July 24th, 2008
A few weeks ago, I wrote a piece for LA Weekly discussing the difficulties J Dilla’s estate has had in enforcing copyright law and paying off the six-figure IRS debt left behind. In the aftermath of the story’s publication, I had the chance to speak with his mother, Ms. Maureen Yancey about Dilla’s legacy and her current estrangement with the executors of his estate.
Q: In the original article, some comments from Dilla’s estate’s executors made you take pause. What were they and what sort of problems have you had with the estate?
A: I understand the side [estate executor] Arty Erk’s coming from and what he’s trying to do. However, there has been no communication between them and the family in a year. The only time I hear a peep is if there are some propositions between attorney’s going to court. That’s the only time I’m made aware of things.
It’s ridiculous. I still have contacts with all of Dilla’s friends and people in the hip-hop community. We still talk, we still keep in touch, we’ve became friends. They check in on me and I’ve had the opportunity to direct them to the estate thinking they’d be able to help do projects. But most of the time, none of their inquiries have been addressed. There’s no one that has made it accessible to them to contribute and get work done. I’ve stopped sending people there. They haven’t been forthright, I was told they didn’t appreciate the help, that we weren’t supposed to use Dilla’s name or license. By the time, I understood what was happening and learned about the legal ramifications, I took down the website for the Foundation that we’d created as to be in compliance with state laws. I figured in the coming year, they’d reevaluate their decision, but it never happened.
One of the things Dilla wanted me to do with his legacy was to use it to help others, people with illness, kids who were musically gifted but had little hope due to poverty. I wanted to use my contacts to help people and out and it was squashed because we weren’t in compliance with the state and there was nothing we could do about it. I’m Dilla’s mother and I can’t use Dilla’s name or likeness, but I know that I still can honor him by doing his work.
What were your intended goals for the Foundation?
I wanted to set it up to help others but also to be a nucleus for the fans who wanted to do tributes and honor Dilla. It would be a place for artists to be able to show their support. When the estate chose not to communicate with us, they sold themselves short. The A-list artists stay in contact with me directly and they’re basically cutting off the quality talents that made themselves closest to Dilla. Anyone with a knowledge about his work would know this, but those in charge haven’t a clue to Dilla’s worth, They haven’t a clue as to who he was as a man or what his relationship was with his fans and his peers. It’s a community, those artists coming out of the underground. You can see this when you travel around the world and see how large his fan base really was. People are still discovering the extent of Dilla’s influence.
He has a young audience just coming into the community who he’s had a major influence on. Then there’s the issue of the jazz community. Dilla grew up with jazz. That was his lullaby and the connection is far greater than the estate realizes. It’s more than just notes. There’s so much that can be done and the estate hasn’t got a clue. It’s such a waste of time. But I’m not closing the door on them yet. Dilla worked alongside with me and I was a big part of my son’s past. I moved to LA to take care of him, I worked for him from day one, that’s why the communication with his peers and me has been so great.
What do you hope happens with the estate?
At the end of the day, we want our voices to be heard. We want the community to work with me and the estate. We want everyone to work together. It’s been the estate’s choice to not communicate with us and it jeopardizes the future quality of his projects. They make the decisions for him without the proper musical knowledge. Their depth of musical knowledge just isn’t enough.
Read the rest of this entry »
Posted in Interviews | 16 Comments »
July 23rd, 2008
The Hold Steady are one of the few contemporary bands whom I really consider myself a fan of. While I don’t think their latest, Stay Positive, hits the same rarefied heights as Separation Sunday or Boys and Girls in America, it remains another impressive effort from one of the best and most divisive groups in music. My review of the new record appears in this week’s Village Voice. Yes, it includes a guide to writing Hold Steady mad-libs.
Village Voice: Hold Steady-Stay Positive Review
Download:
MP3: The Hold Steady-”Sequestered In Memphis”
MP3: The Hold Steady-”Slapped Actress”
Posted in Village Voice | 2 Comments »
July 22nd, 2008
I believe the direct quote was “Fuck the LA Times.” According to this other Times piece, Nas says my review “disrespected him.” Which is probably true, but then again, I never wrote a rap bragging about being in a Lex watching Kathy Lee and Regis. To say nothing about that unforgettable time when Halle Berry blew Nas a kiss at the Barbra Streisand concert. I assume that meant that Nasir is a big Funny Girl fan?
But hey, if my misanthropy somehow helped convince him to do an entire album produced by DJ Premier, my work here is done.
