “You And I,” Lady Gaga.

We gotta a whole lotta money, but we still pay rent/'Cause you can't buy a house in heaven. The single greatest country banger that Prince Rogers Nelson never wrote (his version would be called “U & I,” of course), hearing this one satisfied my hunger for a Prince banger in the absence of "Another Lonely Christmas" (Of all the ones I dream about/U are the one that makes my love shout, see/U are the only one I care for). Because the Internet is for sharing embarrassing moments: I actually teared up in H&M last week when this came on. I was tired and overstimulated from all the other humans in the store breathing up my air, but also because of this song’s Prince-ian chords and overall lyrical content. It's been two years since I let you go/I couldn't listen to a joke or rock 'n' roll/Muscle cars drove a truck right through my heart/On my birthday you sang me "Heart of Gold"/With a guitar hummin' and no clothes/This time I'm not leaving without you. (PRINCE. It's so very, wonderfully Prince. I see you, Gaga. Also I'd like Prince to do a cover of “Heart of Gold,” turning a bittersweet song about the passage of time into a 16-minute-long burning plea by his guitar to get the ladies in the house to cry and take their dresses off). Master manipulator Gaga plays my girly emotional insides like a piano, and Queen was a really fucking great band, plus I got a really cute bikini at H&M. So shoutout to the combined efforts of producer Mutt Lange, the H&M speaker system engineers, and the people hired by the H&M corporate office to select the songs for the playlists. Non-shoutout to me, however, for a pop song making me get weepy, rather than the fact that I was buying from a company that sells cheap cotton items made by underpaid workers in Bangladesh (not the producer Bangladesh, which would be so dope). Tangential shoutout to Elliot Mazer, who produced both Harvest and Give Me Convenience or Give Me Death, displaying some real Rick-Rubin-esque range.

Gaga was on American Idol once and coached one of the kids to keep his mouth on the mic. “It's your girlfriend,” she told him, adding that it's also his money and telling him to “Make love to it,” which is the most sex-infused piece of technical advice I've ever heard. I love it. I love her. I am human and I have ears so of course I love this song. Gaga is a controversial choice, I get it, but there's no arguing with me on this. It's just like with Cameron Giles, Duke basketball, and Miracle Whip: you can't change my opinion about any of those things, either (I hate them). Therefore, I say we stick to less controversial topics, like the artistic merits of Lana Del Rey and the best way to restructure the BCS.

6. “Change the Game,” Jay-Z/Bleek/Beans, into “Mass Appeal,” Gangstarr.

Yeah yeah, Jay. You. Will. Not. Lose. We hear you, Jay. Easy, tiger. Now please repeat after me - there's only one rule: RICK ROCK 4 EVS, 4 EVER & EVER. “Change” is one of the few Rick Rock productions with which I am not fully in love. Like “Can I Get A,” it is the very sound of Clinton Administration pop radio, shiny and hand-clap-py, so it's just dated and that's not the song's fault, but it NEEDS MORE SNARE AND/OR BASS, says my soul, which does not understand the limits of space and time and the notion of something being “dated.” My soul does not care. More bass, please. It's impossible to separate the song from its horrendous video, which features rappers not named DMX trying to convince me they ride motorbikes all around the city for fun (“NOPE” - my eyes, in response, just like back in September). But this one’ll always warm my heart. The boys all look happy and not beaten down by the industry, and Sigel Sigel in the house is fun and sing-song-y. It’s sweet that those 3 dudes could all be in the same room together at one point in history, which is really all a lady can ask for given the amount of crybaby-ness among rap professionals. I also like that it gives me an excuse to post the video of that time Robert Goulet spent the afternoon with Shawn and his coterie of ne'er-do-wells. The mix into “Mass Appeal” was nice, too, for this lady in 2011 driving her vehicle to her apartment in Los Angeles, years after these songs were made by dudes from New York and Massachusetts. “This ain't just a car,” K.R.I.T. says, “This my time machine.”

7. “Run Rudolph Run,” Chuck Berry.

“It's dangerous, because it's slick and catchy” - US counterterrorism officials, regarding a popular song on YouTube (2011).

“It's dangerous, because it's slick and catchy and done by black men and it might make our daughters want to have sex” - white US grown-ups, mostly regarding rock & roll music, but really, all forms of good music (1954-present, & forever & ever).

Promo is promo, meaning promotion, people talking, records sold, i.e., MONEY, and even in the ‘50s labels knew what they were doing when it came to making their stars sound badder than they actually were. Teenagers and their allowance money were a powerful bloc. They were also sullen and disrespectful, and thought they were real badass, and therefore bought the 45s of men whom they believed to be tough. This was mostly because they fell for promo tactics. But Chuck Berry! I’m pretty sure Chuck was/is a truly depraved gentleman, a genuine dirty bird, the real deal, who served actual jail time due to his taste for sweet young things and, years later, with the barometer for what he found stimulating raised higher throughout his life, his taste for odd and really unsexy things. It might’ve been promo, but that’s a hell of a commitment to promo, right? Even though I strongly want “Run Rudolph Run” to be a critique of what were socially acceptable gifts for American children in the late '50s (the boy wants a guitar; the girl wants a doll), I am able to suspend this desire if I so choose. Just let it ride, Logan. This one’s just happy and Christmassy, it'll make you stop wondering What in the hell must've happened to Chuck when he was a kid to make him so fetish-y? and instead it'll make you think the much more pleasant How fucking hyped are you if you're Chuck Berry and Mos Def does his hair like that and plays you in a movie!* Plus you got the essential Marty McFly element, and all those reindeer names sound like they could be A$AP crew members - A$AP Comet, A$AP Donner, and most especially, A$AP Blitzen.

*Not quite as hyped as David Ruffin would be if he knew beautiful human specimen Leon played him in a movie, but still. Pretty hyped.

8. The Outfield, “Your Love.”

OHHOLYFUCK, screamed my whole body when this came on, my inner Drunk White Girl showing all of a sudden. My hand could not physically move fast enough to the volume knob, and even though I didn't get to proclaim Josie's on a vacation far away (I caught the song halfway through the first verse), I still got to participate in some great sing-along parts (Stay the night but keep it un-der-cover) and savored the delicious wrongness of a song about a dude wanting to sleep with, and then sleeping with, someone other than his live-in lady. I have a fair amount of self-respect but even I would probably fall for I ain't got many friends left to talk to; may I please cry upon your shoulder? (aww!). The proper feminine response to this is a wide-eyed Would it help if I took my dress off?, which I have ON LOCK because I'm softhearted and have a compulsive need to soothe others. In closing: sorry if you were in the lane next to me on the freeway last night and I almost killed you with my swerving 4-wheeled piece of Japanese machinery.

The Internet and my brother tell me that the best outfielder was probably Rickey Henderson, whom I've heard of despite my lack of interest in the stupid sport of baseball, because my dad always liked the A's and because I always liked dudes who can self-promote in a verbally stylish fashion instead of a Kanyesian (“I'm 34 but inside I'm still a 13-year-old boy who is sad and mad that none of the pretty girls in class are looking at me”) fashion.

9. “No Diggity,” Blackstreet (I refuse to type BLACKstreet, because I am a grown-up), into “Flava In Ya Ear (remix),” Biggie Smalls & a bunch of people not named Biggie Smalls.

Perfect mix, whatsyourname who matched these two up on KDAY. They basically have the same BPM and I guess I never noticed it before. Hearing Craig Mack reminded me that I only drink the finest breast milks, and hearing Teddy Riley inspired me to proclaim "Finna bring back no diggity in twenty-twelve, along with vainglorious and honey dip” out loud to myself in my car. Let’s just skip over that unfortunate video with the puppets & Dre in a fucking Emmitt Smith jersey, and ignore Teddy’s sad attempt at hitting that note in “by no means avvv-raaaaage,” sounding so wobbly, like he’s crossing a stream and stepped on a rock that looked secure but, oh no, oopsie!, it’s loose! He might fall down! Shaky-voice! Let’s just focus on the greatness of this song, the story of a honey dip who drives a nice car and has dudes open all over town, probably because she is witty and knows a lot of musical trivia and has a blog in which she writes about Blackstreet and Bill Withers in equal measure. Let’s also focus on finding out why exactly Teddy moved his studio to Virginia in the early ‘90s. There must be a story there, right? TEDDY, WHAT HAPPENED? And did you know this hideous Clams beat completely boosts your '87 sound? And where is Timbaland? Just heard “Are You That Somebody” and it holds up so well.

Like me, the young lady in the song has all kinds of hustles and isn't satisfied with a man unless he makes tons of money. So if you are poor, you and I will never have sex or even go on a date. However, because I'm nice, I'm providing you with the criteria for getting hired by UPS. (Don't be mad!) Like being my lover, a job at UPS is no walk in the park (except, of course, when you and I go for actual walks in the actual park). “It may be fun and exciting,” UPS warns, “but it’s also physical and fast-paced” (just like being my lover!). “Package Delivery Drivers must have excellent customer contact and driving skills, including the ability to operate a vehicle equipped with a manual transmission. Qualified applicants must have a valid driver’s license issued in the state that they live. This is a position that involves continual lifting, lowering, and maneuvering of large items,” HEY-O, that sounds familiar, doesn't it? No? Last night, in the bedroom? Remember? PS, a physical exam is also required (for both jobs).

10. “Rhythm Changes,” The Counts.

Unpleasant facts of life with which I must make peace include:

that there are actual human females who brag about giving their precious inner-thigh parts to charisma-free yet famous human males Fabolous and Juelz;

that Wiz Khalifa makes his living as a professional musician (side note: EAT A CHEESEBURGER, CAMERON);

that “Maneater” preceded “Part Time Lover” by 3 years, so it would appear Stevie boosted the bassline from Hall & Oates, not the other way around, WTF;

and finally: I have big fat trouble coming to terms with the fact that I live in the entertainment capital of the world, yet “Rhythm Changes” is not on a constant loop on at least 2 of the 4 R&B stations in this city. I only heard it on Christmas night because programmers were given a little more leeway than usual. I believe it was Minaj who said something like, “This song just remind me of/Everything radio deprive me of.”

11. Emilio Santiago, “Bananeira.”

Bananeira não sei/Bananeira será/Bananeira sei não/Isso é lá com você/Será no fundo do quintal/Quintal do seu olhar/Olhar do coração (“Banana tree, I don't know/Banana tree, maybe/Banana tree, I don't know/That's up to you/Maybe deep in the backyard/Backyard of your stare/The stare from the heart”). I mean, right? Exactly, Emilio! You nailed it!

Hypnotic and hip-friendly and more about the backing track than the lyrics, just like everything Jay Elect releases into the world, this is probably the best song about bananas since Dwayne Carter rapped over that one about being the best and fucking the world. This one also makes me forget about the banana trade in Brazil, an industry that's a symbol of the income disparity that's existed for hundreds of years. Bananas go bad really quickly, they can be racist, and their namesake spiders will kill you if you're not careful. But at least Afro-Brazilian men can sing silly songs about bananas while still retaining their masculinity (it helps if you, like Emilio Santiago, have a deep, Scott-Heron-esque tone to your voice). Huddled with my family on the couch on Christmas Eve, “Cosmic Slop” on the TV, I was reminded of the sad reality of Black American manhood needing to disguise itself in fluffy hats and diapers in order to be less threatening. Um...merry Christmas?

Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got.

2011-11-28T02:37:00.000-08:00

Laid all out on the floor of apartment 680, I call this installation Ian Curtis Surrounded Mostly by Musical Black Men of the '70s, but its alternate name could be Logan Returns from a trip to Boston with a New Pile of Diamonds.

Luda's new dumbed-down flow, my mother telling me every day on the phone to cut my hair, the UC Davis campus police, and Anthony Bourdain are all current sources of irritation in apartment 680 - but Bourdain especially, because he is rude and overbearing and on the Travel Channel as I write this. He's got my dream job, though! That rude, overbearing Anthony Bourdain has my dreammmm job, traveling the world, getting paid, nerding out. The focus of my hungry curiosity is record stores, not open-air food markets in Phuket, but the getting-paid-to-travel-the-world-in-pursuit-of-local-delights hustle is still a hustle about which I need to be taught, so CALL ME, ANTHONY, master of this particular hustle! Teach me! And when we meet for our teaching session, don't look my body up and down like I have a feeling you will! Thanks! I hate you!

Until I have my meet-up with lanky, creepy Anthony, I'm on my own when it comes to travel in order to satisfy primal cravings (records, I mean--not crocodile skin softened in truffle oil, a Thai delicacy I just made up, or frog curry, an actual Thai delicacy). And I have no passport, so my choice of locations is restricted to the U.S., Puerto Rico, and assorted other commonwealths and territories with sketchy acquisition histories and tense racial-relations histories. Vacation days were calling me and the east coast seemed like a logical choice, so a few weeks ago I took my geeky ass to Boston, with no, um, reservations, and no shorts (October!). I did, however, bring cash, a super cute carry-on bag (thanks, Mom), and a record shopping list that has been, according to a very realistic dream I once had, blessed by the ghost of Christopher Wallace. I also brought my hips and an ethnically ambiguous face on the trip - two things that come in handy for a lady when she's traveling outside of her home region. (Hips ensure that straight men will be nice to you if you get lost, and the face straight from Denmark/Tunisia means you can pretend you don't speak English when a creepy straight man is being too nice to you).

I saw Fenway as per the legal requirement for tourists, I drank a lot of Dunkin' Donuts coffee, I went to M.I.T., I got a Charlie card and rode the T, so fun and exotic for a girl used to driving her car every day - the cool metal poles, smooth and shiny like the bald head of Keith Elam. But all that was just a collection of stops either on the way to or on the way back from RECORD STORES. I didn't spend too much money in total - around $200, I think - but I bought too many records to carry on the plane. I had to mail most of them back. Still...not too much money in total. Around...$230?

“FRAGILE FRAGILE FRAGILE.” I figured you'd prefer to see a bumblebee on top of a dolphin on top of a skateboard rather than my dumb old address.

I thought I needed scissors, because I'm an idiot. (All my brains are in my hips.)

I did not need scissors; there's a tab to grip and pull for ease of opening. Tight work, US Postal Service! AMERICA!

5 stores' worth, wrapped in some thin plastic and cardboard, safely arrived! USPS, you remain in good standing in my heart.

1. Nuggets, the 31-Year-Old Dustbin Where I Only Had Time to Buy 1 Item Before Being Dragged Away by My Traveling Companion.

“Step up in this motherfucker somethingsomething my hair.”

- Buddy Miles Express, Electric Church.

Just like how I have my reserved seat on the A$AP Crew Caravan and the Danny Brown Blunt Convoy, I'm a ticket holder on the Buddy Miles Express. Row 12, seat A. Choo-choo, baby, what more can I say. Buddy was friends with Jimi and, I just learned, the voice on this commercial, but first and foremost Buddy was a drummer just like his dad. I’m a nice person just like my mom, so I can relate, and also she passed on her hips to me, hips of course being the body part that so many soulful men wrote songs about. (Full circle!) This one's Logan-Walking-Down-the-Street-On-a-Hot-LA-Day Anthem: “Wrap It Up,” that time when Buddy took the Sam & Dave song and turned it into a plea for me to take my dress off. (A few years ago I remember the song was used in a department store commercial at Christmas time - wrap it up; I'll take it - proof that ad firms are too lazy to listen to lyrics. The song's about a man who wants to turn his woman's, uh, love into a box, with a pretty bow on top, an obvious sexy, nasty anatomy reference. “Bring you sweet things from my candy jar/'Cause you've got tricks you ain't never used/Give it, give it to me, it won't get abused.” Isn't this basically the same thing Danny promises in “I Will”? Aw, wait, I think it might get abused a tiny bit. SORRY, MOM.)

Nuggets Records

486 Commonwealth (“Comm”) Ave., Boston
Pros: Nice proprietors who didn't mind the impromptu photo shoot my traveling companion and I initiated and asked if we were from the nearby photography school. Acknowledging the store's quantity-over-quality inventory, they also wished us luck in finding “that rare Billy Idol 12-inch.”
Cons: Didn't find that rare Billy Idol 12-inch.

