We should live with the conviction: "I wasn't born for one particular corner: the whole world's my home country". If the truth of that were clear to you, you would not be surprised that the diversity of new surroundings for which, out of weariness of the old, you are constantly heading fails to do you any good. Whichever had came first would have satisfied you if you had believed you were home in all. As it is, instead of traveling you are rambling and drifting, exchanging one place for another when the thing you are looking for, the good life, is available everywhere.Meditating upon such a maxim evokes a sun stroked revelation. The spirit clears its throat, my veins breathe in the wild concrete, and I find myself briefly at home in this strange world.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Battling Wanderlust
In moments when I am stricken ferociously with the itch to move, the curdling desire to travel across the vast lands of earth, bitten by the anxiety for adventure, I turn towards the masterful expertise of Seneca. The Roman politician turned Stoic philosopher offers endless suggestions, maxims, and daily practices of mind and body for those who choose to work towards pursuing the good life. He affirms
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Interview: The Groove Merchant, Cool Chris
For International Record Store Day I caught up with Cool Chris, owner and manager of San Francisco's notorious Groove Merchant Records shop. Taking a tip from a recent Whatimseeing tribute, I biked over with my partner in crime to the infamous Lower Haight destination. The Groove Merchant is nestled among the richly colored Victorian buildings with a surprisingly unassuming appearance. One dollar milk crates and a sun drenched "bought and sold" street sign beckon passerbys who might otherwise miss the simply painted "records" in bubbly letters on the facade. Nonetheless, what awaits inside is nothing short of a mecca for seekers of the most killer black crack.
Producers and collectors of rare vinyl across the globe know this nook chock full of obscure hiphop, disco, psych, soul, funk, and Latin donuts. Trading, buying, selling, and shooting the shit, Groove Merchant Records is a loud marketplace for digging wanderlust.
Chris takes us on a trip down memory lane recounting the history of Groove Merchant Records and how he became involved. We then discuss the internet's increasing impact on local record stores, the many tensions developing in the battle between vinyl and digital music, and finally, the much argued over beginnings of hiphop on wax. Listen to the insight only possible from an expert 15 years deep in the bizness.
This interview was part of the inaugural celebration for our first Sanguine Sunday Radio broadcast on Pirate Cat Radio 87.9fm, the largest independent and community radio station in all of San Francisco! Our tenth episode, "Rapper's Delight", was an exploration and breakdown of the roots of hiphop on wax from 1979 and on.
Unfortunately, we're having some technical difficulties translating the show into mp3 format, but if you were lucky enough to hear us live, shout us out! Tune in every Saturday 8-10pm, stream live online, or peep the Sang Sun Radio website for archived podcasts (yes!).
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Live Cuts: The Windy Budos
Caught the Budos Band blast out their latest afro-soul powered set last night at the Independent. I wanted to experiment with some in crowd live recording on that mad clandestine level with my handheld. Fuck pictures, I got the imagery of sound baby.
Once "Los Barbudos", the bearded black haired members of all possible styles shortened their name to Budos after someone decided to shave off the face scruff. Well, now they thrive fully bearded again, funkifying the spectrum of afro rhythms and psychedelic melodies off the highly successful soul revival label, Daptone Records.
The eleven piece outfit (short on some brass this time) played a range of songs from their discography and new joints off the up and coming album. The sound journeyed through adrenaline charged dance numbers, springing horns and funky backbeat, to far out meditative jams serrated with electric keys laced upon an endless, hypnotizing bongo percussion.
While Budos enthusiastically thrives in pumping the dance floor full of sweaty grinding bodies, I found them strongest in their spacey experiment with psychedelified afro-funk. These tracks are definitely in debt to the original arrangements of Mulatu Astatke', Ehiophia's premiere jazz / funk virtuoso. They sway with the wind of the Mediterranean, soaking up the African sun, and finally washed over the dirty Summer waters of their home place, Staten Island New York.
Once "Los Barbudos", the bearded black haired members of all possible styles shortened their name to Budos after someone decided to shave off the face scruff. Well, now they thrive fully bearded again, funkifying the spectrum of afro rhythms and psychedelic melodies off the highly successful soul revival label, Daptone Records.
The eleven piece outfit (short on some brass this time) played a range of songs from their discography and new joints off the up and coming album. The sound journeyed through adrenaline charged dance numbers, springing horns and funky backbeat, to far out meditative jams serrated with electric keys laced upon an endless, hypnotizing bongo percussion.