Download:
MP3: Nas-”Take It In Blood” (Which by all accounts remains a great song)
Posted in 10 Questions Raised | 19 Comments »
July 21st, 2008
Every time I inasmuch as mention the word “hipster” on the blog these days, some Mensa Mind has to scrawl some stupid, scurrilous statement about how “maaan, all you do is stereotype hipsters and make egregious generalizations and you, Jeff Weiss, are the worst writer in the history of time. Plus, you’re behind the closing of Indy Mac. What! What! What! What! What!” Granted, it’s flattering that the lion-hearted legion of anonymous commentators believe that I’m really the one behind the sub-prime mortgage crisis, but ultimately, I don’t understand why people can’t just relax, take a deep breath, laugh, snicker, chortle, attempt to play Frogger in traffic.
Because yesterday, I saw him. The hipster Java man. We were standing next to each other at the Dirty Projectors show and it was beautiful. One of those slow motion, “Dreamweaver” moments where time stops and our eyes locked, me and proto-hipster, swooning, smoking, staring at each other back to the dawn of time, or at least when it first became trendy in the city Ur to grow a mustache. I tried to take photos of him but it was impossible, my camera wouldn’t register the image. The neon was too bright. The sunglasses too searing. The skin too translucent.
To replay: the hat a retina-ravaging shade of electric tangerine, covered in black and red Rorschach splotches. A teal tanktop plastered on his pasty frame, undersized cloth blue shorts, the kind they made you wear to gym in the 6th grade, the ones that no matter how hard you tried to sag were still always too short. The shoes were impressive, boots nearly up to the knee, a cross between rainboats and Uggs (Ruggs?). The mandatory mustache. The 16-year old beard. Vampire Weekend sunglasses of a sharp cherry apple color. Part of me wanted to take him home with me. The anthropological possibilities seemed endless. What are his likes? What are his desires? What is the ideal amount of Sparks? And then just like that he left, shuffling away, American Spirit stuck between his lips, no doubt off to make some girl in stripes and leggings a very happy woman.
As Much As Things Change, Some Things Will Always Stay the Same
Think of the Fork Festival as ground-zero for the hipsters of America. While it’s easy to interpret that as a perjorative, it really isn’t. Sure, the sartorial sense of its attendees might be ripe for mild satire, but the festival itself was not, perhaps the most punctual, sober and well-organized of any that I’ve attended. Prices were reasonable, accommodations were generous and by the end, the place earned my respect. Pitchfork might be guilty of cultivating an indier-than-thou aesthetic that ultimately reflects itself in the festival’s status as America’s preeminent hirsute haven, but the festival ran smoothly, they booked a reasonably diverse slate of acts and even if every performance didn’t amaze me, at the very least they were almost unanimously interesting.
Indeed, few acts were as compelling as Sunday’s one-two punch of The Dirty Projectors and King Khan & the Shrines. On record, The Dirty Projectors have hinted at the brilliance they possess live, with their latest Rise Above, shot through with flashes at greatness and a surfeit of ideas that the band didn’t always seem to know how to execute. I caught them about a year ago when they played at the Echoplex but since then, they’ve developed into one of the most innovative and impressive young bands in music today.
Dave Longstreth voice is a jarring underwater wail, that wobbles and flutters like a knuckleball, dipping, diving, impossible to get a bead on. His guitar technique is otherworldly, not the stereotypical guitar hero rawk that you think of when you think “great guitarist,” but more an African-inspired float that weaves in time with that levitating voice. I’d like to get into it more but there’s no time right now, as I only have about twenty minutes left to write before my flight and there’s still a half dozen hours of music I already don’t have time to describe.
As for King Khan, they might’ve turned in my favorite set of the festival. Easily the best performer of the weekend, Khan is a hammy blend of James Brown-blessed showmanship, the sort of eccentric brilliance that can only come from a true lunatic. Taking the stage in a gold Josephine Baker head-wrap, a black cape, too-tight stretch shorts and occasionally a Mexican Luchador mask, Khan is probably the most charismatic performer in “indie” right now. Backed by the Shrines, his nine-piece soul band, the show is one part Godfather of Soul one part Andy Kauffman, one part Blues Brothers, one part West Anderson movie come to life.
Khan’s entire intent is to get people moving and somehow, he managed to get the formerly sedentary swarm dancing. Several people even crowd-surfed, which might seem like normal festival-behavior but not here at Hip-stock. Hell, I even saw someone’s grandmother shaking it as though it were a daguerreotype picture. It was pure bedlam. I can’t really recommend a group more. There really is nothing out there like King Khan & The Shrines. By the end of the set, I felt myself wanting to read King Khan’s biography and thinking that like that old Biggie line, this group crushes all so-called willies, thugs and rapper-dons. Or at least Mission of Burma.