2. Cheapo: The One True King of R&B (sorry, Kells)

I can't believe they were able to get all four of them together for that photo on my shirt, since they basically wanted to stab each other in the stomach at this point as a band, right? Oh music industry!, you're just a big corporate picnic where dudes who hate each other have to smile together in photo ops to soothe the boss's anxiety and thereby ensure that everybody involved keeps making basketfuls of cash. Anyway, thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box; they tumble blindly as they make their way across the universe, jai guru deva om, blahblah, mostly I'm trying to distract myself from the fact that I didn't buy the record I'm holding above even though it is called Music for the Sensual Woman and has a sad-eyed thick-haired blonde girl on the cover, because, well, I guess I'm into self-sabotage these days.

Of course I felt a lustful pull toward this section, as 2 of these 3 adjectives describe me
(email me if you must know).

STUN NING. Stunning. Life-affirming. All I need day to day, along with some lovin and some ice cream, are some old George McCrae and Chi-Lites records over which to geek out. Seeking photographer to shoot me as a slutty ballerina gymnast, Tawny Kitaen style, on top of stacks like this.

- El Gran Combo, La Universidad de la Salsa. Bought because my hips were put here on Earth by god herself (Celia Cruz) to move rhythmically to Caribbean music. Also bought because this record was erroneously placed in the jazz section. Insane! This was no accident! I obviously had to go with the fate handed to me by record store gods. Entities outside of my control bind me sometimes, making me feel like the protagonist in horrible Power 106 earwig “Tony Montana.” “You leave me no choice,” excellent rapper Future says in the song, which is about having a decision already been made by the forces at play in the universe, and then living with the outcome of that decision, because you're just like that man with a Caribbean-bred stronghold technique. “Tony Montana. Tony Montana. Tony Montana.” I’ll talk about the time I bought an El Gran Combo record in Boston if/when I meet Bobbito, but until then I will sweep the floor and bake cookies to it at my apartment in an inappropriate outfit like Beyonce, “Mujer Celosa” sounding so good even though salsa songs about women always have that sexist virgin/whore motif.

- The Chi-Lites, (For God's Sake) Give More Power to the People. Produced by lead singer Eugene Record (Eugene RECORD), this one of course has song titles like “Troubles A Comin” and “We Are Neighbors” because it was 1971. Couched in the middle, though, there's future-bankrupt-rapper blip-in-history-sample-source “Have You Seen Her.” How telling. In '72, the guys included their version of “Inner City Blues" on an album otherwise full of love songs, and in '73 they did a song called “We Need Order” on an album otherwise full of love songs. Later in '73, they came out with the Chi-Lites album, completely full of love songs. Every one was about marriage and regretting not asking that one lady to get married when you had the chance - none were about world peace or strife. The lesson here is to remember always, darlings, that we all need to get along as the children of Earth, but mostly we just need sweet sweet romantic love, preferably with a really long spoken intro while the bass and strings build in the background. Related: my parents are gone for the weekend so I'm having a party in the basement (dirty old couches and a single red light hanging from the ceiling! 1971 BACK! All 1971 everything!).

- Stylistics, Let’s Put It All Together. Yes, Stylistics! Let's do that! You had better fucking betcha by golly wowwww I'm ready to put it all together, especially since this record contains “Love is the Answer”* and was produced by Avco album chiefs named Hugo & Luigi, in their spare time, I mean, when they weren't trying to rescue Princess Toadstool from Bowser's castle.

*

- Archie Shepp, Fire Music. You can't deny that cover painting - guts laid out and spread around, messy and thick. It comes courtesy of Mel Cheren, a gay man drafted into the Army who, upon returning from service in 1970, promptly started working for a record label, encouraging its higher-ups to start releasing disco, and then founded Paradise Garage, which seems like the greatest and most subversive Fuck you and your army, America committed by a gay man in my great nation's history. This one also contains Shepp's "Malcolm, Malcolm, Semper Malcolm,"* about Mr. El-Shabazz, which is a reminder of the power of 3- and 4-word song titles in jazz. Next week maybe a Fetti affiliate will do a tribute/style-jacking of "In Walked Bud," only it'll be called "In Walked Flocka," and I'll be so pleased.

*This go harder than a herd of runnin' elephants. - my future husband, random YouTube commenter.

- Roberta Flack, Chapter 2. Predictability is my strong suit - I always buy a record with a pensive-looking lady face on the cover, which might indicate a personality trait of mine, some deep-seated shyness that Roberta and I both have, or that Laura Nyro and I or Nina Simone and I both have. Most likely I buy these things just so I'll have something to talk about with Lauryn if/when I meet her. Released in 1970, Chapter 2's pensive-face art design came courtesy of Ira Friedlander, whose Roberta-head-album-cover creativity apex was reached with Quiet Fire a year later. And although there aren't any rap breaks to speak of on it, King Curtis and Donny Hathaway make strong and graceful appearances like they always did on Roberta's albums; upon seeing this in the bins, it had to be mine. I love Roberta. It was, as they say, a wrap. (Predictability is my strong suit.)

- George McCrae, Rock Your Baby. Shockingly difficult to find, this was substituted for yearrrrs in apt. 680 by a ton of compilations with all the great singles from the album. I was ashamed and felt small, like my secret would one day be found out. Thanks to Cheapo Records, though, I now have the original album, complete with pensive George modeling his denim on the cover, leaning up against some wood, so bossed up I can't take it, denim on denim on denim, Levi's, classic, not like fucking Trues that all the cartoony major-label signees wear. “I Get Lifted” is obviously the rapdork-saliva-pumper on this album and it’s a fantastic bass-y slice of cake, a real sexy piece of work, but this means that the album’s opener, “Rock Your Baby” gets tragically overlooked (unless you are a resident of apt. 680). Bonus: George's powdery blue kit in the video shows up, years later, in Ghosty's Sonny Carson/slacks baby blue, knitted sharkskin line from “Murda Goons.” That's how music history works in my head, anyway.

- Ron Carter, A Song for You. Who's the best Isley? Marvin, because he played bass. Who was Kool & the Gang named for? KOOL, the bass player. What makes “Going Back to Cali” so fucking sexually exciting and fantast--OK GUYS YOU FEEL ME. But guys, who is the finest Mos Def doppelganger who plays bass and happens to be from my future life partner Danny Brown's city of Detroit? Why it's Ron “None of you can fuck with this, never, ever, not even in a hundred years; I smoke a pipe and have pretty lashes” Carter.

- Donny Hathaway, Come Back Charleston Blue soundtrack. Bought because I need every record with Donny's beautiful, doomed voice on it, and because I recognize “Little Ghetto Boy” (WEXLER!) in “Little Ghetto Boys” and “Lil' Ghetto Boy.” The sequel to Cotton Comes to Harlem, this album was co-produced by Quincy Jones (along with Donny) and has a 1-minute interlude called “Furniture Truck,” which would later serve as inspiration for Zaytoven's beats in tribute to mundane things (“Waffle House,” “Rubber Bands”) that take about 19 seconds to compose. Anyway, in 2012, the saga continues; I'd like you to please stay tuned for my Charleston Blue answer album Come Back Lil ½-Dead.

- Return to Forever, No Mystery. Chick Corea, Massachusetts-born, will make you feel like you can walk into the store and steal a nice pair of sharkskin slacks when this song's playing, a little thrill in your brain as you realize you're getting away with it. Plus it'll probably make your girlfriend take her dress off when you get home and put it on the hi-fi. And if your girlfriend's name is Logan, she'll start yammering on about it being an Eric B & Rakim break. Dog, you so lucky.

Cheapo Records
538 Mass. Ave., Cambridge

Pros: Large, cleanly laid out, well-lit. This is how record stores should be. Also, nice proprietors who recommended the Middle East for a good burger.
Cons: I live 3,000 miles from it. This is actually a Pro because it means I have enough money this month to pay my rent and buy a Balenciaga bag. Bonus Con: I just said "Balenciaga bag" like I'm Pusha's girlfriend, so I am pretty corny.

3. Looney Tunes: the Stupidly-Named Place Near Berklee Which Was Definitely Run By My Dad in a Previous Life.

- Nikki Giovanni, Truth is on its Way. Nikki, on being an alien from Michigan, in “Poem for Aretha”: “Strangers pulling at you 'cause they love you.” Nikki on being famous and lonely: “Nobody mentions how it feels/To become a freak because you have talent.” Well, that did it. Cue me, forking over $16.

- Dr. John, Babylon, bought because, don't be silly, it's Dr. John! He's my pretend great-uncle and he's just the best. Also bought because Babylon system is the vampire - I know it, Bob knows it, and Dr. John knows it.

- Dr. John, Zu Zu Man, bought because Dr. John is still the finest, spookiest wheezy-voiced man out of N.O. (Sorry, Lil Wheezy). And because I was raised by music-loving heathens in a weed den, when I was 5 I knew about Dr. John before I knew about Dr. Teeth, his Muppet inspiration, despite the fact that I was a 5 year old child. Thanks, Pop.

Looney Tunes
1106 Boylston Street, Boston

Pros: Packed, unorganized, dark, no elbow room, great variety of genres. Thissss is how record stores should be.
Cons: Not the store's fault, but I hit it at the end of a lonnnnng day of walking and shivering so I was not in top form when it came to eyeing and choosing. I only got 3 records but if I had sat down for 10 minutes, eaten something, then returned, I'm sure I would've bought 8 more. And if I had the sense to put on a scarf? 12 more, I bet.

4. Weirdo, Tiny Like Lil B's Pants. Or Is It Dwayne Carter's Pants. Or Is It Tiny Like the Size of the Lyric-Writing Center in Khalifa's Brain.

Oh well hello spiritual advisor Phil Spector, on the wall up there! How you doin, god.

It turns out I don't just love Boston because Mitt Robotney is no longer the overlord of Massachusetts, or because of Guru's accent ("He might be loose in the pahhhk/Or lurkin at the train station") or because the Pixies had a Purple Tape just like Rae! I love Boston because of tiny, tiny Weirdo Records, where I found some Turkish psych and a Dilla break and some demonic fuzz.

- Demon Fuzz, Afreaka! Bought because, OK, first of all, look at that cover. LOOK AT IT. Exactly. It's an Etsy project photographed by David Cronenberg upon returning from lunch with Nelson George! Now that you understand, the reasons for purchasing just get better: band members included men named Sleepy Jack Joseph, Clarance Brooms Crosdale, and Smokey Adams, who, if not jazz musicians, would've been Dungeon Family members, or supporting characters in Uptown Saturday Night, or, years later, guest MCs on Uptown Saturday Night. And the name Demon Fuzz had two meanings, according to Crosdale: “Devil’s children or bad policemen.” Either way: I APPROVE.

- Dorothy Ashby, The Rubaiyat of Dorothy Ashby. Fuckin rap music producers! Producers love this lady's records, you guys, probably because your favorite producer's favorite favorite producer Mr. Yancey (NO, NOT YOU, LUGER) made it mandatory to love her.

"Wax and Wane"

Original compositions inspired by the words of Omar Khayyam, it says on the cover of Dorothy's album. Khayyam, research tells me, was an 11th century Persian poet. The meaning of his poetry varies a little according to which middle-aged white man translated it, but overall his writing appears to be a collection of soothing statements that explain the world. We're here to enjoy each others' company in meadows while the sun shines, the poems say. Also there should be lots of wine. I don't care for wine, but I like words that soothe and the fact that Khayyam was a ~~Sufi Muslim (just like Ghosty!~~ EDIT: Ghostface is a Sunni Muslim. But, really, what's the difference). A rubaiyat, research tells me, is a collection of poetry - quatrains that generally follow the AABA or AAAA rhyme scheme. So obviously Wiz and any Dipset blockhead would excel at this form of artistic expression. Cat/hat/sat/bat, cat/cat/cat. On a mat.

- Turkish Freakout: Psych-Folk Singles, 1969-1980. It's a compilation, brand new, the work's already been done for me and that's cheating, but Christ, I'm not Madlib. Wait, I'm not Oh No. WAIT, they're both equally informed about Turkish psych and they both stack those Stones Throw dollars. I do not lead such a life of luxury. This lady's on a budget! All I can afford is my rent, some Balenciaga, and some not very rare, non-eBay, non-first-pressing records every now and then. Actual song title on the comp: “Uryam Geldin” (“I Came Naked”). Madlib probably speaks Turkish at this point and knew that already, but I'm not ashamed to say I went right to Google Translate for the assist.

- Sun Ra and his Arkestra, Sleeping Beauty. Just like a Mormon, I fetishize precious objects (gold in Mormons' case; records in mine) and store material provisions for the End Times (food and water in Mormons' case; records in mine). Nothing, nothing is more fetish-worthy than a handsome, musical man who was an actual space alien and brought messages from the other side; allow me to introduce you to my record collection full of bassists and MCs. Just like supreme fetish object Madlib, I do a tiny jump-up-and-down dance to myself when I find a stunning album in a store's bin. And just like Madlib scrawled “Door of the Cosmos” on the side of the cave he descends into en route to his underground bunker, I need to leave little messages for myself around my dwelling, reminders about the power of human potential, in order to do my best work (blogging). In keeping with this, on my fridge is a list of the 7 Tenets of Mindfulness Practice because I stress too much, and Sleeping Beauty is on display right when you walk into apt. 680, wordlessly telling me keep it spacey, life should be weird and spacey. Also, keep it based. Sun Ra was based before #based was a thing.

- Ennio Morricone, Le Professionel soundtrack. The MIT museum was lovely, a real nerd heaven, despite the grouchy gift shop cashier and that fact that MIT almost spells out Romney's first name. It turns out the MIT's motto is Mens et Manus (“Mind and Hand”), a concise rendering of the philosophical intent of the school's founders. Promote education for practical application, they proposed. Yes, I heard about that from BDP once or ten times, MIT museum, you biters. Get your head and your hands to develop a solid working relationship seems like it would serve you well if you were a boxer, which Jean-Paul Belmondo started as before he was beautiful and young and pretentious in Breathless and then old-ish and weathered in Le Professionel. Mind and hand is also a good thing to remember when you're in front of your MPC making a powerful beat to which you'd like me to walk down the street in a dress, and it's a perfect thing to remember during amorous times on the couch or in the backseat.

Weirdo Records
844 Mass. Ave., Cambridge

Pros: Very sweet proprietor who found it comical I had 4 separate transactions (FOUR), because every time I thought I was done, I'd find another darling that had to come home with me. Ahaha. HA.
Cons: It really is tiny inside, and lack of space means you're at the mercy of your emotional state and the tricks of the universe when you visit (the universe might send in an annoying person who tells you “Mos Def just changed his name!” even though you don't really care and plus you already know this.)

5. Newbury Comics: the “I Realize It's a Boston Institution but Inside It Just Looks Like a Bunch of Red Sox Fans Took Over a Hot Topic.”

“I can be smart when it's important, but most men don't like it.” - Lorelei Lee, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Musical space cadets from the future would've liked it, though, Lorelei! Should've been more willing to accept nontraditional romantic partners, mama.

Don't make me chase you, Sun Ra. (Even doves have pride.)

I should use my cervine face to get away with bad things all the time. Bank robbery, etc.

- Sun Ra and His Arkestra, Super-Sonic Jazz. “Super Blonde,” the liner notes say, “tells a happy story about a blonde who is just as super as someone else called super.” There's no mention of this super lady as a blonde who wears a Warner Bros. Films x screenprint machine collab t-shirt, but I'm a sucker for a happy story so I had to have it.

- Joy Division, Unknown Pleasures. Bought because I love depressed boys (but you knew that). I am a young, educated woman in a major city, so I am required to use the word "thrifted" to describe half my t-shirts and I have to love depressed boys. I am an awful, boring cliché on 2 legs. Sigh. Also bought because I can't find Closer - somewhere at my parents' house, maybe? - so I haven't been able to play any Joy Division when I clean the house in an inappropriate Beyonce outfit. And bought because “She's Lost Control” is my theme song in my darkest, baddest, most promiscuous moments, and in my bittersweet, heart-racing, body-moving, large-eyeball-pupiled moments, oh look, there I am, dancing alone in the corner at the Factory on Saturday night. Also bought because I didn't have it in my collection but I always knew I should, and now I do. Aw Ian. Welcome to the collection of musical ghosts that live in apt. 680. You've been placed between Christopher Wallace and Elliott Smith.