Fuck. I’m out of time. There is a flight to catch. This is going to have to be brief. Spoon and Health are going to get screwed here and rest assured, both were very good. There’s only a few seconds left to even mention, the “so obviously it’s a highlight, it almost can’t be a highlight set” that Ghostface and Raekwon turned in.
I’ve seen solo Starks maybe a half dozen times over the years and this was my favorite. As always, Ghost played a mix between surprisingly deep cuts you wouldn’t expect them to play (”Fish”. “Rainy Dayz” “Whip You With a Strap,) and the standard-bearers (”Shimmy Shimmy Ya,” “Cream,” “Triumph”) but having Raekwon there proved the difference. They hewed strongly to the Only Built 4 Cuban Linx material, the sound was great and both men seemed determined to turn in an indelible performance despite having just touched down in the Chi after a nine-hour flight from Europe. Unfortunately, they didn’t play “One” or really anything off Supreme Clientele, but hey, as Mick Jagger so aptly opined, “you can’t always get what you want.” Besides, all I really want right now is a smooth flight home and for Southwest to not to lose my luggage again. Tallyho.
Posted in Pitchfork | 14 Comments »
July 20th, 2008
Sometimes, on your own, you arrive at the realization that “hey, it isn’t so bad. I’m attending a music festival for free in a very beautiful city and even though I’m trying hard not to gawk at the mustachio’d sailer-hatted hipster either in the merchant marines or an aspiring killer clown, things is alright.” But at other times, nothing can palliate you, outside of the right street pharmacist, one who will sell you $100 worth of that sweet chiba in an apartment a few blocks from Union Park, while bumping M83’s “Graveyard Girl.” Yesterday was one of those days. And in conjunction with my new found ray of light (no Madonna), the murky, muggy rain that had been washing down on the streets of the Chi lifted, just in time for me to miss the last 10 minutes of Caribou’s set.
Things were different yesterday. The publicists who I had so lustily condemned the day prior were able to fall for my cheap ruse about there obviously being some sort of mistake in my not getting VIP passes. Or was there? Maybe it was wise for them to throw me the VIP tags, after all, as the saying goes, hell hath no fury like a jaded, spoiled reporter not being able to smoke blunts the size of burritos and eat burritos the size of blunts. Plus, free beer and free Sparks–and while Sparks might taste like “perfumed asshole” as one of my colleagues so eloquently put it, it not only give you wings, it convinces you to climb to the top of the nearest building and play Daedelus. (Who should’ve been at this festival now that I think about it).
Besides, the energy was different on Saturday. Long gone was Friday’s indier-than-thou crowd lured in by unremembered nostalgia for Mission of Burma, Sebadoh and PE. In their stead were a bunch of teens and people in their early 20s, drawn by the promise of Vampire Weekend’s dulcet pop and The Hold Steady’s sincere sing-a-longs. It was the proverbial “next generation,” and anybody lambasting Vampire Weekend for their depictions of an idle, spoiled rich class might be well served to note their fanbase, full of MTV sunglasses and girls with purses bought at Saks 5th Avenue, and understand that hating them for singing about Louis Vuitton and Reggaeton is like hating a chicken for laying eggs.
The first band I caught was Fleet Foxes, who pretty much owe 80 percent of their fanbase to a whopping 9.0 rave that the Fork gave them earlier this year. I’ve been resistant towards the Fleet Foxes bandwagon. Not because I dislike them per se. Watching Robin Pecknold and co. sing their America meets My Morning Jacket hymnals, you can’t help but note how pretty the songs sound. But for a website this focused on originality and progressive sonic ideas, it was a little strange to think that these are their new poster boys. Earlier this year, I asked Jim James how he felt about bands like Fleet Foxes and Band of Horses essentially stealing the blueprint from At Dawn and The Tennessee Fire. Wisely, he dodged the question, claiming he’d heard them and didn’t really have any thoughts on the matter. Good for him for being tactful enough to side-step any controversy. However, were it be me, I’d be halfway towards re-enacting the “Shark N–Z” sketch from Only Built For Cuban Linx, where Ghostface and Raekwon indict copy-cat rappers. Bottom line, Fleet Foxes sound identical to My Morning Jacket. They do what they do well and their songs are winsome, affable and at times very poignnant, but I’m not nowhere near ready to pronounce them the next best thing.
The same can’t be said for the Hold Steady. I know a lot of people hate their music and it’s not hard to see why. At times, they’re almost painfully sincere and occasionally they can veer dangerously close to parody, but on any given Friday night, this band be in any top 5 of bands that I’dwant to see. In the festival environment, their guitar rock is damn-near explosive, their songs rollicking, boozy and often brilliant. Perhaps the most joyful performer in all music, every show Craig Finn summons the sort of joy and catharthis that often provides the foundation for great rock n’ roll. They’re the sort of band that can make cliches come to life. You “lose yourself in the music.” You become “one with the audience.” Or more aptly, as they put it, ”Party Pit,” it’s the sort of music that makes you want to walk around and drink some more.
So I listened, liquored up good, heading to the C stage, way out in a no-mans-land corner of the park to see No Age thrash and twist and somehow prove what a lot of people thought was impossible: that it is possible to re-invent the punk song. Were New Found Glory, NoFx and all those other hacky mall-punk bands to have seen No Age in person, I can imagine them being reduced to tears, struck with the realization that they’re frauds and that with just a drummer and a guitarist Dean Spunt and Randy Randall could cauterize their flesh and bleach their bones. Real vicious, powerful Punk music that justified the acclaim and hype and left me feeling guilty for having never dragged myself out to the Smell once. Thankfully, they’ve outgrown their first home and are ready for prime-time, local boys made good. God willing, in due time they’ll have strung Pete Wentz up by his assymetrical haircut, stolen Ashlee Simpson, forced Panic at the Disco! into a full-on panic and saved an entire generation of 14-year olds from being emo. All in a day’s work.
But speaking of a day’s work, like the White Rabbit, I’m late for a very important date. Besides, I need to get my Lewis Carroll on, as there are herbal refreshments to be rolled and there are Times New Vikings to be seen. To say nothing of Spoon or King Khan or best of all, Ghost and Rae performing together. Hopefully, they will play “One” from Supreme Clientele, if only so Ghost can offer the question, “How Many Blunts We Smoke.” To which the crowd can only respond, “One…at a Time.”
Posted in Pitchfork | 7 Comments »
July 19th, 2008
A Pitchfork seems like the appropriate emblem. After all, it’s been a hellish last two days, culminating with this moment right now, my friends already having set off for the festival at the absurdly early crack of noon, abandoning me to pump Fela on my iPod in a Chicago Barnes and Noble, spitting venom on a stifling, rainy summer afternoon. There isn’t much time either. The great minds at Barnes & Noble have apparently yet to discover the wonders of the power outlet and my lemon of a Dell laptop is already on the verge of crashing. But duty calls, so while my crabby carcass should be creeping Union Park-bound to catch recent Best New Music’d Titus Andonicus, I’ve got my own airing of grievances to compose. Bear with me.
First off, fuck Southwest Airlines for losing my bags, forcing me to endure 36 hours of a swampy Chicago summer in the same rank clothes, sweating, stinking and swearing. Fuck Pitchfork for reneging on their promise of a VIP pass, instead offering some utterly worthless press medallion that only allows access to some wretched corner to sit hunch-backed on folding chairs, pecking away on a laptop with the rest of the poor press schlubs. While simultaneously, the party I came with lamped luxuriously in the VIP, scarfing burritos the size of skulls and guzzling quarts after quart of beer.
Fuck the indie caveman clone that tripped me yesterday when I decided to abandon Sebadoh’s snooze-worthy set to play hoops on a court inside the park. Right now, there are massive gashes on both of my hands that no amount of drugs can palliate. Congrats, Nas fans, looks like you’ve got your wish.
Meanwhile, while I’m the topic, fuck the lack of drugs at this place. To paraphrase Mr. Hand, what’s wrong with you people, why are you not on dope? Forget the lack of shrooms or acid or ex. There’s no need for that, not here, as with the exception of maybe Caribou, the line-up is about as un-friendly to psychedelics as you’ll find at any extant American music festival. But y’know, this being a music festival, you’d think weed would be plentiful–instead, in the course of yesterday’s empirical research, the place was as dry as a Mormon camping trip in Death Valley.
Instead, it’s Sparks and snark, malevolent vibes and awkward gestures, a bespectacled snarl of people, standing stiff with slanting haircuts, the apotheosis of whatever indie still means in the year 2008. I don’t know who my people are, but I know this ain’t it. Give me a drugged-up hippie floating around in the ether of his mind, passed out on the grass at Bonnaroo, spewing gibberish about unicorns, rather than a bunch of glazed-eyed goggled geeks who’d rather gripe about the merits of The Unicorns vs Islands.
Granted, my time in La-la land has probably left me a bit jaded but I’ve never seen this many ungainly looking people in my life. Yesterday alone, I saw 16 people who seemed to be cultivating the law professor turned rock star look of Craig Finn and another dozen or so, rocking the balding barbarian look of Les Savvy Fav front-man Tim Harrington who looks suspiciously like a guy my college friends used to only refer to as “the gnome.” Glasses seem to be the ideal fashion accessory. So much to the point that were you to not know any better, you’d assume that at some point between the second Nixon administration and Glasnost, the Soviets succeeded in implementing a vast conspiracy to collectively mar the eyesight of America’s youth.