The trip winding down, I made a quick stop at Quincy Mahhket to try to make love to a not-feeling-it Red Auerbach, then mailed my records and returned home to my native sunny land. Bourdain doesn't have to worry about rent being due, but I do.

Things more interesting than popular music beefery and impending industry babies and Georgia rappers' appearances on terrible Dwayne Carter albums

2011-08-29T08:53:00.000-07:00

• Put the paper in the panties when you get that dance, goes the sign above the front door at apt. 680, just as a reminder when you enter. There's no basketball court here, unlike at King of Diamonds. There's a basketball court there, inside, which makes it an odd and wonderful part of the Miami naked-girl scene. There's a basketball court inside King of Diamonds, I said. Inside. This fact is thirty times more interesting to me in my life at the present time than anything Tyler says or does in, on, near, or around MTV because...hell, it's MTV. (I feel like people are kind of making fun of his mom for her emotional display, too, and I don't care for that. And did you hear there was some sort of dust-up between basic bitch Rawss and a thin white lady not named Logan?). The basketball court fact is more interesting than anything, really, at the present time in my life, other than wondering to myself Is Curren$y's leg healing appropriately?; does he need anything from me, perhaps a nice home-cooked meal and a round of Duke Nukem? and How in the world does Wayne keep his white Ts so clean and fresh? (He seems like a sweaty person).

• I believe the phrase in Miami is Don't stop; get it, get it, correct? Anyway, I am too thin and awkward to be a nude dancing professional, but strippers and female rap bloggers are both regarded with a mixture of fear, patronization, and lust by males in our respective worlds so I feel like I'm an honorary nude dancing professional. Wayne - or, actually, the director of his video, with final approval by UMRG, all rights reserved - has some conflicting stripper feelings that this article sums up in a beautiful way. The only important thing that I would have included in the piece is the fact that the word hustle actually means "to shake to and fro." The word hustle actually means that. And still, dudes are upset at/lusting over/giving fatherly advice to ladies using what they have to git what they want.

Also, still unclear: Wayne's feelings about stripper librarians.

• Just as odd and funny, but not quite as charming, is watching Internet boys discover Dwayne Carter's "recent" descent into terribleness. Energy levels are high in this regard, dudes just going crazy, dissecting all the bars, hating up a storm. I tell you it's some enthusiasm like I've never seen. They're also getting excited (in the opposite way) over Andre's verse on "Interlude," which is only remarkable by default (due to the terribleness of the rest of the album). Everyone, everyone, I say, Calm down. Andre is the coolest, a real swingin cat, but if you show your hand too soon, lap up anything he gives you, he'll lose his fire and then we'll be stuck with another 5-year absence. Every night he reads me the phone book while I look at him with my chin resting in my hand but you don't see me getting all excited. I just wait til he leaves, then I write about how much I like him in my diary, and listen to his "Walk It Out" verse like it's still oh-six.

• Internet boy Andy Nosnitsky, you annoy frequently but you charm more frequently. And I have you to thank for informing me that Phesto has a Tumblr.

• This photo of Bun B exists. SWANGIN, I hear his voice say in my head when I look at it. And as of tomorrow, Bun B Day exists. “Way to go Bun B, it will truly be a Trill Day in Houston!,” says the mayor's website, adorably. (The mayor apparently hasn't heard B's Population fifty thousand, only 3 high schools, but 8 sets of low-income housing critique, but I'm pretty sure B was talking about Port Arthur there anyway. A huge city like Houston's got to have way more than just 3 high schools, right?)

• #1 in sales/DLs at this moment: “I'm On One” (Khaled). Really, America? I didn't realize it was still mid-June. Best moment in the song, still: Khaled's Get em uuuup overlapping Stupid Jerkface Drake's I'm onnn one during the squiggly intro. The song is big dumb fun (still, even though it's no longer mid-June), and it's nice to see a Palestinian and a Jewish guy make some harmony together, quite literally. The other best moment is all moments not involving the image in my head of Rick Ross bending some poor lady over in the kitchen, Sweet Jesus.

#1 at this moment in 1971 - “Spanish Harlem” (Aretha, age 29), produced by Jerry "MORE BASS" Wexler, AKA Production God For Whom I'd Convert to Judaism. Best part - piano at 01:44 (Aretha).

#1 in 2001 - “Fallin'” (Alicia, age 20), produced by Alicia (age 20!). Years later, these two ladies get cross-referenced in the Mos Def section of a certain bikini'd blogger's brain ("One Step Ahead" as a break, and the "You Don't Know My Name" video, SUH-WOOOON, DANTE, you give all shy, hardworking girls hope that dudes who don't look at us will one day look at us).

• I'm not a Belieber, I'm a...uhh, JerryLieberber? Hearing the original "Spanish Harlem" in the Civic yesterday right when I started the engine means that some sort of deity exists and he/she is a fan of pop radio just like me. Best part: the syllabic stressing, the satisfying way the words ride the beat, during the It is a special one, it's never seen the sun/It-only-comes-out-when-the-moon-is-on-the-run/And all the stars are gleeeaming part. Lieber's heroic feats outside of actual music making include he and Mike Stoller insisting on getting producer credit on all of their work - unprecedented in the '50s music industry. "Atlantic wanted to call us 'directors'," he said, "they said they were the producers because they put up the money." But Jerry and Mike sealed the deal, ensuring that many years later a bikini'd lady blogger would hold Mannie Fresh in high regard for actually making the stuff that provides the soundtrack for her hustle, rather than one Bryan Williams for bankrolling it. See also: RZA rather than Steve Rifkind.

Let the inappropriate emotional attachment to my fantasy football team begin!

2011-08-27T19:33:00.000-07:00

Why yes, Hank Williams, jr. - I am ready for some football. SQUAD UP:

QB: Mark Sanchez, NY Jets

Pros: USC! Not Matt Leinart! Had pretty good numbers last season, and will maybe keep improving? Maybe? I'm also told that “with a few lucky bounces he could have a good (year),” which applies to me as well as every other human being in the universe.

Con: He's from Mission Viejo, and people from Orange County cannot be trusted. People from East Orange, however, can always be trusted (to provide the world with at least 1 life-is-wonderful heartrate-increasing soundtrack banger).
Team's best rap nods: Aw, pumpkin! I'm so glad you asked!
• “JETLIFEJETLIFEJETLIFEJETLIFE, jet set/nothing less, jets fool, EAH, where haven't we been, lames catch feelings/we catch flights, jet life/it sucks to be you...” (fade out). • “New York City respects my game like ~~Mark Sanchez~~ Joe Namath” - Monch. A quick Internet search also tells me that Bad Meets Evil has an actual Mark Sanchez line; however, I find all those songs so boring and therefore offensive to my ear canal that I cannot verify this information.

Backup QB, although who knows, I might start him: Eli Manning, NY Giants

Pros: 4,000 passing yards last year! Also, with Steve Smith gone, Eli will have the firm-yet-flexible hands of Hakeem Nicks, even more ready and willing to catch for him. teehee.

Cons: • ~~4,000~~ 25 interceptions last year! • Just super goofy looking. At least he commits to it, though - Eli's not changing his style for anybody, which makes him the Danny “50 didn't like my pants” Brown of my fantasy team • Personality boring like peanut butter & jelly on Wonder bread, Kanye's women issues, an Ikea couch, grown men Twit-scrapping, Jay Elec's voice. (I let these gentlemen into my heart and psyche every fall; a little charisma would be nice.)
Team's best rap nod: • “I slam tracks like quarterback sacks from LT” - Deck. (Reference circa 1981-9, but it still counts)

WR: Brandon Lloyd, Denver Broncos

Pros: • Pro Bowl-er; NFL's reception yards leader last year (1448). • He and Kyle Orton are in sync like Curren$y and…Alc? (Spitta calls him “Al.” AWW.)

Con: Glamour shots.

Team's best rap nod(s): • In a few sex raps over the years, there have been mentions of individuals “throwing” the “P” or the “D” “like Elway” (you'll have to figure it out, as I am a lady and I CAN’T TYPE THOSE WORDS, teehee! Hi Mom!) • “Ice cubes in my pocket; too many drive Elway style. I got this.” - Curren$y. • “I keep it real dirty, dirty, you know how I do/Purple and gold with the Lakers, the Broncos - the orange and blue” - “Air Force Ones” (click, grin, chair dance. 2002 pop radio magic.) • I have it on good authority that Denver is just like Compton.

WR: Dwayne Bowe, KC Chiefs

Pros: • Pro Bowl-er • Spells his first name correctly. Every time he's in Miami and sees D.Wade, Bowe's like What's up DwYYYYane, hahahaha. I like that. (Seems like Wade needs to be taken down a notch ego-wise, I'm just saying.)
Con: I'm an IRL Raider fan, and I fear that my IRL hatred of the Chiefs will result in me self-sabotaging when it comes to fantasy, purposely putting Bowe in some no-win situations. Why do I do the things that I do? What's going on in this head of mine? More complex than an almanac, that's me.
Team's best rap nod: “Watching the Chiefs blow 'em out/In between Arrowhead and Suave House, no doubt” - Andre Rison (ha) on an Eightball song. I should call this “team's only rap nod, outside of 'Queen's Gambit' (too easy), something by Tech N9ne (nope), or a fucking Mac Miller song (which I refuse to post on here, for ethical reasons).” And because the mourning of Jerry Lieber continues in apt. 680, “Kansas City” is appropriate for the listening in this case too. It's not-rap but it's got bass and movement, and that makes it perfect for the chopping and looping. I have daydreams of its future appearance as a rap break; won't somebody please use it?

Quotable: “This one girl was talking to me like she'd known me for years. 'Hey, D-Bowe, how's Grandma?' I'm like, 'How do you know my grandma?'” - on ladies who are big, big NFL fans.

WR: Jeremy Maclin, Philadelphia Eagles

Pro: NO CANCER! Fuck outta here, death!

Cons: • Mysterious vomiting and night sweats not due to cancer or any other ailment; this man appears to be a bit of a delicate flower. • Maclin's teammates must call him “J Mac,” yes? Sigh. Of course they do. And I'm sure he's fine with it. Points deducted for lack of creativity and overall predictability.

Team's rap nod(s): • Well, Wayne's from Eagle Street of course. “My city is New Orleans/Baby, my street is Eagle.” • Tons of McNabb and Vick mentions - “Stay running the rock just like I play quarterback for the Eagles - Randall, Donovan, to Michael” - Gibbs.

Backup WR: Plaxico Burress, Jets

Pros: • Built like PlasticMan (6'5", 232!!) like all receivers should be. • Possibly has a Dwayne-Carter-esque just-out-the-pen hunger which would result in some prolific output.
Cons: Will maybe have a Prodigy-esque just-out-the-pen hunger to overcompensate out of desperation which would result in some underwhelming performances (aw Prod. Sorry, buddy).
Rap nod(s): Oh Jesus Christ, too many. So many. (Game n' Weezers)

Backup backup WR: Jordy Nelson, Green Bay Packers

Pros: “EHH” during the regular season, but “OOH” in the playoffs. Showed some fancy footwork in the Super Bowl too.

Con: I find it difficult to respect a grown man named “Jordy.” I might be able to reconcile this as the season progresses if he performs well...however:

in a shocking turn of events, it's possible that ownership could go with Chicago's Johnny Knox as a Possible Backup WR instead! He might get lost in the shuffle on a team that has Roy Williams and Devin Hester, but at least his name's not Jordy. It's an odd and powerful feeling, being a woman in LA with no team-ownership experience who suddenly finds herself able to put these guys in or take them out in a giant game of Fate, Destiny, and Met/Unmet Expectations. This must be what it's like to be Jerry Jones! Or RZA and GZA on the giant Clock of Life, taking breaks to play chess.

Team's best rap nods (NO, not that Wayne song about being a cheesehead): • “With a knapsack of green Supreme hats/Like I was sponsored up by the fucking Packers” - Ty. • “My belt got G's on it like a Packers helmet” – not-Nicki and not-Wayne so who cares, “Pass the Dutch.”

RB: YAYYY I GOT ARIAN FOSTER ON MY SQUAD, TOP OF THE WORLD, MA!, Houston Texans

Pros: • Best running back ever to exist in the universe (1600 yards last season!). • Here to save the world, or at least help a certain bathing-suited ladyblogger get the (fake) win every Sunday.

Con: Say his first name out loud.
Quotable: “Understand the universe, you'll understand me.” Oh good lord.
Team's best rap nod(s): None for the team specifically; I’m pretty sure the Texans have only existed in the league for like 6 months. For the city of Houston's rap nods, though, I suggest you visit the rap- and bathing-suit-appreciation blog HeightFiveSeven. Understand bass, you'll understand me. Understand hips, you'll understand me.

RB: Shonnnnnnnn Greene, NY Jets

Pros: He's from a place called Sicklerville, so how could he not be a sick fucking overachiever on the field? (Logic's not my strong suit. Hips are.) Plus Tomlinson's getting old, so Greene will be able to shine like sunlight, like gold, like my wit and charm.

Connnnns: Obvious mom and dad issues, since they decided to spell his name that way. I see this manifesting itself as some distractedness on the field.

Backup RB: BenJarvus Green-Ellis, New England Patriots

Pros: • 13 touchdown carries last season! • Nickname: “The Law Firm.” LOVE IT.

Cons: The epic name “BenJarvus” carries no weight, no special meaning. It's not a family name or anything! - his mom just liked it. I can respect that, Mrs. Green, but it's still disappointing.

Team's best rap nod(s): Does this count? (It's my blog, so it counts):

TE: Owen Daniels, Texans

Pros: • When healthy, he's good. When healthy (this hasn't happened since '08, though that season he did have over 800 yards). • This stupid league makes me play a tight end every week instead of a fourth receiver (which would make me much happier), but Daniels is one of the best available.
Cons: See below.

Quotable: “That shuttle launch was pretty sweet.” He also enjoys reruns of Rob and Big, going to the gym, and staying positive - all important parts of his training regimen for the 2011 Boring-Personality-Off between himself and Eli Manning.

Backup TE: Aaron Hernandez, Patriots

Pros: • Decent numbers last year, and he's so young that I believe he'll only improve from this point. • Handles it like a grown man (“I'll get better”) when random dudes criticize him electronically. This type of maturity and non-bitchery is so unusual in the world as I know it; feels like dreamland.

Con: Fantasy football sites have informed me that, due to the Patriots having another good tight end in Rob Gronkowski, Aaron's stats will suffer “because the ball is spread around so much.” TEE HEE.

Team's best rap nod, since, OK fine, “Patriotism” was kind of cheating: “I got the bomb; call me Tom Brady” - Ghosty, in that horrendous Rae song that makes me yell HOWWW does Khalil keep getting production jobs? Is it blackmail? He must have overtly homosexual photos of Dre or something. (And for the record, Ghost: I'm not going to call you anything but “sir,” “god,” “darling,” “dear,” “darling dear,” “Ironman,” “king,” or “Tony.” xoxo.)

K: Nate Kaeding, San Diego Chargers

Pros: Can consistently and adeptly use his foot to make a football sail through the air and land square between two goal posts. (I get this guy almost every year in fantasy. He’s solid if unspectacular, much like his rap equivalent...umm, Elzhi? Skyzoo? Royce? I don't know. Somebody help me here.)

Cons: Has the unfortunate appearance of a weakling. Is Nate anemic? He just looks super feeble; I kind of feel like I could black his eye out even though I have arms like Mr. Burns'.

Team's best rap nod: “I might charge through San Diego with the bolts on my shoulder/Rock the Trailblazer warm-up, 'cause Portland gets colder” - Fabolous. Nice to hear a song from Loso about menswear rather than yet another one about ladies' shoes and purses.

DEF: NY Giants

Pros: Lawrence “I breaks it down to the bone gristle” Taylor has a fondness for powdery stimulants and sex professionals, but nobody can dispute his skill as a player. His competitive spirit still permeates the Giants' defensive line to this day (in my head), though he hasn't played since the '90s. As far as the current roster goes, all I feel the need to say is PRINCE AMUKAMARA. Nigerians are good at everything.