What Man, You Don’t Like Mission of Burma?….Conformist….
The music. Right. The music. Ok. So yesterday was the Don’t Look Back: All Tomorrow’s Parties segment of the festival featuring Sebadoh playing Bubble Vs. Scrape, Mission of Burma playing Vs. and Public Enemy playing It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back. As for the first two, I suppose I could try to write something, but I know next to nothing about both of those bands and judging from what I saw of their performances, I don’t care to find out much more. The highlight, and really the only thing that salvaged yesterday’s experience was Public Enemy, who proved that 20 years after that seminal album they can still bring the noise and possibly the funk (No Savion Glover).
They were all there. Chuck D. Public Enemy. The SW1 dancers (I know this isn’t their name but I’m feeling a little bit better know and am in the mood to make In Living Color references). Professor Griff wasn’t there though, I assume Nasir has kept him as his own personal political guru. They ran through the album and more, Chuck’s voice, booming like a bazooka, Flav, clock dangling, imploring the crowd that “no matter how much TV I’m on, I’ll still Public Enemy this is my first love.” Most impressive was the fact that instead of mailing it in, doing the perfunctory It Takes a Millions and heading off to their hotels, the group didn’t want to leave the stage, running through pretty much all the hits of their discography, from “911 is a Joke,” to the He Got Game theme song to their most recent single whose name currently eludes me. It was a great set and served to again reiterate what everyone already knows: that Public Enemy are one of the finest groups in hip-hop history.
I ‘d like to write more but unfortunately, there’s no time. Caribou’s on in less than an hour and I’m sure to miss it. Meanwhile, my laptop is about to crash and the Fela’s starting to repeat itself and so am I. These are not ideal writing conditions. Besides, I have to badger the press people into handing me over a VIP pass so I can gorge myself on the free burritos and beer. This is serious business. Godspeed. Or something.
Posted in Pitchfork | 15 Comments »
July 18th, 2008
Is where I’ll be until Monday. Goals for the trip: eat a deep dish pizza, drink myself into a Sparks-induced stupor, critique a free Chipotle Burritos for lacking flavor variance and sonic originality. Out of these three, I will probably only eat a deep dish pizza. However, I expect it to be delicious. Expect updates, blog posts and various digital merriment through the weekend, provided I don’t get sidetracked by Chris Martin asking me if I think about him now and then while trying to remind me of memories of watching fireworks over Lake Michigan.
Posted in Are You From the Lester Bangs School of Thought? | 4 Comments »
July 17th, 2008
Photo Via New York Times
Zimbabwe native and ex-Stylus scribe Andrew Iliff knows more about African music than Vampire Weekend. He also rocks better sunglasses.
The house lights finally dimmed, the final stragglers in their places, a single spot lit up over the stage at the Avery Fisher Hall in New York City, illumining a women named Kokanko Sata warming up her kamelen n’goni. Leaning over, a friend whispered to me, “Look how much potential energy there is on stage!” In the spilt glow of the spot, a serried array of guitarists sat just to one side of Sata; the nearest in a series of percussionists warmed the surface of a calabash with his palms; behind him, the highest point on the stage, Tony Allen fidgeted amongst an armory of cymbals like a fleet of UFOs, clad in a silver-white satin spacesuit; to the right stood the seven-man Hypnotic Brass Ensemble, silently waiting to go off like a Chekovian shotgun, a finger of bicep curled around a sousaphone trigger. At the centre of the crowd, Sata’s solitary melody was meditative, throat clearing; seldom has musical restraint seemed so tense, like an abandoned mic turned up high.
Allen introduced the Hypnotic Brass with a beat that skittered like rock-heavy surf. “Sankofa,” from the recent Lagos Shake album of Allen remixes and collaborations stepped into the all-but empty space, constructing a crisis-stricken fanfare atop a relentlessly ascending march, a grim call to The Last Battle. In between phrases, the players – all sons of Sun Ra Arkestranaut Phil Cohran – grooved in I-Three synchrony, making copulative gestures with their, um, horns.
And Damon Albarn, the guy with his name on the marquee? Hunched over a pint-size keyboard like a schoolboy playing hookie on a park bench, sporting the smile of one who is getting away with it. The all-for-one staging kept just about everyone onstage all evening, no matter how few or many were performing, presumably so that Albarn, geeking out at the foot of Allen’s drum riser, wouldn’t be all on his tod.
Albarn During His Willy Wonka Phase
Albarn’s omnivorousness risks overreaching; it takes some kind of Mad Hatter to accomplish the transition from Simone White’s cerebrospinal urban folk (a ruefully Alice cover of Fred Bango’s “Bunny In A Bunny Suit”) to Lobi Traoré’s highwire blues, whose breakneck, polyvocal clatter is cousin to the din of Konono No. 1. And indeed there were some bum notes over the two hours of the Albarn Invitational: handclapping gospel singalong stultified after Allen’s liquid lecture in rhythm; Victoria Williams Southern savant act wore thin when her eccentric guitar strum stifled and stymied a string of collaborative percussionists.
Albarn’s bloody-minded avoidance of any ethnobongo “world music” fetishism – an obstinate refusal to pay any attention to borders – is the trademark of Honest Jon’s, the label Albarn co-owns. Opening its doors with Mali Music, a collection of tricked-out field recordings from Albarn’s first visit to Mali, Honest Jon’s now flogs a mongrel catalogue that makes putting archival Baghdad folk alongside homoerotic Japanese prog appear inevitable.
Thus, on a stage draped with flags, the British flag got equal prominence with the Malian, and a Hypnotic Brasser wore his American flag like a superhero. When Bocoum shouted “Feet!” and his violinist indulged him with a little soft-shoe shuffle in bright white sneakers, his equally pearly-white smile was an offshoot musical solo, not a minstrel’s exhibition. Some earlier publicity materials described Albarn as “curating” the show, but Albarn himself introduced it as “Honest Jon’s Chop Up,” using a Nigerian term for a feast, and “served” might have been better. Albarn’s presence was like that of an affable chef eager to watch people eat: burbling unintelligible introductions, grinning encouragingly, unnecessarily breaking up the silent pause while the next course is served. The draw-your-own-conclusions approach was less in evidence in Williams wide-eyed birkenstocked remark halfway through – “They’ve been playing some of these songs since the 14th century!” – about as welcome, and necessary, as being reminded that the introduction to “Fake Empire” is really a ¾ rhythm played against a 4/4 rhythm, you see how that works?
Freed of curatorial responsibilities, Albarn was easily the most unnecessary man onstage, huffing with ADD gusto at his melodica as though he’d just got it home from Fisher Price. Finally he borrowed Simon Tong’s guitar and Sata’s centrestage microphone to lead an all-in rendition of “Sunset Coming On,” the beautiful if slightly flat-footed closer on Mali Music. But just as it was all getting a little kum-ba-yah, Albarn leapt into the air, the pace doubled to a Traoré tempo – only this time with twenty people walking the highwire all at once. As the audience rose to its feet and danced in the aisles, Albarn slipped back alongside Traoré, flailing inexpertly at his guitar, a delighted guest at his own banquet.
Download:
MP3: Tony Allen/Hypnotic Brass Ensemble-”Sankofa”
MP3: The Good, The Bad & The Queen-”The History Song”
MP3: Blur-”Girls & Boys”
MP3: Gorillaz-”Dirty Harry”
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 2 Comments »
July 16th, 2008
I probably shouldn’t find this funny and yet somehow I can’t stop laughing.
via Nialler 9.
Posted in Uncategorized | 4 Comments »
July 16th, 2008
Summer Jamz ‘08 #15: Sach O
http://www.sendspace.com/file/jugatb
Sach O blogs for Ohword.com where his angry rants make the natives restless. He can currently be found somewhere in Thailand but will be returning to North-America in August to record a pop album. We’re not sure if he’s joking.
- The Beastie Boys – Mark on the Bus
- Marlena Shaw – California Soul
- The Stone Roses – Elephant Stone
- Gal Costa – Lost in Paradise
- Doris – Waiting at the Station
- Happy Mondays – Hallelujah (MacColl mix)
- Bucktown (Interlude)
- Juvenile – Ghetto Children
- Society of Soul ft. TLC – Changes
- Main Ingredient – Summer Breeze
- The Decemberists – Summersong
- Fleet Foxes – Blue Ridge Mountains
- The Pharcyde – She Said (Jay Dee Remix)
- Friday Foster (Interlude)
- The Mary Jane Girls – All Night Long
- Tricky – You Don’t
- De La Soul ft. Maceo Parker – I be Blowin’
- The Notorious B.I.G – Juicy
- Akhenaton ft. Fonky Family – Bad Boys de Marseilles
- The Kinks – Sunny Afternoon
- Of Montreal – An Eluardian Instance (Live)
- Sach – Who’s the Deejay? (Madlib vs. Cheech n Chong)
Summer doesn’t mean much in the tropics, at least for visiting white people. Sure it rains more (less tourists, cheaper rooms) but the shift from “hotter than a 92 Dre beat” to “almost unbearable” isn’t quite the same as going from frosty to scorching. Back home (Montreal, that French place with the indie bands) summer is the single most important part of life, the 3 to 4 month window where it’s warm enough to go outside and the town suddenly explodes with festivals, street parties and every other imaginable excuse to get out and enjoy life before the icy hand of winter creeps back in. Summer out there makes people do crazy things, I’ve quit jobs over good weather and more than one demented drug binge has been undertaken solely because “it’s nice out”. Summer also results in radio hits that skirt the line between good and awful so subtly that it’s years before you realize in horror that Incubus and Noreaga are permanently associated with cherished memories. But if there’s one thing I’ve missed about summer back home on this trip (6 months and counting in Asia), it’s the cycle. The slow build from the minute the leaves are out to the last bacchanalian blowout come early September. With all of this in mind, here’s a mix dedicated to my favorite summer moments.