Backup DEF: Detroit Lions

Pros: Other than Ndamukong Suh, I'm not sure. But Baltimore, Green Bay, Pittsburgh, Philly, and Chicago are all taken - what am I supposed to do, other than back this defense with love, affection, and a few prayers to the NFL gods on Saturday night before I lay my head down and go to sleep?
Team's best rap nods: • “Looking like Barry Sanders/So Icey flex game” - Waka. • “A city full of Tommy Hearns thumpers/Grant Hill hoopers, Barry Sanders runners, stunners” - Royce. At first I was mad at various other Michigan rappers (ahem, GUILTY S.) for not mentioning their home team in verse, but then I realized that the Lions were terrrrrrrible during most of those guys' young-man-hood. You're forgiven, gentlemen. • “Like chocolate candy you will break/Running back, Detroit Lions, with an ill fake” - Keith, in Ultramag's “Super Spellbound.”

Oh word: I would (still) very much like to do a song with Curren$y, please

2011-08-24T06:02:00.000-07:00

Beth Gibbons and I are doing a song together. I decided this, daydreaming at work today. Beth and I are going to make a song, or maybe even a whole freaking album together, since we both have hair the color of sunshine and we're both in love with bass. That's enough, right? We should create things together and put those things on the Internet, right? It doesn't matter that one of us was born to make music and one of us is terrible at making music, I hope, because that would really put a damper on things.

6. “Surface to Air” (How Fly)

Wiz: Not Michael Jackson, I ain't feeling these kids/and you hatin', such a shame that's where your energy is/I'm in a Gfizz flying, leave your bitches with the planes, now she sky diving, hella vibin'/And your hating adds just more steam/More chips, now I'm living more Rothstein.

Lieber and Stoller wrote timeless stories set to melody in 15 minutes, smoking and pacing around the room, tossing out lyrical snippets to each other. Smoke DZA can say RIIIIIIIGHT over a beat and I'll listen to it on a loop in my Civic for at least a half hour. My point is that making songs that please the people is quite a reachable goal when you were obviously born to do it and don't try to force things if you weren't born to do it. Ahem. Thank you.

Logan, outshining Wiz: Mike Jackson raps make me yawn, you're a Boy who's Badly Drawn/I'm sick of you, vamoose, sail the fuckin Dead Sea/I'm hoi polloi, you're a pig who's bourgeoisie/Eat some brie, drink some chablis/Your high times ain't nothin compared to Prodigy in his bucket, flyin on PCP/Your career's over, I heard your label reneged/Your utter lack of substance means you're just an image - JPEG.

Then something about twinkletoes and my heart breaking. My style's derivative - I've obviously been too influenced by Nickatina and Cellski plus a little G Rap and that fucking supa dupa flow that I despise, and overall I need a better grasp of my identity as a narrator in song. Still, I put the lyrical hurting on em and man I'll never quit. The game needs me too badly. I come around and fools' careers are just done - folding in on themselves like the house at the end of Poltergeist.

Curren$y: Kicked up sittin' behind a mahogany desk, crumblin erb just as Big Boi and Andre would suggest/Flow sick need a check up, flow sick that's how I got my checks up/Bad bitches gold diggin' lame n---s out a trip to foreign places, or bracelet or necklace/Then slide through the set and fuck the Jets cause she respect us/You think you got a winner, but you don't I bet she let us (lettuce)/Pickles, tomatoes, onions, mayo, mustard, and ketchup...the works.

E-40 set the standard for condiment raps with the claaaaaaassic “Mustard and mayonnaise smokin up at the sky light/You can't touch my Vogues, baby bye-bye.” That one was delicious and left my tummy/heart/soul feeling satisfied. Curren$y's verse is about girls acting wrongly and it's somehow wrapped up in a metaphor about hamburger toppings, but the whole freaking thing works because OutKast works, always. Everyone loves OutKast. My landlady loves em. My mailman too. Your 4th-grade teacher. David Stern, Alex Trebek. My future husband, my mom. Me and you. Your mom. And your cousin too, of course. Everyone loves OutKast, the kittens/ice cream/pizza/free money of the music world. In case you're reading this, future husband: I'm ending my wedding vows with Power music/electric revival. Also I'd like you to constantly tell me I'm fine as all outdoors. Thanks in advance! I LOVE YOU, BABY. XOXO.

7. “Car Service” (How Fly)

Wiz: Clear the runway, baby/I get money from Sunday to Sunday, lady/Oh behave, I'm young, rich, famous/Grinding, keep my pockets on Schwarzenegger/OG in my Swisher so my blunt taste flavored, don't it?/Ya'll n---s can get if you want it/Tryna catch a flight?/I'm in the back seat playing X Box, car service just chillin'/Burners in the wall, money all through the ceiling.

THIS GUY. These are the words of a professional musician, above - and if you're not outraged, you're not paying attention. Writing composition experts weigh in; regarding style, Toni Morrison said, “The language must not sweat.” (She's talking about effortlessness.) And then there was that time adjunct English professor D. Dumile said most MCs are “rusty like oxidation, in the world's most strangest, most dangerous occupation.” This is just a nicer, though no less correct, description of industry persons' shortcomings that Big L and Kool Keith have revealed to my innocent ears over the years, except don't forget to add that everyone's got AIDS, according to L, and they all want Keith's autograph according to Keith. And I believe it was Logan the Shy Bathing-Suited Sex Kitten Comedian who said, after trying to come up with something nice to say because that's how her mom raised her, “Wiz has a lovely smile. He really does. It is unselfconscious and genuine. But he should take notes from other weed-loving duos who constantly have adventures together - Jay and Silent Bob (Bob stayed silent because he could not rap), and Meth and Red (they both learned how to rap and be charming, understanding that it's not fair for one dude to always be the heavier lyrical ~~Spitta~~ hitta).”

Logan, upsetting Wiz immensely: Ball til I fall, make that dollar holler/If it don’t make dollars, blah blah stickin up white boys on ball courts/Pockets on stun, consumption on conspicuous/401k on a hundred thousand million jillion/I'm leaving Warner Bros. for good this year, not enough artistic freedom/Just kidding, I'll never leave, they're my meal ticket/Plus I know Warren Buffett - the real Warren Buffett/He owe me a hundred favors.

See, I can do it too. When it comes to luxury raps, I'm nowhere near Janye's level - but I can certainly outdo a kid from Pittsburgh wearing some Converse, with his language sweating all over the place.

Curren$y: Bitches freeze in the Xenon headlights like a deer/But not out of fear, she looking 'cause it's money over here/Shine from above these land lovers I'm a chandelier/My girl gotta pocket bubbler in her purse/She keep it G and pack the bowl with weed and let me hit it first/Ain't tryna be a hog, doggy - all I want is what I'm worth.

“It's not a guarantee that I will like your songs just because you make a reference to girls being like deer, sweet and gentle forest creatures,” said the lady with eyes that always get commented on (by fucking cops) and give her the appearance of a fawn in the forest, “But it helps.” This is critical bias on the part of the blogger.

8. “Glass House,” with Big K.R.I.T. (Kush & OJ mixtape; produced by ??? - Jerm? Sledgren? K.R.I.T.?)

Wiz: Just by the smell it's obvious/That my connect come from Cali/I'm good long as the money piling up/All the while I'm just quick lane pimping, big jane twisting/Walking how I talk it, bitch that's Pittsburgh pimping.

The three things that should bother me most about this affair - the presence of Wiz, the presence of Curtis Mayfield, and the song's theme of girls needing to perform sexually in order to hang out in a fucking incredible car - are blissfully offset by the fact that '09 Wiz was still tolerable, that the Curtis break is used in a pretty fashion, and the fact that I got over gender roles in song lyrics a long time ago and am much happier now that I know that lyric life is not real life (or trife life, for that matter; word life.) Curren$y's verse starts it off, and all is as it should be as we head into the hook. There's a dumb Wiz detour next, and then our Mississippi rep walks in and calls 808 a southern mating call and you know I love that. K.R.I.T.'s an ass guy, clearly, and that's OK with me, because nobody said you can't be an ass guy and also a sensitive guy (my dream combo, duh). What is also OK with me is that K.R.I.T. says he'll push my hand away from the buttons in his Cutty unless I take my dress off, but without his friends around he's pure sweetness. (A man who writes a tribute to riding around in the car and listening to music with his dad? That's a sensitive individual.) Oh and that hook, that hook! It's a sing-along-in-the-Civic beauty! When I first heard it, I thought it was Pimp C asking me if I wanna rest my ass in this glass house. It's not, but man do I wish it was. I wish it was.

Logan: A re-jacking of Wiz's jacking of Cam's technique (“I take this word and say that same word again 1 bar later and that's my verse, doggy”*), I'd have to start off with Meth was Mary's Noah; Mary was his wiz/Nipsey Russell played the Tin Man in that movie called “The Wiz.”

(The song would be called “Divine Mathematics,” obviously. And Wiz should join Dipset, obviously, because he'd fit right in. He's a long-lost cousin of J.R.'s, and he has to box Vado in the backyard before every tour stop to decide who gets to sit next to Jonesy on the bus.) Later in the song, I address Wiz directly with Don't wanna read your book, won't look at your brochure/I can name 2 terrible rappers named Cameron who should go on the 'Rappers Named Cameron Are Terrible' Tour. I'm planning on performing it at SXSW, and I'm also planning on the crowd loving it. I am planning on opening for Danny Brown as well, and when he does “Monopoly” I'll yell along with him into the mic when he gets to the Fuck you and your tough talk/When I monopolize I throw your ass off the Boardwalk part. (My hair gets all messed up but I don't care.)

* 5 year old reference, but please. I can't imagine he's changed much, flow-wise.

Curren$y: I chill with all that baller fishing/You fucked around and you caught a shark/Cold hard, tear your feelings apart/I'm more focused on getting my rims powder-coated/One of the dopest, I'm Schedule I/You just ibuprofen, what is you smoking?/Them bogus growers, they got you choking.

Some things are boring until you dig a little deeper. “The San Diego Chargers agreed to contract terms with defensive end Corey Liuget today,” a sports site told me a couple weeks ago. Yeah yeah, terrific, so what. Several hours later, however, sports talk radio told me “The San Diego Chargers signed defensive end Corey LEGIT today.” IT’S PRONOUNCED LEGIT! COREY LEGIT. He therefore has the perfect SODMG associate/MMA fighter name, and that is not boring in the slightest. And in this verse Curren$y's talking about ballernomics, rims, narcotics; but dig a little deeper, and you can appreciate that Schedule I mention, and that shark mention (an obvious nod to Nickatina).

9. “Weed Brownies” (that Big Sean mixtape; Big Jerm)

Wiz: Eat champagne and lobster cause I fucking deserve this shit/N---s say I’ve got an old soul/Well, I tell them that I’m here, muthafucka/And I made it cause my flow cold.

Aw damn, I let things bother me too much. The flows, beat selection, and clothing choices of men who exist in my headphones and on my computer screen - I take it too seriously, like it's a gamble. I do. Sigh. Now that that's been established: NOBODY SAYS WIZ HAS AN OLD SOUL. Has anybody ever said that about Wiz? NO. They have not. In the category of other things I’m supposed to believe that insult my intelligence: Dre drives a Chrysler, Em drives a Chrysler, and Timberlake is a HUGE Leonard Cohen and Mantronix fan.

JT, king of the beats. Elle, August 2011.

I might toss it to one of you guys since I don't have an authoritative voice when it comes to weed high jinks. But if put on the spot, I just go to my old stand-by topics of Doom, making fun of dudes' gear if it's overly fancy, and maybe something from that day's RSS feed about non-rap?

Logan, easily making Wiz look foolish: I don't know Mary Jane, but I'm told she'd make my heart sing/Wiz, you so skinny, on that steady diet of nothing/Something something, Minor Threat, ... ________ (line that expresses my disappointment about this although really, why should I even care since nothing's sacred)/You're screaming at a wall, you're broke, you got no ends/Your whole style garbage, Wiz you need to make amends/Prepster I'm just playing when I says I likes your Land's Ends/Doomsy and me and Vast, we're super friends.

All I have are punchlines at this point. Punchlines galore. So many punchlines that I'm ready for my YMCMB contract. (“HOOKS IS EXTRA” - Dumile.)

Curren$y: I'm outta here, stratosphere/Paper hella straight, nappy hair/Bitches seem not to care that you were even there/When we pulled up, lit like Times Square/When we pulled up, lit like road flares/When we pulled off, them hoes disappeared/Because they know what we be doing over here/She just wanna be high in her underwear/With her iPhone plugged in the wall, power outlet/Stepping out the shower, threw her a shirt to towel off with.

I am jealous of Curren$y's girls, who do nothing but lounge around, smoke and take their clothes off, and this is enough to get them mentioned in song. ME ME ME, why can't this be me? I have excellent references and I'm a hard worker and a people person, I said during my interview for the position of “song girl/lyric muse.” It did not go well. I was politely informed I need to gain 10-12 lbs, dumb it down a little bit, and stop cracking jokes (let Curren$y shine).

10. “Super High (remix)” (Smoke Fest mixtape)

Wiz: From the smell, and by what I paid, you know it's good/Them n---s with me? They from the hood/Now we through parties in the sky, I'm on the 42nd floor, now that's super high/Champagne, more paper planes than you can fly/Them young n---s fell soon as they tried/When the paparazzi flash, I'll be counting all this cash/Plotting a million about how I can build a mountain out of hash.

Good/hood, sky/high/fly/tried, cash/hash. Before WK goes to a writing sesh, he throws on his Chucks and touches a plaque on his wall for good luck, like the Tree of Hope at the Apollo. ALL SEUSS EVERYTHING, it says on that plaque. TALK TO YOUR AUDIENCE LIKE THEY READ AT THE FIRST-GRADE LEVEL.

Logan: Pass; I respectfully decline. (I like the beat too much to denigrate it with my awful flow. JESUS, WHAT A BEAT AND I'M STILL NOT SICK OF IT; EXCELLENT JOB, CLARK KENT). Here's what I'm tossing around for the next song I'm doing with Beth, though:

- She like them boys with the big ol chains/Ridin round town in a big ol Rrrrrange. I still love this, unfortunately. I turn it up every time. Goddamn you, Power 106.

- “Listen, hot shot - 355,000 Californians have medical marijuana cards/And about 1,000 of them are in my family, living in my apartment complex,/Standing behind me in line at Vons, next to me on the freeway,/Delivering my mail, changing the oil in my Civic, and ringing me up at CVS.” It's my ol' “battle raps in the parking lot of my brain” daydream again. (I'll make it rhyme, promise.)

- “Fuck Wiz, I funk with the young prince Abu buck” - Lil B, “Look Like Muhammad.” I need to use this in a song somewhere, or at least make reference to it.

- Danny Brown being the long lost member of Funkdoobiest and his use of Prince iconography. Need to use this somewhere too.

- Google making me smile by suggesting Bobby Hebb when I typed Bobby Heb (on my way to “Hebert,” whose jersey Curren$y is pictured in, above). Google, I like having you around. You’re my boyfriend when my other boyfriend is out of town, and when my girlfriend is busy, and when my other other boyfriend is acting dumb.

Curren$y: Don't front, you in the back of a long line/Trying to get in, cause only members inside/Trees get twisted up like fingers in gang signs/Purple Kushions broke my fall, I fell from a grapevine/Super high, from the free throw line, I'm/Drexler status, glide the espionage/Many a jealous eyes scrutinize the wise/But the Jets in the house like the curtains and the blinds/It hurt to see me shine, that's why they frowning all the time/In they Internet videos, digital CB4s.

“I just found out that Hi-C did Gusto's raps in CB4. Now I feel dumb that I didn't know that! I did know that Drexler was from New Orleans, though, so I feel like I'm still the nerd champ.” - me in the studio with the Jets and the Jet hangers-on and the Jet caterers and the Jet shoe-shiners, about to be kicked out for not taking my shirt off and for talking too much out of nervousness. I'll never achieve “song girl/lyric muse” status. Time for me to start coming to terms with that.

11. “Rollin Up” (How Fly)

Wiz: Me and Spitta, spend a grand at the bar/Buying drinks for my n---s/Hoes selling they souls just to be with us/On the road with winners, champions/Ride smoking weed to myself the only reason they stress/Because I'm on the level you can't be in/And I flick the middle finger to fake friends/We live like when the loyalty is strong you can't bend.

Goodness gracious, Wiz's life has more plots than a graveyard! So many twists and turns! OH WAIT. No. That's not true at all, is it. This is just another verse about his friends and their shoes, getting high and staying that way for as long as possible, and people being upset with them.

Logan: My shoes are pretty, ooohhh I'm Loubie'd out/I got enough enemies, I need a buddy or three/Time's too expensive, Ice Cube's my cousin/You'll only see me naked if you own a copy of Both Sides of the Brain/Just listened to “Cyberpunks” today; yeah I do that every couple weeks/What a fucking space cadet dreamboat, Jesus Christ I love Del so much.

No plot, no characterization. I also didn't include any actual rhymes, since I spent less than a minute composing it. But mine has a Del mention- top that, WK. Also, WK: “Fuck outta here”/“You better get a goddamn job” - Rock & Sean P, August 2011. (I could also maybe add “I feel the pain of everyone/Then I feel nothing” - Mascis, earlier today, on stupid ol' pop radio that plays a gem or two sometimes. There now, see? Aren't 10 simple yet effective words better than a hundred useless, braggy ones from Wiz?)

Curren$y: Yeah, jets n---a, As if I had to say it: Spitta/In the middle of every bad bitches playlist/iTunes banging from my hotel room/Nothing but beats bitch/Fuck it when I die I could sleep bitch/My momma need a bigger crib so I need this money, G/King Kong ain't got shit on me/My face is a coupon - I don't know them but they know me.

Pedestrian compared to some of his best stuff, but this verse is still fresher than those of the last dozen men with microphones I've heard, plus he gets residual credit for the knots n racks n bands lifestyle picture he paints in “Elevator Musik.” It's still haunting/pleasing me (Think I gave my last hundred to the fuckin valet/Good evening, Mr. Jackson/I mean good morning, shit/Dang).

Oh word: I am qualified and would very much like to do a song with Curren$y, please.

2011-08-23T20:34:00.000-07:00

“How come the things that make us happy make us sad?” asked golden-voiced philosopher Frankie Beverly. His question was in response to unstoppable rap machine Curren$y putting out song after song with Wiz Khalifa. “Well, it seems to me,” Frankie said, “that joy and pain are like sunshine and rain.”

Sigh. Yes, Frankie. YES. It seems that way to me, too. Like every young lady with a computer and a working pair of ears, I love Curren$y. I hate Wiz. They keep doing songs together, and that's a zig-zag-y journey through the joy and pain regions of my brain. (It's also a Zig Zag journey, of course! teehee.) I'm not an MC, but since I can stand upright and speak basic English, I am pleased to announce my impending fame, including but not limited to being on the cover of Smooth! and getting a fake naked girlfriend for promo purposes. I'm told I should also have a likeable personality, which, OK, done, and get close with some cheesy Nordic producers which, oh dear, will take a little bit of work. Have faith, though - in a month or two I'll be skyping Curren$y while Antwerp-bound which sounds dirty but it's not.

1. “Rooftops,” from Rolling Papers (produced by Big Jerm)

Wiz, signed and rich (richer than me, anyway, and to me that's rich): And they say they ballin', but I do it how the pros do/Where we goin' next week I let my hoes choose/No socks and my boat shoes/Guess a n---a eatin' good like Whole Foods.

________________________________________________________________

Wiz's butter lyrics over, uh, word cloud grits?

Do, choose, shoes, Foods. Seuss raps. When done correctly, in a New York accent (AUDIO TWO) or in a Louisiana accent (White carpet in my Scarface house/No undergarments on my Scarface spouse), it's rap perfection. Rapfection. When not done well, it's Wiz. I simply cannot explain this phenomenon, nor do I care to try, because then I'd sound like a Pitchfork writer and they never post pictures of themselves in bathing suits so they are losers.

Logan, unsigned/poor, Moleskine full of rhymes: Somethingsomething much- ballyhooed/Don't know what I like more - devil's pie or devil's food/Blah blah, Premier's a porn fiend, plus he got hops & barley 'cause it's home brewed/...uhhhh...Tell the driver to fire up that Marley, I wanna hear some “Mellow Mood”-?

I'm sure many of you out there could get loose over the beat, go in a completely different direction than me, use that sad horn as punctuation for a tale of a break-up or a death instead of this lowest-common-denominator drivel I have presented here (porn, beer, cake, A/A rhyme scheme). But this is a copy-Wiz exercise and it therefore needs to be as mindless as possible. Other than the part where I made Premier into a craft-beer specialist, what?, I promise you that no creative juices flowed in the composing of this verse (which took me about 14 seconds). Everybody likes being high? Well then, put it in your verse! Everybody knows fresh-faced mid-'60s Studio One rocksteady Marley was the best Marley? It goes in the fuckin verse! Also, you'll notice that the term “Marley” works in 2 ways here, which just shows that when I really apply myself for 14 seconds I can come up with some lyrical blasts to your freaking head. Oh my lorrrrd, I am absolutely killing it. Wiz, you ain't got no job security.

Curren$y, diminutive rapstar millionaire: You n---s ain't help us - on second thought, you did/The hatin' was the fuel for this shit.

JETLIFEFOOOOOLLLLAHTEIHIQ#N+*HMM7LLFH9Y%ILEH5NFU*^7WEHR. I get excited and my fingers get all quivery! CAN'T TYPE! TOO EXCITED. Anyway, it's JET LIFE, now, tomorrow, always, goddamn you if you're not on board with this, jet life forever and ever amen, so “fuel” works 2 ways here. His verse is unremarkable, but that's ok; you've heard his voice, right? (This might be a girly thing; forgive me). Plus he's got that accent, the star of every damn one of his songs (even when it's not a song, it sounds like a song 'cause his way of speaking is so sing-songy. Conversationally, he's a musical genius.) He sneaks in a “whoadie,” which he rarely does and that is so weird to me, because if I were from N.O. I'd say it all the time just because I could. The hell do people from Pittsburgh say? NOTHING. They have no slang because nobody cares what they say, or what they do, or the shoes they wear, or how they feel about things.

2. “Dot Dot Dot,” from some upcoming mysterious mixtape creation, with Big Sean (produced by Big Jerm)

Wiz: King size papers, king size bed/N---s blow money but I'd rather keep mine instead/Roll something n---a, blow something/Say you're ballin out of control/Let a n---a hold something.

Logan, better than Wiz: Earl Stevens calls it gouda, I was raised to call it 'bread'/got so much I retired, hired Doom to read me the phone book, somethingsomething... Rosebud the sled/Butterflies in my tummy, drinking tea, lying in bed/...uhhhhhm, fuck this is rather difficult. You must be outta your head if your system ain't up to the red (?).

I don't know, maybe I'm not as good at this as I thought. I start to plagiarize, my brain just pulling out random lines I remember and love from the rap years '97 or '03, and then Citizen Kane was on AMC the other night. I'm easily influenced. And those drums, so pretty and Black-Milk-esque!, they cloud my thoughts. I can't focus on telling the story. But go easy on me, please. Be nice. I'm just starting. You'll note, however, that even though I'm no good I'm still a heavier hitter, lyrically speaking, than Wiz. I'm also a heavier hitter in literal terms, because even though my hip bones stick out a little, I probably outweigh WK, rap's Skeletor, by about 15 lbs. I thought weed was supposed to be an appetite stimulant.

Curren$y: It has been said I keep one rolled up like LL’s pants leg/Full of life in this bitch, though I may seem half-dead/Trust me, I’m cool/I just ain’t talking to you.

Critical bias on the part of the blogger: this man's words speak to me. He's looking right at me as he says this. Except for the pant leg part, it's a summary of me interacting with every LAPD officer at Starbucks downtown (2nd and Central; COPS LOVE ME and it is a terrible burden with which I have been saddled). Trust me, officer; I'm cool. I'm way cool. Thanks for holding the door for me but I'm not interested in chatting and I never ever talk like this because I am a lady but I'd just like you to know I don't fuck with pigs, dog (Muslim), you have a great day now.

3. “Flowers” (that mixtape with Big Sean; Big Jerm)

Wiz: How the fuck could you hate this/Half of these people aint real, n---s shape shift/That's why I’m smoking OG til I’m weightless/Yeah and my homies are Taylor Gang/We rolling up papers and yeah of course they gon hate/But fuck what they say, 'cause we gon stay the same.

Logan, making a fool of Wiz like this is the parking lot at Osborn High: “I knew it had went off. I saw the fire, like, come through my jeans/I took a couple more steps and my jeans were like — my jeans are wet/And I looked down. I had some Chuck Taylors on/and they were — the white was all red/I'm in trouble.”

This isn't my own composition; this is just a quote from Plax regarding shooting himself while in the club. But be honest, wouldn't you rather listen to this description of Chucks over a beat than to Wiz's sad little flow? BE HONEST, I SAID.

Curren$y: Now pan on them lenses and focus on the dopest/In the Mitchell & Ness Marino, see how far back I done throwed it.

It's a throwback, darling. A throw-back. Marino was a QB (he threw back). This verse coming right after mine is genius, because we're both making reference to the NFL. So for the sake of the song it doesn't really matter that Marino is dullsville, as is the entire Dolphins squad except for the fact that Trick is a fan, but Marino was in Ace Ventura and that was kind of cool and unexpected of him. So now I really really want Curren$y to throw in something Ace Ventura-related, maybe on Verde Terrace? (update, after I just listened to it: nope). Ace Ventura's kind of a stoner movie, right? No? A little? Am I out of touch here? Anyway, the ultimate would be Curren$y coming out with a song called “Laces Out,” a duet about footwear with fellow shoe whore Bun B. Or maybe a mixtape called If I'm Not Back in 5 Minutes, Just Wait Longer.

4. “Fly N---s Do Fly Things” (the How Fly mixtape; Sledgren)

Wiz: Influenced by the reefer but I'm still positively speaking/Heading down to New Orleans, fuck with Spitta for a weekend/Exotic bitches freakin, minks on the rug/I'm living Clicquot dreams, pouring drinks in the tub/One life to live, so I'ma live it up.

That beat is pretty all right with me but that's probably because I'm a sucker for echo-y handclaps and because I have “Bass Boost” checked off in my laptop's Speaker Enhancements tab (which makes everything sound fantastic). Yeahhh, bitch, Wiz says to start the song, and that's funny because that's exactly what I say to myself every time I hear a Wiz-less Curren$y song. Yayyy and Thank God are also what runs through my head. I don't give a fuck, Wiz says a little later, which describes both his attitude about the world as well as my attitude about Wiz making another song for as long as we both shall live. Heading down to N.O., fuck with Spitta, Wiz adds. I am aware of the transactional nature of rap friendships - the potential to earn revenue trumps all, yes? - but clearly, Curren$y's not being up front with Wiz. Come to my city, hang out with me, Spitta says, but this is only possible because Wiz has a friend named “Chevy,” and Curren$y’s bowtied til he dies.

Logan (my primary goal here is to get the keys to the jet and I will spend my entire verse trying to convince Curren$y to hand them over): Eatin gumbo with a Neville; it's Cyril, he doesn't have a DeVille/So Spitta, I have a request (you don't ask, you don't get)/Don't need your spaceship, your Francesca, your Eldorado, your Corvette/Escort with the paint messed up from that accident at Kohl's/Please lemme get keys to the jet; headed overseas, seein' Dumile n' Dennis Coles.

Ha, nobody thought I had any NOLA raps. Shame on you. I'm not upset with Wiz for wanting to hang out down there; he and I both have this fantasy about “accidentally” running into Mannie at Winn-Dixie after stalking him for several weeks and getting a feel for his shopping patterns. The air is thick with the spirit of good MCs who've walked the streets of the city, and also thick with suffocating swamp air. Every cab driver looks like Professor Longhair, and I see Chris Paul in the car next to me at every stoplight. We don't even mind the mosquitoes, me and Wiz, since we get it how we live and hug the block, lalalalaaa, les bon temps are rouler-ing left and right, life is wonderful, geaux Saints, I'm IN. Game feels it, too - wanting to join Cash Money and all. Oh, hey, guess what, Game? Me too, Game! ME TOO. Probably not happening for either of us, though. Sorry, Game. We must all know our limitations*.

*(I can't get away with using “beasting” as a verb in conversations about the performances of NBA players, or the word “jawn” in any context, nor will I ever have the pale-skinned, hip-less steezyness of Leigh Lezark. I'll also never have a name as rad as Jason Goldwatch's. But accepting the things we cannot change allows us to conserve our energy and focus on the things we can.)

This look is foxy and it is just not possible for me. It's not in the cards. Not ever. (Sigh.)

Curren$y: Would it be cliche to start my verse saying something that I always say?/The planes got it, I perfected my roll in the sunset/Aeronautics, I swear on my soul I would never co-sign some nonsense/Muscle car auction, I just cop it and then go ride it/Wait for the night to set, then really pop it and drive it/Bitches run on the side of it like those little Jamaican kids.

META RAPS! Critical bias on the part of the blogger: META RAPS are the alpha and the omega. Take the first letter out of each word in this joint, for example (Mt. Vernon fresh). Verse number 2, do the damn thing (guilty-pleasure/Nitti fresh). Last time on a Khaled remix/Now I'm on the original version (guilty-pleasure/Luda fresh). I know they gonna criticize the hook on this song (“can I live?” fresh). The violin on “Knowledge God” sounded ill (gods-in-the-Wu-pantheon fresh). Also, META GEORGIAN FUNK (50% of James Brown songs - him discussing the song breaking down while it's breaking down. Breakdown fresh), and let's not forget META TEXAN FUNK. “Come on and tighten up that bass,” Archie Bell said, “Oh yeah. Now look here - I want that guitar to fall in on there. Tighten it up now. Oh. Yeah. Now tighten it up, organ. Yeah.” (KCRW with the assist here, for being fresh and playing “Tighten Up” while I was out driving for my government job yesterday morning).

5. “O.T.T.R.” (that mixtape with Big Sean; Big Jerm)

Wiz: I’m moving at top speed, my engine is foreign/I travel across seas where women are gorgeous/And ni---s know it’s us, we make it tough to mistake it/Just let me roll it up and when it’s stuffed, we blaze it/Then we Off To The Races.

Logan, embarrassing Wiz: I'm still working on it, but I do know the hook will be something about how I'm off to my new Caprice/since I'm bowtied til I die (“O.T.M.N.C.S.I.B.T.I.D.”). And it'll embarrass Wiz, of course, yayyyy, because Wiz and I have to keep it theatrical whenever we meet up for a “freestyle skirmish in the parking lot,” AKA my daydream-y brain while I'm at work. It's like that Murs/Eyedea smiley throwdown except I am both Murs and Eyedea, and Wiz isn't qualified to be my adversary - he's just there to give me fresh Aquafina bottles as needed.

Curren$y: And I’ma Pimp, see (C!), leaning in my ride like how Bun be (B!)/Sittin’ tall on my chrome, see, but I’m low in the seat/My girl in the sheet fast asleep, I’m in the street after the cheddar/Peddlin’ melodies, purchasin’ better things/On the road to the riches I done drove over n----s.

Critical bias on the part of the blogger: UGK raps fill up all the empty places inside me, as do musician-name-pun raps, and this one's so freaking fine, it's like the 2011 version of Andre Ben's I'm so like a pimp, I'm glad it's night. I also devour raps about girls doing nothing, girls lounging, girls sleeping - especially raps that also include the beautiful, surprisingly un-corny phrase “peddling melodies.” Women need more sleep than men (it's science), and I greatly appreciate the kindness of someone who lets me stay curled up in bed, the queen of dreamland, while he goes out and handles it. That's a good man, no two ways about it. (No two ways BOUT IT, neither, since at this point I am an honorary Louisianan). I can't wait til we get married and I get some South infused in my speech and start referring to him as my huzzzbin. When we come to California to visit my family on holidays, we stop in LA to hang out with Nick Dahhhhmond. And at this point I'd like to provide a shout from the bottom of my tender heart to all the ladies out there who, like me, Karen Hill, and Amber Rose, realized long ago they'd never make good cops' or teachers' wives. Sorry, Mom.