1. “The fuck-going-to-work song” The Beastie Boys – Mark on the Bus
A proper mixtape needs a proper intro just like a good summer needs that moment of clarity when you suddenly realize that you only live once and that welfare checks can pay the rent this go around. Keyboard Money Mark may be singing about heading to work for the man, but it sounds like he’s 3 miles high and building a b-ball court for a guy called MCA.
2. “The Opening credit song” Marlena Shaw – California Soul
Someone once said that mixtapes are how we score the films of our lives. Actually, lots of people have said that, usually after listening to entirely too much Phish. But if ever I need to match the title sequence of some long lost black 60’s coming of age story to a song, it’ll be Marlena Shaw’s California Soul. DJ Premier knows what’s up.
3. “The crazy night out song” The Stone Roses – Elephant Stone
I’ve met more than my fair share of British people while traveling through Asia and more or less every single one above the age of 25 has an undying love for this band. I knew they were big out there but I had no idea that the entire United Kingdom lost its virginity to their music while we were stuck with Milli Vanilli. Anyways, summer’s all about partying and while I don’t approve of Nu Rave, M.I.A or most UK dance music in general, this is a surefire classic.
4. “The morning after song” Gal Costa – Lost in Paradise
Everyone remembers the hangover, but no one ever gives props to those perfect mornings where the right combination of time, liquor and junk food leaves your digestive system perfectly unscathed. Gal Costa’s “Lost in Paradise” captures that feeling effortlessly, from the hazy horns of the intro to the slowly building verses to the explosive finale. The perfect song for when you’re feeling good enough to get up but don’t really need to.
5. “The Road Trip Song” Doris – Waiting at the Station
I’m cheating a bit with this one since it’s definitely inspired by my summer/winter abroad this year rather than my time in Montreal, but anyone who’s taken a road trip without a proper car can relate. Train stations aren’t nearly as romantic as their depictions in novels or films, but they’re not half bad places to people watch either. The Swedish soul singer Doris’ take on waiting around for one’s ride out of town after a winter slaving for the man is liberation music at it’s finest.
6. “The Drug Song” – Happy Mondays – Hallelujah (MacColl Mix)
Simply put, Sean Ryder’s drug intake puts anyone short of Keith Richards to shame. While this means that his attempted comeback at Coachella last year was a predictable disaster, it also made for some interesting music during his band’s early 90’s peak. Riding a mechanical rhythm, Hallelujah’s sacrilegious melding of drugs, dance and religion would be the perfect song for an Candy flip fueled freak-out if only the rest of the party remembered it.
7. “The interlude” – Bucktown
Interludes are what separate mixtapes from…better mixtapes with interludes. Plus summer’s all about seeing flicks with the crew. Hopefully your viewing is half as bad ass as Bucktown.
8. “The Bounce Song” – Juvenile – Ghetto Children
Ok, I know what you’re thinking: “did this East Coast elitist motherfucker just put a Juvenile song on his tape?!” (Alternately, “that’s technically not a bounce song”). To this I answer, “yes I did” (and alternately, “I don’t care”). Like it or not, for the past 10 years every summer’s had its southern anthem and as far as I’m concerned, they were never better than Cash Money’s initial onslaught on the mainstream consciousness. I mean, just compare this album cut to Lollipop or anything by Yung Berg.
9. “The house-party slow jam” – Society of Soul ft. TLC - Changes
Try as I might, my house parties never managed to be quite as cool as Biggie’s “One More Chance” video. Maybe it’s because I don’t know any video hoes. Still, I always throw this on around 2AM in the blind hope that chicks will spontaneously make out with each other and that my pimp game will suddenly improve.