Side note: FUCKING LOOK AT THIS QUARTET OF BADASS JEWISH GIRLS FROM QUEENS.

Terrelle Pryor will make it all OK, says bathing-suited Los Angeles woman with blog.

2011-08-22T18:53:00.001-07:00

The Raiders are heartbreak city. It's true and it's been true since I was a little girl.

But for every Wiz head, there's a Biggie head and a Bishop chest.

Plus, don't forget, Casual's got a sick ass Raiders jacket.

(Is this a bad omen? It seems like a bad omen.)

And for every Nnamdi trade and every broken keychain that symbolizes the broken hopes of apt. 680 residents on Sundays in the months of September through December, there's a strapping young man with illegal tats to lead the squad's newly-dynamic offense (once Pryor's five-game suspension is done away with, because the NFL players' union will make it so)! He wears cherry Vans! W/KHAKIS!

You wanna get right, stop buying those Nikes.

I love Terrelle just, um, based on this photo and why should that be a problem for anybody. Whyy. You wanna make something of it, or what. This picture alone makes him affection-worthy in apt. 680. Females blush; he brings the California gold rush!

Terrelle retweets the Serenity prayer and freaking LeBron (UGH, even though these are things a young man must do during the come-up; the electronic handshake is crucial when you're trying to establish your brand as a pro athlete), but he likes mob movies, good dinners, and his brother. Ergo: we are in love. Ankle weights aren't my favorite thing and neither is my man saying odd things while trying to appease his sponsors (“Here you go ankle weights. They are Real.”), but we are in luuuuuhhhve, especially when he completes around 60% of his passes and can be counted on to convert on third down most of the time. TP's religious but I don't go to church, and when he says platitudes on our dates or types them on his phone's keyboard during our dates (“One important key to success is self-confidence. Believe in yourself even if odds are against you!”). I will have to open my eyes real wide and ask him Oh hey, can I be QB at Ohio State too? I'm not 6'6" and I can't run a 4.4 40, but I fucking believe in myself. I mean, I really have self-confidence like nobody's business. Also I will make fun of the super feminine way he spells his first name, but all of this is just because I like him. The emotionally-stunted among us (hands up, please) will remember this courting technique from third grade.

Welcome to the Raiders, and to my warm loving heart, Terrelle Pryor. I love your shoes and the way you gave the NCAA a big F U. Throw it to Jacoby Ford a lot. XOXO.

Tower of Power - “Cleo's Back.” EAST BAY, BAY BAY.

mp3.

I AM SUCH A GIRL (“album promo brings tears to my eyes” edition)

2011-08-21T14:20:00.000-07:00

KEN-DRICK!

Here we go, a little emotion on a Sunday morning flowing through my girly brain, courtesy of RapRadar posting this video of Kendrick Lamar's show last night at the Music Box. Ken's komrade Game showed up for ~~R.E.D.~~ ~~album promo~~ moral support of course, and proceeded to konvince me that he's a pretty nice guy - which is basically a big manipulation tactic by Game to make me forget about his musical output and that time he seared my eyes with his “acting.” But I'm relaxed. I'm just going with it. It's Sunday and I'm not religious but I do pray for peace, no traffic accidents, lots of ice cream, some freaking tight lyrics - and also for things that remind me of how lovely humanity can be sometimes. On with it, then -

Top 5 emotional girly moments in the video, Cuz! (my set affiliations will likely fluctuate throughout this post, and anyway it doesn't matter because at this point green is the most important color in all our lives, yes?):

1. THAT SUIT. So much hash-tag-ery occurring in the building on Saturday night, of course, but also so many Hundreds shirts, I'm sure of it! SO MANY. And yet look at KL in his nice black jeans and sport coat, dressed as if he's going to a completely different function than everyone else. “It's Saturday night, you'll probably wear that shit to church,” AMG said one time to a young lady in the club. Ken's show was Friday night, plus he seems like a super clean dude who doesn't wear things more than once, I mean he really keeps it tight and right, so he'll probably wear that outfit just for this show alone. Then tomorrow he'll have it cleaned and nicely pressed. Looking good, sir. And I know I keep saying it but Kendrick Lamar is just a really fresh name. You should run for President with that name, young man.

2. REMINDERS FROM JAYCEON. I know where I live, both because I have an adequate grasp of geography and because I listen to Power 106 for a good 70% of my driving time and that means constant “west coast/Cali/LA” drops are flooding the inside of my Civic, however: Game saying THIS IS THE MOTHERFUCKIN WEST COAST in that nice rasp of his (sorry; I'm a girl, remember?) and continuing with I hate when they say that the west coast ain’t poppin just feels good to a young lady from the greater LA metropolitan area. I know my mom loves me but it's still nice to hear it from her. I know I'm a nice person but it's still nice to hear it from my buddies. On a very similar note: OH MY GOODNESS, GAME! YAY! This IS the west coast! I exclaim. Oh Game, I hate it when they say the west coast ain't poppin too! We agree about some things and that is nice! I like some of your songs even though my blog would tell you otherwise!

(tomorrow morning I'll wake up and be embarrassed I wrote those last 2 things. I like the Scoop DeVille stuff, and I like that “Red Nation” but, I must be honest with myself, that's more because of the Eazy snippet and because of Cool & Dre's dexterity with shuffle-y drum programming than because of anything Game said or did in any of those songs. Ah well.)

3. I LOVE YOUS FROM JAYCEON. “I love you,” Game says to Kendrick, with his arm around him in that way that men do - affectionate but still keeping the body in a guarded position should a scrap occur even though you know a scrap's not going to occur, it's just that men have to make it look that way because of the limits put on them by our culture when they want to express emotion. “Dre, I love you. Snoop, I love you. Jay Rock, Scoop, Kurupt, Roscoe, King Tee, Pooh, Eiht, Tyson Chandler, Venus and Serena. Even if you're from Lynwood or Willowbrook, I love you. Skinny-lady blogs, I love you most of all. Apartment 680, Echo Park, birds in the sky, old records, the NFL about to start, cookies, ice cream, puppies. Logan, I love you. I love you - all of you.” Aww! Hold me! It's promo, all promo, but it's still heartwarming - like when Game volunteered at the animal shelter last week and provided updates about it, remember? “Sparky is a lab mix and has the nicest big brown eyes. ALL ANIMALS deserve good homes! ADOPT! #REDAlbum.”

4. PUNS FROM JAYCEON. “One thing me and (Ken) got in COMPTON...” Teehee.

5. SPECIAL APPEARANCE BY DANTE, WHAT IN THE FUCK. Kendrick's a little too preachy at times, dropping some important historical names in verse without any real gravity behind it, criticizing his generation for sippin cough syrup like it's water, blah blah, but he just turned 24 so that's forgivable. (I was a realll pretentious piece of work at that age.) “Who gives a fuck?” Ken also says, “We never do listen unless it comes with an 808.” Not sure if I'm included in the “we” but just for argument's sake, let's say I am - and Kendrick, my dear, what's your point? 808 taught me everything I need to know about car stereos and sex. But holy Christ, fucking hell, Mos Def is at his show in a sharp red button-up and shiny shoes, oh I just realized Mos is the only other dude in the place going to the same fancy function as Ken, I mean they're in those matching sport coats, and people, my affection for these two men in this moment trumps all. (This is the video's second-greatest moment - almost as aww-inducing as the crowd chanting Ken's name at the beginning, but not quite).

Bonus emotion: The part in the video right after it cuts out, when Ken tosses it to Kurupt and he does a version of “Ohh!” that makes everyone in the audience rip their hair out and scream, it's so incredible they can't believe it's actually happening.

Bonus bonus emotion (not really emotion, though - just a funny thing that fits in here): Nobody is apparently down-er than the Los Angeles Almanac, the website on which this map of Compton appears. CITY IN RED BELOW, SOO WOOOO, etc. etc.

(No color added for emphasis. Nothing added for emphasis. The LA Almanac just knows).

Birthday compare n' contrast - Lynott, Parker, Hayes. (Also where is that RZA/Isaac photo by Sue Kwon? PLEASE HELP)

2011-08-20T13:12:00.000-07:00

The only thing that can tear me away from making pancakes and listening to that new Danny Brown is a birthday tribute post to some Record Collection Gods of Apt. 680 (born in '49, '65, and '42, respectively).

Photo that makes me giggle:

Parker.

Hayes.

Lynott - N/A, because he looks fresh in every photo.

1- a present from Stax in '71 for his success, it's a metal/sex beast made by Lucifer's minions in a GM plant for the purpose of getting nice, respectable young ladies like me out of their dresses.

“Money is not the most important thing in the world. Love is. Fortunately, I love money.” - Jackie Mason

2011-08-15T18:36:00.000-07:00

“Jigga,” I'd say if I were there as the token fair-haired one, “I don't like it if it don't gleam clean."

The Wall Street Journal wonders if “Otis” will give a boost to the Maybach and its sad little sales record. The video has given the car “new-found hip-hop notoriety,” the article submits, which means that the WSJ has never heard of Rick Ross (LOVE) but also that the WSJ is as out of touch with rap music as say, Kanye West is as out of touch with my life. Anyway, as I've already established, a jerk is a jerk, and that hi-res Lakai intro and lo-res Fatlip video still set the standard for Jonzeian superbness, but I won't lie - I wish on all that is good and holy (Lagerfeld, Murakami, Tisci) that I had been picked for this gig. It's daydream fodder when I'm at work - fast cars, danger, fire and knives, plus that cute part at 1:18 when K looks back at J so they can synchronize their, uh, grippin wood dance. (Am I supposed to pause at this point?)

“Let the Dollar Circulate.” GAMBLE N HUFF. GAMBLE N HUFF. And to a lesser extent, JEEZY JEEZY JEEZY.

mp3.

How did I not know that Glen E. Friedman produced that Suicidal Tendencies album?, and other things related to Cypress Hill turning 20 today.

2011-08-13T07:00:00.000-07:00

“L. Muggerud - L. Freeze - S. Reyes.” SO TOUGH. Best DMV names in rapdom.

1. I will never not say it: Intelligent Hoodlum is a waaaaay better name than Tragedy Khadafi.

2. The simplicity, functionality and aesthetic appeal of those Source ads from '91 still hold up in '11.

Was it album art director Stacy Drummond who was responsible? If so: madam, excellent work.

Ms. Valentine taught me about the concept of “Chekhov’s gun” in 12-grade English - a literary technique in which an entity is introduced early in a story, but its significance does not become clear until later. Muggs says they recorded this album in the winter of 1990-1. In March '91, a video came out featuring the LAPD behaving like complete fucking murderous heathens. Ho-hum. Aaaaanyway, track 1 is called “Pigs,” it is about law enforcement officers, and in it - just like in nearly every song that follows it on the album - the boys make brutality (shooting, prison rape) sound fun and sing-song-y. There are all these well-placed la-la-laaaas in the album's stories about putting holes in human flesh, which is terrifying yet charismatic and amusing, like Jack Torrance or every character Joe Pesci plays.

3. Muggs tells Brian Coleman that PE and Ultramag were his favorites and the ones that influenced him most of all.

First of all, ME TOO, LAWRENCE MUGGERUD, even though I don't make beats (yet); second, NO FUCKING WAY, LAWRENCE. What I mean is: yes, upon listening to your compositions, one might be able to infer that you were influenced by the brothers Shocklee and that perhaps every night during the Cypress Hill crafting sessions you slept with one hand on your crate of most breaks-rich funk records. This influence also explains the New York-y feel to the group, which was probably Columbia's doing on some A&R bs - plus it was the Giants over the Bills in the '91 Super Bowl - but the fact remains I have a big problem with the videos being shot in NYC (even though '91 Q-Tip is always nice to see - the presence of Ice Cube in the video doesn't make it all ok, though! You're just throwing LA a bone with that one, gentlemen). PS, Larry: I'm not mad that to make “Something for the Blunted” you basically just let “Future Shock” play and laid some cheeba cuts on top. (Ask me about my feelings regarding Kanye and “Otis” sometime, and you'll understand how much of a compliment that is.) I'd also like to give you a special shout for using that “Tramp” bassline, which provides the whole foundation for the song, and for sampling THREE James Brown records on that same song. THREE. Swoon.

People don't put that creepy stop-motion walking-backwards craze in their videos anymore. I miss it.

Other things people no longer do: call dudes busters or marks; do the lift-up-the-knee stomp-dance;
wear bucket hats (other than DZA; he's the only one these days).

4. That “Phuncky Feel One” breakdown vs. the source of that breakdown (the JB's, “More Peas”): which is superior? This remains a heated debate in apt. 680.

“Phuncky” is a can of ginseng extract with a pinch of coke. I mean it's just pure energy. A party in a bottle, 2 in the morning, still jumpin 'cause your mama ain't home. But then you got the JB's! It's THE JB's! How can I deny them? There's the break at 08:28, takes my breath away, and just before that, James, as usual, chops it up with the song. He asks the song how it's doing, you know - makes suggestions for where the song should go, talks about the geographic areas where the people playing the song are from (Georgia; not DC). “We gave the people some. Can we give the bass some? Bass, you ain’t had none. When we give the bass some, let's take it to F...Can we take it to F?” UM FUCK YES MR. BROWN, AND OH DEAR, WHAT'S THIS, MY DRESS APPEARS TO HAVE FALLEN OFF OF MY BODY.

5. In 1990, there was no such thing as Death Row Records and, just as tragic with regard to my personal life story, no such thing as Starbucks in Los Angeles. Things were different then, that's all I'm saying, and the world was rather inadequate.

So of course you and your boys are gonna want to make some music. There was nothing else to do. LA was dullsville. “Back in '94 I shoulda signed to Death Row,” today's Power 106 driving-around-in-the-Civic banger said to me. Ooh what a song, I thought to myself after that first verse/hook combo. Then I thought: Oh dear, all the mentions of firearms and ki's and ass; Banner would hate this even though he raps about those things too then he hides behind his master's degree. And then: No, Money Jay--back in nine-one you shoulda signed to Death Row. You want to be ahead of the curve, my friend. Ah well. I still have great fondness for the song, though in concept more than execution. Dudes are so braggy all the time in my ear canal that it's nice to hear some humility and remorse for bad decision-making every once in a while.

6. This is Cypress Avenue in South Gate, where the shit used to go down for our heroic trio - or at least where they would play football in the street until their families called them in for dinner.

Does it look familiar? It should, because it could also pass for Andre Young's childhood street, or Pooh's or King Tee's or, I don't know, Arabian Prince's? Hell, it looks like Oxnard too - the street upon which Michael and Otis Jackson jr. played. The grassy, pretty, tree-lined-ness of LA neighborhood aesthetics lends itself perfectly to making songs when you are a young man, because it's boring, and there's little else to do. And my ears/heart/body thank the good lord for that.

7. November 3, 1990 – NBA on NBC starts airing.

John Tesh's epic/corny ass composes the music; it's playing in my head as I write this. Do-do dododoDOdo-dooooo (that's how it goes). I knew this fact before I composed this post, because I have a massive nerd brain inside the head that sits atop my skinny-lady frame. What I didn't know is that this was also the year the flagrant foul was introduced. I'm not sure how all this dovetails with the recording sessions for Cypress Hill (winter '90-1, remember), but it seems important-? And then, 20 years later, Lil B does a song about his chain looking like John Tesh and girls doing things to him with their mouths because he looks like John Tesh, and in his spare time he introduces the term Mary Hart for a groupie. J/K. Lil B has no idea who John Tesh is.

8. Top 5 lines from “How I Could Just Kill a Man”:

1. How do you know where I'm at when you haven't been where I've been? Understand where I'm coming from. This is just skilled writing - specific and universal, like all great sentences.
2. Time for some action, just a fraction of friction/I got the clearance to run the interference. What does this mean/I love it/I've loved it from the first time I heard it.
3. ALL I WANTED WAS A PEPSI. Muggs, I see you. You got alllllll those Parliament and Bar-Kays records on your shelf, plus one precious copy of Suicidal Tendencies hidden in the back.
4. Actin kinda loco, I'm just another local/Kid from the street gettin paid for my vocal. Please see #1 (this one's not so universal, although it kind of is, because in the greater LA area, everyone's got label connects and/or a deal pending).
5. The hummin/comin at ya, how it's always going away then popping back up in the song, is something like perfection only that sounds trite so I won't say it. You can just tell Muggs puts his time in, though - he really fucking cares about the stuff he puts out. I will say that.

Honorable mention: putos. The way they just spit it out, so full of venom.

9. We're supposed to believe “Time 4 Sum Aksion” was produced by Erick Sermon,

I guess back when he and CH were ‘90s buddies and used to...Ruffhouse together? (No? Teehee?...Groan. Sorry.) However, I know for a fact that “Time 4 Sum Aksion” was crafted by the hands of the basketball gods themselves, with care and love, for the purpose of having every high school team between the years 1992 and ’95 use the song as its warm-up music. And in a comical note, Wikipedia has a collection of “popular culture” instances in which the song appeared—a list of the 259 boxers/wrestlers/MMA dudes who have used the song as their intro theme. Not on the list: me, even though this song is my “getting fucking psyched to conquer the hordes at the DMV” motivation. Let's get ready to ruuumbllllllllle. Mr. Sermon also used it in “Cummin Atcha” from that same time period (I get it, Erick - you liked the first Cypress Hill album); that song's only remarkable for the liggedy-let the nines clap line, which reminds me that it was the height of the 9mm era, and I guess one could argue that we're still in that era, but honestly for the last 10-12 years in lyrics the mighty Desert Eagle has stolen the show.

10. That “Duke of Earl” sample makes no sense within the lyrical context of “Hand on the Pump,” but this is forgivable.

I knowwww I can’t afforrrrrd to stop is what comes into my mind, first thing, when I think of a break that's appropriate to the thematic and lyrical elements of an MC's story. On the opposite end of the appropriateness scale, Squeeze her, don't tease her, never leave her, while beauuuuutifully chopped up and placed in between J and K's stanzas, is a terribly irrelevant and dumb Otis snippet to use in a song about having lunch with Charles Schwab or whatever the fuck those two are yammering on about. If I may, J and K: I would suggest an Otis song about having dreams to remember, or the We don't want nothing but joy, y'all/Nothing but joy from “Cigarettes and Coffee,” in a song about jets and cash and being able to dodge charges in the American legal system just like Dominique Strauss-Kahn. You're welcome, J and K! Really, J and K, it was nothing. But I would like a co-producer credit, please.

So the use of this particular break makes no sense, but Duke duke duke, duke of just sounds really fresh in a rap song about hunters v. hunted and being fucked v. being the one doing the fucking; nothing less than that, but nothing more, either. I guess to justify its use, you could say the narrators are establishing their royal status within their social system - Sen and B are dukes, figuratively speaking? Really, though, it's just a sample that LA guys raised on K-Earth and Art Laboe wanted to use, so they found a place for it on the album. Why I can forgive inappropriateness when Muggs does it but I cannot when Kanye does will go down as one of apt. 680’s eternal mysteries - right up there with “how come some teenage boy actors can grow up and become fine, fine rappers (Mos) and others make me want to kill myself (Drake).”

Voracious Los Angeles Woman Demands More Good Rap Music (episode 8,012): David Banner,“Swag.”

2011-08-12T08:19:00.000-07:00

“Let a white cop shoot a black kid/You'll see a few tweets, that's it.” Cranky Dave's got a point here but he's also perhaps missing the point that all of Lil B's songs are from the future, when words don't mean what we think they mean only we haven't caught up yet so we don't realize it. And can't I be complex enough to have a master's degree and still have a folder on my laptop dedicated to snappin & trappin songs? Can't I? Or am I deluding myself? The intensity of this debate makes me feel like I should stop blogging and working for the government and just go back to stripping.

Still, that V-Nasty reference made me scream out YESSS, THANK YOU in apt. 680 when I heard it last night. And Cranky Dave is better than no Dave at all, because even when he's cranky and message-shouting he still makes it fun and King of Diamonds-ish. GET EM.

“Get Like Me.” YES I've fucking seen a Chevy with butterfly doors. Stop asking, about 87 songs since this song came out. I only want David to ask me.

mp3.

IS THIS REAL (notes on a theme)

2011-08-11T09:33:00.000-07:00

1. Ron's 6'7" so Celine is apparently 6'4"? 6'5"? She needs to bend forward like that to fit in the frame? Celine is a very skinny shrill-voiced Canadian GIANT. Unreal. (Ohmygod/why don't I check Ron's Twitter feed more often)

2. This isn't real; it's a picture of the inside of my brain (ARTEST X CURREN$Y, 504 X 718, life is wonderfulllll, lalalalaaaa), via the LA Times.

3. John Carpenter being interviewed by RA is not really that unreal, if you think about it. It really makes complete sense, if you think about it. What's really unreal, though, is the fact that apparently John Carpenter is my father-? (he talks how my dad talks and that's why I am the way I am). (GrandGood)

4. "Nostalgia is a seductive liar." - George Ball.

"How'd you come up with the concept for 'Sleepin' On My Couch'?" "Uh, it's about people sleepin on my couch, Dre." Del is probably a difficult interview, though, so I shouldn't be too hard on
Dre. Anyway, Baby Del and his WOOLY DOME and his complaints about people coming to his home and not wanting to step are not real. It's seduction; not a real thing. I am not familiar with this man's work but from the strength of his speaking voice I feel like he might make a great MC and beat artisan (but only on his days off from reading me the phone book out loud).

I just discovered that first album was recorded here, in what is now a sad little AT&T store. 20 years later, here's me, a girl on planet Earth, typing this post on a laptop I purchased in a store across the street from that location. The Boogiemen used to make coffee runs at that very Starbucks, which first came to LA 20 years ago. Mindfucks aren't real. They're just not.

5. "Dyslexie, a Typeface Designed to Help Dyslexics Read." This is real, and it feels good.

A man reads the Koran on the first day of Ramadan while taking shelter from rain on a sidewalk in Lahore August 2. (Mohsin Raza/Reuters); The Big Picture.

I don't get You're beautiful emails; I get Nice blog, nerd emails. That's the way I planned it and that's the way I likes it; I know my visitors come to read my Fripp dorkouts, my Gibbs dorkouts, my ramblings about that moment when I realized K.R.I.T. means King Remembered In Time (pretentious, but I still like him). My visitors don't even notice or care that I have hips (right??) because the pleasures of language overpower any romantic feelings between us. My visitors eat words up. I do too. And I take it for granted that I can do it so easily. So I'm taking a break from complaining about rappers, both because I'm still exhausted from yelling about WTT and because it's not good for my psyche to be so focused on the negative, to do a little fawning over a typeface designer who's doing some good for the world.

Boer compares Dyslexie (example above) to a wheelchair. He has dyslexia, and "followed his own instincts about optimizing typography to fit his own eye, then recruited eight other dyslexics (whom he didn't know) to help him iterate through four rounds of design to refine the letterforms..." One of the key features of Dyslexie is the extra visual 'weight' it adds to the bottom halves of the letters." Boer says this is to help "pin the letters to the baseline, which helps make them easier to read."

The time he spent perfecting the thing is the best, most fawn-worthy part of his story. "I can tell you that I have worked on the comma for four hours," he says, "and the letter 'a' for more than 12 hours." Nice work, Christian, but does it make Watch the Throne any more tolerable? (FastCoDesign)

You gotta let me read just a page of you, baby. Frank Ocean - "Bedtime Story." Frank's got car-sing-along Power 106 Chris-Brown-levels beautiful pop melodies, minus the no-holds-barred bitchery and absolute hatred of women that Chris tries to make us all forget about when he flashes his perfect white teeth. Plus Frank's got some musical blood running through him, being Billy Ocean's son and all. J/K! Shabaam Sahdeeq and Raphael Saadiq are cousins, though. (J/K! Stop believing it just because of my trustworthy face!)

“They don't know what that Star 'bout”

2011-08-10T05:44:00.000-07:00

This post was almost called “She in the Doubletree Suites with her hands on her hips” but I stayed at an Omni! Oh dear. Still hit the Waffle House and finished with some Alizé, though.

Movin roughly, straight to the desert, San Antonio. That's what happened in June, when I took my uppity liberal feminist California self down to Texas. It was a work trip, but I capitalized on having my hotel room and plane ticket paid for by using every minute ~~fucking cars~~ ~~hoping freaks will get inside of my Lacville '79~~ ~~trying to breathe in promethazine fumes~~ ~~Rap(ping)-A-Lot~~ ~~disproving stereotypes put in my head by a thousand Texas rap songs~~ going record shoppin! I also insisted on pronouncing it “San Antone” during my entire stay just like Ike did in What's Love Got to Do with It, because I'm adorable/insufferable.

Don't ever go to Texas, it's an awful place (outside my comfy comfy hotel room bed, above) - unless Devin is your tourguide and he takes you to meet Bun B's second-grade teacher who remembers him as a bright, quiet boy, or Dev arranges a tour of Cowboys Stadium that ends with you punching Jerry Jones square in the mouth. San ~~Antonio~~ Antone is deep in the heart of Texas (which would make a great line in a song), and prior to going there I knew little about it apart from the fact that the Spurs have a player named Tiago Splitter and the guy in ZZ Top without the beard has the last name "Beard." Now, however, I am aware of a lovely store called Hogwild at which I purchased some records (below).

I have also verified that the Alamo really doesn't have a basement. : (

The Persuaders, self-titled (ATCO, 1973).

Best Cover in this particular record haul, which is to say: Best Use of Hands Outside of Muhammad Ali, James Yancey, and Curren$y Doing the Alpha Sign. Would you look at that cover, please.

Just look. Go on. I'll wait here.

I like manhood that isn't afraid to match outfits, or touch hands to shoulders out of respect/admiration.

“Trying Girls Out.” Most Obvious Way for Kanye to Weasel His Way Into This Post Somewhere, annnnd Most Seductive Use of Harmony (making me forget this song is about lady-hopping.)

mp3.

George Duke, Don't Let Go (Epic, 1978).

Best Ant Banks Connection (the break in Spice 1's “Clip and the Trigga,” a song that opens with I'm 22 with a motherfuckin beer belly so I'm guessing the boyfriend prospects for me in Hayward are pretty slim. I'm still prowling the Bay; nothing can stop me. Richmond, lock up your sons and husbands.)

Gil Scott Heron & Brian Jackson, 1980 (Arista...uh, 1980).

Best Appearance by Malcolm Cecil, a man with a fresh name who co-produced this record and all of Stevie's best. Mr. Cecil also provides the Loveliest Musical Commonality throughout This Blogger's Humble Existence, as he handled synth duties on that Little Feat record (childhood road trips with my dad) and that Randy Newman record (Sunday morning newspaper reading at the kitchen table; later, the NPR outro music after every Katrina story), and co-produced that Isley Brothers record (teenage headphone makeout longing sessions in my bedroom; maybe a makout sesh or two in later years).

Ain't no such thing as a superman, Gil said once, speaking the truth. Ain't no such thing as a space-cadet cowboy duo in the future, doing some programming of keys in the belly of Herbie Hancock's church/laboratory, I said once. Then I saw this album cover, which made me say Finally!, a photographic rendering of What 1996 Logan Imagined Future Del and Future Madlib (Rap Ziggy Stardusts) Looking Like in the year 2387, Hanging Out Together, Bringing Messages from the Other Side.

Billy Preston, Everybody Likes Some Kind of Music (A&M, 1973).

Most Obvious (and kind of insulting to our intelligence, really) Album Title. Sorry, Billy.

Best Personnel Credit: “Banjo - Dennis Coates.” THERE'S A BANJO CREDIT. FUCKING DOPE. Billy, born in Houston, is also the Texan with the Best Hair in this particular record haul. I'm trying to remain calm in spite of the big biiiig Texas news I just heard about (UPCOMING SCREW EXHIBIT AT THE U of HOUSTON).

Best Use of 9th Wonder! Billy's cover of “It's Alright Ma, I'm Only Bleeding” was flipped n bounced by 9th on "Let It Be Known,” a song by World's Third-Best Grouchy MC (Next to El-P and Pimp C), Sean “punch n---s through school buses” Price (with Phonte). This is a Dylan song with the line “He not busy being born is busy dying,” which my 16-year-old self found to be terribly heavy and meaningful; I mean, it really put 10th grade into perspective for me. These days I hear it and think Gosh that sounds like something Drake would say in his awful Canadian monotone.

Quincy Jones, Mode (ABC, 1974).

This one's unremarkable, a compilation of some '60s jazz pieces that neither the Pharcyde nor Doc Oct flipped/bounced, ho-hum, but it's Quincy nonetheless and that makes it the Best Excuse for Me to Post Some Quincy. “Kitty with the Bent Frame” is obviously a song about the sexual arching of a female's back, yes? We're all grown-ups here; let's just get right down to it. And knowing Quincy, I'm guessing Kitty is a lady with pale skin and blondish hair, yes? Just a guess. Knowing Quincy. “Kitty” is a track from Q's soundtrack to Dollar$, a heist film that is just begging - BEGGING - for a Curren$y tie-in. Monsta, get on that, please.

Weather Report, Black Market (Columbia, 1976).

Best...Use of Zawinul? I don't know; don't tell my dad or Madlib, the two men I'm always trying to impress the most with my musical knowledge, but I'm really not that into these guys. It feels right to have some in my collection, though - like the broccoli in my fridge's crisper that I'll never eat.

Redd Foxx, Sly Sex (Dooto, 1960).

“Sly sex” is that thing that happens on a hot day or a hot night when you appeal to my basest animal needs by putting Fresh on the hi-fi. (Then you watch what happens next, which is always me doing my impression of a King of Diamonds professional. HI MOM).

Best Useless and Comical Assist Attempt by the Internet: the Discogs search box inquiring Did you mean Freddie Foxxx? when I typed in Redd's name, thereby making my whole day better.

No, I did not mean Freddie, Discogs - but I can understand why you'd make that assumption.

(Discogs understands me in a way few ever will)

The Crusaders, Street Life (MCA, 1979).

The Crusaders get Most Convincing and Un-ironic Display of Enthusiasm Before a Night on the Town with that album photo. Aw, so excited! They look so happy because there's nothing else to do in Texas but get dressed up to go ride mechanical bulls and play beer pong.

They also get the win for Best Band Name (but sometimes I wonder if this was a mistake, the wrong choice; is The Persuaders actually the better name?). Anyway, street life: it's no jet life fool, but it seemed to work for a lot of dudes in 1979. That title song is a true great, a joyous driving-and-singing classic, even though street life isn't so much the only life I know. Prod sang it awkwardly in a hook once, sort of convincingly I guess - but it's nothing compared to his secret song off his secret 2011 album ("Reading Logan the Phone Book Out Loud Life"). And that Randy Crawford, boy I tell you - she had this soft-hard thing happening with her voice, making me jealous as hell but no so jealous that I can't write a little post of admiration in her honor on my humble blog.

Hogwild Records

1824 N Main Ave
San Antonio, TX 78212
(210) 733-5354
Neighborhoods: Nowheresville; Republican Hell; Tobin Hill; San Antonio College adj.

Pros: Good records; cheap records; no competition from the locals; staff was nice to me; cab driver waited for me outside while I shopped and didn't leave the meter running. Aw.
Cons: TEXAS.

The phrases "I love your sundress," "sugar bunny," and "church girl on Sundays; freaky on Mondays and Fridays" are enough to get me through the dreary workday. Also "word life," which needs to make a triumphant return.

WTT: the The Car Test

2011-08-09T17:05:00.000-07:00

(Atiba)

Ha. This jerk.

I like to think I'm made of fairy dust, hips, pure love and 808, but in fact I am human. I'm only human. The jerk above and his friend made a record, and on it they flash and stunt, and cry a little, and overall they try to grip hard to that thing they're losing, that Scorsesian ability to make jerks seem appealing. Watch the Throne is a ghost that has nothing to do with my life, like those awful Transformers movies - no real storyline, just a bunch of explosions and cars and slow, panning shots of ladies’ asses. But I'm only human. So I had to give this thing a listen. Here, then, is a song-by-song breakdown of exactly how long it'll take me to jump out of your car when you put Watch the Throne on the Kenwood with me in the passenger seat:

1. “No Church in the Wild” - 63 seconds; I wanna hear an internal-struggle song about being torn between hedonism and a more meaningful life, I'll listen to “Cadillac on 22s,” thankyouuuuu.