10. “The clean-up song” – The Main Ingredient – Summer Breeze
Cleaning up after house parties is a bitch. If you’re like me, you’re either coming down or entirely too hype for such a routine activity. But friends don’t let friends deal with random puke on their own. I promise that if you throw this bad boy on, the job won’t be half as bad and you’ll be done in time for sunrise and McDonalds breakfast.
11. “The white girl song” – The Decemberists – Summersong
Ok, so I win no points for originality here, but if you’ve ever dealt with quasi-arty white chicks, you know that’s the point. Making out with Colin Meloy warbling in the background after a date is probably up there with putting on a Peter Frampton or Foreigner record in the 70’s but if it gets me in, I got no shame. Although I draw the line at Maroon 5.
12. “The living-out-in-the-woods song” Fleet Foxes – Blue Ridge Mountains
Indie darlings they are and I’m not totally sold on the album but even I can’t deny just how dope “Blue Ridge Mountains” is. While I can’t front on how awesome Montreal gets in the summer, I always try to spend at least one week out in the mountains to really get away from it all. This will be the soundtrack for that expedition when I touch down back home.
13. “The laying-around-in-bed-with-her song” The Pharcyde – She Said (Jay Dee remix)
This one’s really all about the beat and chorus. Who cares if the Pharcyde are going on about rejection for the thousandth time? Dilla’s dropping an early gem and the hook is so smooth that your one night stand is onto round two before you know it.
14. “The Interlude redux” – Friday Foster
Keeping with the theme…
15. “The well known retro funk song” – Mary Jane Girls – All Night Long
Everyone from Redman to LL Cool J has bitten off a chunk of this Rick James produced classic and with good reason. Sure your parents probably recognize it and it might make an appearance at your cousin Jon Jon’s wedding but its one of the tightest, sexiest grooves of the 80’s and it’s not nearly as synthesized as your typical Prince jam. I stand by this one.
16. “The stoner song” – Tricky – You Don’t
Trip-Hop is supremely unpopular right now. I mean, even Portishead all but abandoned it for their newest album and they freaking invented the sound. It’s a shame, I’ll take heavy boom-bap drums, fat basslines and sexy vocals over 808’s, gurgling synths and annoying dance-floor call-and-response chants any day. Here’s a test: put this on when your pretentious music snob friends are around after everyone’s sufficiently high. Odds are, they’ll all ask what it is and recoil in horror when they realize that they actually *gasp* like an uncool record.
17. “The instrumental song” – De La Soul ft. Maceo Parker – I be Blowin’
Just in case you’re still high and don’t want to move after the last one. You know I take care of ya. Incidentally, with all the talk about Outkast and Lauryn Hill introducing genre bending pop elements to rap with their 98 releases, how come no one ever gives De La props for having the balls to let MACEO PARKER drop 5 minutes of funky jazz waaay back in 93? It’s a damn shame.
18. “The Feel-good classic rap song” – The Notorious B.I.G – Juicy
This Mp3 is actually ripped from my original “Ready to Die” cassette purchased in 95. No lie. Every summer tape needs at least one crazy known rap jam for everyone to sing along to. This is that jam. Interestingly enough, I notice that the “Super Nintendo, Sega Genesis” line gets people the most hyped these days. Videogame nostalgia stand up!
19. “The French rap song that Sach tries to push on us” – AKH ft. Fonky Family – Bad Boys de Marseilles.
Marseilles was to French Hip Hop as LA was to the States…if Wu-Tang was from L.A. and everyone was cynical and North-African. This track was a MONSTER summer hit out there spawning two remixes, a career for the Fonky Family and a full-time rap radio station. Now you’ve gotta listen to it because this is my mixtape dammit and I’m not curbing my eccentricities. Just pretend it’s what the cool kids are listening to.
20. “The summer’s over song” – The Kinks – Sunny Afternoon
And just like that, it’s over. It’s the end of August and you’ve wasted another season drinking, smoking, eating, partying and avoiding responsibilities. Ain’t it grand? But now you gotta face reality and the only one there to take your side is Mr. Ray Davies and his motley band of misfits.
21. “The nostalgic look back song” – Of Montreal – An Eluardian Instance (Live)
The nostalgic song…OF THE FUTURE! Seriously though, committed fan that I am, I had to throw something from Of Montreal’s upcoming “Skeletal Lamping” onto this mix even if the actual record hasn’t leaked yet. An uptempo pop track celebrating everything fun about summer time (with no mentions of transsexuals like most recent Kevin Barnes songs), this is the perfect way to look back at a season well spent.
22. “The Outro” – Sach (Madlib vs. Cheech N Chong) – Who’s the Deejay?
Just because it was lying around the iPod with those other two interludes.
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