“You're gonna put Frank Ocean on a song, and you waste that voice of his on this drivel?” I say out loud to you in my naggy voice (you're a stand-in for the true object of my frustration, 88-Keys, who is no doubt the man behind the boards here. 2011 Kanye lacks the restraint required to make such an understated piece of music - 2003 Kanye had that restraint, but wishing for his return is not going to make it so.)

“What's a mob to a king?,” Frank sings, “What's a king to a God? What's a God to a non-believer who don't believe in anything?” Knock it off, Frank. Nobody cares. More importantly, I ask you, what's a goon to a goblin?? I can only tolerate about 1 full minute of this, but still, it's got some pluses: a) the presence of Frank's voice, underused as it is, and b) an interesting beat. I can't tell if I like it or not but goddammit I keep listening to it and that's gotta mean something, right? Ooh and pitch it up and that BPM would make “That's All” the perfect song to mix into it when you have your next BBQ.

2. “Lift Off” - 22 seconds.

Oh hi Beyonce, glad you could join us. You're beautiful but boring, a spinning, perfect ballerina inside a jewelry box. And oh my, what's this? Looks like you brought some ascending, triumphant synth stabs with you! Nice. J and K are trying to appeal to the "persons with breasts" demographic with this one, I see. Except that J and K should stop insulting my intelligence and just call the song "Pandering to the Ladies (The Lady Song)." I mean, really; let's just lay it all out on the table, gentlemen. I can hear this thing playing at Forever 21 already. (Rap they don’t play at Forever 21: Curren$y, Wacko n’ Skip, Keith Thornton, Terrence Thornton. Just like God intended.)

3. “N---s in Paris” - 42 seconds.

Margiela, hot bitches, Derrick Rose's crotch getting some love (verbally - not in any other way. Goodness gracious.): this song sounds like the daily goings-on in apartment 680! That's not enough to hold me, however. Aw damn. Once I hear the full hook, which is pretty great even though it has Michael Bay explosions and I'm already tired of hearing Aziz Ansari's future rap song based on the phrase that shit cray, I open up the door and I'm gone, gone like the wind...if the wind wore jeans that are too tight and if the wind cared wayyyyy too much about jerks who make rap music.

4. "Otis” - half a second. (no link; IT DOESN'T DESERVE A GODDAMN LINK)

“HOW BOUT WE JUST LISTEN TO THE ACTUAL ‘TRY A LITTLE TENDERNESS,’” I yell when I hear the opening strains of track 4. You had to know this was coming; I've been bitching about this song for a week now! And since I don't know when to quit, I just keep going. “HERE'S TODAY'S NEWSPAPER HEADLINE FOR THAT ASS: LOS ANGELES WOMAN GETS MIGRAINE UPON LEARNING OF CHICAGO MAN TAKING CREDIT FOR PRODUCING A SONG WHEN REALLY HE JUST ADDED FUZZINESS AND A DRUM TRACK OVER A CLASSIC.” Then I feel bad; you kind of like this song - it is chopped-up very nicely, I'll give you that - and I just yelled at you about it. I put my face in my hands. Yelling's not normally my thing; I don't know what came over me. I am truly sorry. You're still reeling, though, so then I try to sing a funny little song or tell a joke to lighten the mood. If you're still annoyed, which you probably won't be because I'm adorable, and have you seen my hips?, I'll put my hand on your hand - trying a little tenderness, if you will - as a sign of apology. The actual "Try a Little Tenderness" is playing at this point, since I always get what I want. Then we make out, and things get especially hot during the drums at 2:34! Yay.

5. “Gotta Have It” - initially, 12 seconds. Then I let it warm up, and boy am I glad, because if I had gone with my first instinct I would've missed the very, verrrrry Pharrellian spare-change-jingling-in-your-pocket breakdown just before the 2-minute mark.

The Whatchu need, WhatWhatchu need draws me in, and the Takeumonhome about halfway through convinces me to ride this thing out (thank you for keeping the James Brown fires burning, Mr. Williams!) Unfortunately, I'll probably still pout all the way through because when you said you were putting on a song about needing to have it, I thought I was going to hear THISSSSS:

Even more unfortunately, once the thing comes to an end I return to my senses and remember that if I wanna hear some JB all chopped up, goddammit it's gonna be one J. Yancey who gives it to me.

6. “New Day” - 4:39. That's the whole thing! (I like it; I want it to go on and on).

Nina Simone saying Breeze driftin on by, echoed coos, plus Robert Diggs, plus a narrative theme that cleanses me, kind of un-does all that gross consumerism I feel since I acted on impulse and bought that Alexander Wang bag. This song is wonderful, pretty, heavily-bottomed (ROBERT DIGGS; I just told you). “And if the day comes I only see him on the weekend,” J says about his pretend-son, “I just pray we was in love on the night that we conceived him.” Aw Shawn. It makes me get a little teary-eyed, probably because I have a mean case of melody-specific autism and because of my still-vulnerable emotional state after catching some very intense feelings over Mike Mills' Beginners when I saw it Sunday.

7. “That's My Bitch” - 3:22 [just because I'm curious to see if what every ex-boyfriend says about me is true (that I really do like every song with the word bitch in the title)].

Q-Tip's drums doing an impression of Pharrell n' Chad's drums in '01 sounds nice, and then the drums from "Apache" come in and they always sound nice. But even though the best advice I can always give myself about anything in any situation at any time is DON'T OVER-THINK IT, LOGAN, I always fail in doing so. Track 7 is no exception to this. J on non-white feminine beauty: “Picasso was alive he woulda made her/That's right....Mona Lisa can't fade her/I mean Marilyn Monroe, she's quite nice/But why all the pretty icons always all white?” Oh J, I'm so glad you asked - it's probably because of Madison Avenue, our special American kind of racism that has a mutually beneficial relationship with our special way of commodifying women's bodies within a free-market culture that convinces us to buy things we don't need, and because your friend K raps constantly about pretty white icons as if they are the standard of beauty. (Beautiful ladies of color name-checked by Kanye in “Christian Dior Denim Flow”: 8. Beautiful ladies with my skin tone: 12. The defense rests, your honor.)

8. “Welcome to the Jungle” - A solid 2 and a half minutes. Get 'em, Swizz!

That GODDAMMIT right after J's verse will stay in my head for the foreseeable future. I like that. Your shoes are still are ugly, though.

9. “Who Gon Stop Me” - 4 minutes; almost the whole thing, because it's produced by the “Man Down” guy and because the rhyme patterns keep changing and I want to hear what comes next.

Alas, it's too slow and it's got tense buildups and shuddery breakdowns for no reason, rhyme patterns that change for no reason, and that thing J does where he just makes labored breathing sounds into the microphone every third line is really on display here and I hate it. UH-HUH. UHH. AH. The one thing I'll probably always remember about these 4 minutes in your car, though? “Heard Yeezy was racist, well, I guess that’s on one basis: I only like green faces.” Cute.

10. “Murder to Excellence” - 2 minutes, 4 seconds. Too preachy, but people like it when kids sing on hooks, including me, so I let it play and play. And at 01:48 it sounds like the “Make Me Wanna Holler” intro, so that's nice.

11. “Made in America” - 17 seconds. Just enough time for me to realize the drums are never coming in, not ever. (I get hyped when I hear a drum roll. And I get un-hyped when I hear yet another song in 2011 that sounds like a video game.)

I’m reading a Spector bio and I’m pissed at this song as if it were an actual person. “Nailing the whole edifice to the ground like metal tent spikes in a storm were the drums,” says page 113, “A clean, hard backbeat was the cement in the Wall of Sound.” Riding in your car, I hear this drum-less demonstration in lameness that Kanye made on his SK-1 during the commercial break on a rerun of The Office last Thursday night, and I can't stomach any conversation about the weather, the movies, the NBA lockout. I am that disheartened. I wanna hear some tinny melodic prettiness, I'll put on something “Sleng Teng”-related. I wanna hear some drums that'll give me a brain aneurysm, I'll bypass J n' K and go straight to Vietnam Sadler. (This one also includes Frank crooning “Sweet Father Joseph, Sweet Jesus/We made it in America/Sweet Baby Jesus, oh sweet baby Jesus.” I swear to Christ, and sweet baby Jesus, even, that I will never forgive Frank for this. Sold your soul for a paycheck, buddy.)

12. “Why I Love You” - UGH. A third of a second? A half-second? And can someone please tell me if it's humanly possible to un-hear a song?

Brought to you by the good people at Red Bull and Edge Shaving Gel, when I hear this I feel like leaping off a mountaintop on my snowboard while Sal Masakela provides commentary over the slow-mo footage. When I hear this I do not, however, want to walk down the street, dance next to a parked car while someone films the whole thing, ride in a car at 12 MPH, take my dress off to lounge on the couch, take my dress off to make a baby, vote, punch someone in the face, sob, fly a kite, hug my mom, gun down Radames, take the stage at Magic City, or write a paper about Chomsky (things all good ~~rap songs~~ songs should make me want to do).

13. “ ~~Boringest~~ Illest MF Alive” - zzzzzZZZZZZZ. Oh I'm sorry; I didn't realize there was music coming from your speakers. Dullsville.

Obviously I love K's “You in line behind Curren$y/Yeah you after money,” FUCK YES A CURREN$Y REFERENCE, but in the end, it's not enough to save me from naptime when you put this song on. Anyway, if I wanna hear some female vocal operatical theatricals, I'll listen to Xzibit's “Paparazzi” (which, I must acknowledge, I first heard on an old 411 video shown to me by Jackson; thank you, little brother!). Cut it off; put on Jet Files or Jackie Moore or let's see if Art Laboe is on. I'm feeling lucky, like maybe he'll play some Flamingos.

14. “H.A.M.” - skipped. In apt. 680 it's called “J.K.W.C. (Japanese Kids Watching Cartoons)” because this stuttery thing gives me a seizure. On the other hand, it makes me feel like I just jumped into Tron and that's pretty fresh.

15. “Primetime” - exactly 2 minutes; no longer.

I don't care what none of yall say; I still love em ("em" = Kanye's HAHs). And out of respect for No ID, who produced it, I had to give it at least 2 minutes. But just 2 minutes. This was also the rule for my 808s and Heartbreak listening session, remember?

16. “The Joy” - NO.

This is the way the album ends; not with a bang but with a whimper. At this point in the evening, I'm outside your car, walking with my heels in my hand, and you're driving next to me at 2 MPH, asking what the fuck my problem is. I wasn't raised to have screaming fights in public, so I keep it classy. “For my thoughts on 'The Joy,' please refer to my dissertation on 'Otis,'” I snap. Then I raise my fists to the night sky and yell PETER PHILLIPS OF MOUNT VERNON, NEW YORK, you oughta be ashamed of yourself. I gave this song 7 seconds, some precious moments of my life that I'll never get back. I should've spent those seconds scrolling through your iPod to find the original that was copied and pasted all sloppy-like into this piece of hot garbage.

Anyway, through it all, I laughed; I cried; I learned to experience freedom through the power of purchasing luxury goods. But other than “Gotta Have It” and “New Day,” I wish I had just stayed in and listened to the Three Tough Guys soundtrack (while wearing my TAF Jorge Ben shirt and NAF bathing suit and LUAF sandals.

(New As Fuck; Lace-Up As Fuck)

“Bitch I'm ten toes in it” - Gibbs, in a song about, um, my toes?

HA, j/k. It's about Isaac (“The Coldest”).

“Hung Up on My Baby.” SO MUCH MORE than just the moment at 00:29.

mp3.

“Miss, we heard you were sad because Drake is working with Stevie Wonder; here are some pictures of Doomsy at Montreux to make you feel better” - the rap gods.

2011-08-01T20:03:00.001-07:00

Pro tools confiscated as evidence by the crime
Lab spyin, ain't even have to do em like that
Knife work on the track
Many I cut and slash
At the neck like a sash
Blood on my hands, me and my killin bag
Raw shit, kill a gram
High spinnin ceilin fan
You ain't never seen a man til you seen the man.

(fool).

- “Montreux.”

The Wizard of Rad, his belly, his red polo, and his light halo, along with the Robert Glasper Experiment, in a scene I really really want to call “Swiss Beats” (ST). I'd like to point out that he's wearing an actual fitted so it turns out snapbacks aren't really as back as you all thought. (Fools.)

THIS GUY: whatshisface in that Eli Porter doc.

2011-07-21T18:15:00.001-07:00

Making fun of people in general and making fun of rappers specifically is a special talent given to me by God. And for balance, being a nice person is a part of my character cultivated in me by my mom since birth. I'm deferring to my upbringing in the case of People's Champion - the story of sophomore Eli Porter, famous for being terrible in the ruthless rap freestyle arena known as “Chamblee High's 4th-period broadcasting class back in '03.” Obviously the young man has some deficits (physical definitely, cognitive probably), and you're a jerk if you make fun of him. C'mon, my mom says. Act right. Most inadequate MCs are fair game for pointing and laughing at, especially Canadian ones who make odd hand motions and talk like they're from Shreveport when they're really from Canada. Eli, a teenage rapper who walks in a labored fashion because of an impairment he was born with, is not fair game. So that's that. Glad we settled this as a family.

Watch for yourself, but please be advised: it's impossible to get a handle on the tone of this short film. Is it a heartwarming tale of mic wielding? Is it a critique of our insatiable need to embarrass each other? I've watched it twice, and I have a master's degree, and I still don't know. I'm also annoyed that a thing called People's Champion isn't about Paul Wall. But most of all I'm annoyed that, while everyone's discussing how the Internet giveth and the Internet taketh away when it comes to fame-based self-esteem, and discussing at what IQ level is it acceptable to make fun of a dude, I'm here in the cut (apt. 680) wondering why nobody's discussing the 2 most discussion-worthy things about this film: a) Eli's plastic spiral key-ring bracelet thingy (replicas of which Supreme will start selling next week for $42),

and b) the fact that one of the main players in this saga explains that the area in between white girls' legs is used as some sort of heterosexuality trophy, a proving ground for a dude's ability to exercise his masculine seduction powers.

"Let me just go ahead and tell you guys: Marv-O fucked every white girl that he wanted to at Chamblee High School." - Will, disputing claims that host Marv-O is gay just because a little touching and feeling between himself and battle judge J-Dub (male friends who have affection for one another, what you got a problem with that?) was caught on tape (at 07:35). Will's not completely to blame for the comment - his purple RL with its sloppy collar and that huge bottle of Bud Light had this weird influence on his brain, making him feel invincible, like he could say such a thing on film without a blogging lady in LA catching it and calling him on it. Marv didn't get every girl he wanted to naked; he got every pale-skinned one he wanted naked - a feat that gets Marv more points in the competition. And what does this say about white ladies and the value of their soft lady areas? What does it say about the value of non-white-ladies' soft lady areas? I know what it says, and I do not like it. Will didn't invent this value system, and I guess I could even argue he did me a favor by being so blunt about it, reminding me that some men still think this way. But still - it came from Will's brain/mouth, so it's Will who is the face of disgusting ideas about white-female-body privilege and notions of feminine beauty and value. Will's comment is begging to be bandied and bickered about between us. He's today's THIS GUY.

(There is also an appearance by noted cultural critic ~~Cornel West~~ ANDY FUCKING MILONAKIS, tapped to put on his serious face and share his thoughts. He's included in the doc strictly to make me throw my hands toward the heavens out of anger/disbelief and shout the F word. I do, however, approve of the copious Georgia accents throughout, the unstoppable freshness of the name Eli Porter, the appearances by my boyfriends Rafi and Dal, and the group-shaming due to Envy's freestyle not really being a freestyle. I mean, show me the Blackberry, and then I'll know it's off the dome.)

Cee-Lo - “I'll Be Around.” Because I needed something from the great state of Georgia, and obviously this one is so, so def even though it's not So So Def. And please keep an eye out for How Could I Possibly Be Inconspicuous When My Flow is Fucking Ridiculous - my next mixtape, dropping fall 2003.

mp3.