While Budos enthusiastically thrives in pumping the dance floor full of sweaty grinding bodies, I found them strongest in their spacey experiment with psychedelified afro-funk. These tracks are definitely in debt to the original arrangements of Mulatu Astatke', Ehiophia's premiere jazz / funk virtuoso. They sway with the wind of the Mediterranean, soaking up the African sun, and finally washed over the dirty Summer waters of their home place, Staten Island New York.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Rapper Poets: DOOM vs. Bukowski
Two weeks ago DOOM (dropping the MF) crept out of the shadows to unleash an apocalyptic maelstrom onto heads. His latest effort, Born Like This, is still resonating in the soundwaves, listeners and critics alike scrambling to make coherent DOOM's catastrophically pleasing formula. I don't plan to give any definitive answers here, but I anticipate that the album's title offers some clues to understanding DOOM's broodingly vicious cartoonery.
It is rare that a rapper makes reference to a white American poet of longstanding acclaim in the cannon. Although it would be unfair to call the haggardly magnificent Charles Bukowski a conventional member of the West's finest lyricists. DOOM chooses the title "Born Like This" to directly reference the revealing documentary on the life and work of Los Angeles' most prolific barfly, Bukowski: Born Into This (2003). A poet born into ugliness and horror and loneliness; a rapper born like a cartoon clip and masked warrior and tragic tale.
In the documentary, director John Dullaghan splices some of Bukowski's spoken poems over archived footage of the man going about his daily affairs. The montage of Bukowski's keen lyrical despair over sparse 1960's - 70's Hollywood is gripping if not completely unsettling. The brutally honest and troubled words of "Dinosauria, We" are particularly compelling.
DOOM's "Cellz" begins with revamped vocals cut from the film's clips of "Dinosauria, We", an apocalyptic meditation on the filth bred by humankind in the end of days. The minimal quality of the Bukowski's short of breath rhythm is filled out with gong-like dissonant drums warning of explosive terrors and shots. Dramatized keys straight out of a cult detective film whirl "Dinosauria" into a hyperbolic cartoonish tale. And perhaps that's all it ever was. The end of days foretold by Bukowski sets the horizon for DOOM's coming, "Born out of that / The sun hidden there / Awaiting the next chapter".
Enter DOOM, a rapper with poetic ambitions. A mask striving for authenticity. A name always changing. A lyricism fighting to be heard. And some unadulterated, mad live, ridiculously talented flow from the metal faced bard.
For more tales of human caused mass destruction like "Dinosauria, We" look for Bukowski's insidious collection, Last Night of the Earth Poems.
It is rare that a rapper makes reference to a white American poet of longstanding acclaim in the cannon. Although it would be unfair to call the haggardly magnificent Charles Bukowski a conventional member of the West's finest lyricists. DOOM chooses the title "Born Like This" to directly reference the revealing documentary on the life and work of Los Angeles' most prolific barfly, Bukowski: Born Into This (2003). A poet born into ugliness and horror and loneliness; a rapper born like a cartoon clip and masked warrior and tragic tale.
In the documentary, director John Dullaghan splices some of Bukowski's spoken poems over archived footage of the man going about his daily affairs. The montage of Bukowski's keen lyrical despair over sparse 1960's - 70's Hollywood is gripping if not completely unsettling. The brutally honest and troubled words of "Dinosauria, We" are particularly compelling.
DOOM's "Cellz" begins with revamped vocals cut from the film's clips of "Dinosauria, We", an apocalyptic meditation on the filth bred by humankind in the end of days. The minimal quality of the Bukowski's short of breath rhythm is filled out with gong-like dissonant drums warning of explosive terrors and shots. Dramatized keys straight out of a cult detective film whirl "Dinosauria" into a hyperbolic cartoonish tale. And perhaps that's all it ever was. The end of days foretold by Bukowski sets the horizon for DOOM's coming, "Born out of that / The sun hidden there / Awaiting the next chapter".
Enter DOOM, a rapper with poetic ambitions. A mask striving for authenticity. A name always changing. A lyricism fighting to be heard. And some unadulterated, mad live, ridiculously talented flow from the metal faced bard.
For more tales of human caused mass destruction like "Dinosauria, We" look for Bukowski's insidious collection, Last Night of the Earth Poems.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Billboard Takeovers
Cruising down brunch boulevard in Los Angeles (3rd St. West Mid-City) has become one of my favorite afternoon visits in the city of cars. Not for the caramel pancakes, or organic wheat toast, or grade C movie stars, but for the endless supply of mad ill billboard bombings! Boutique stridden and grove congested 3rd St. is home to one of the most rapidly changing street exhibitions in the country. And yes, I feel expert enough to claim such boasts.
Those who lift their noses to the sky and not just towards their red velvet cupcakes enjoy whimsical and sometimes stunning treats without being taxed. When it's not Augor or Revok destroying heavens with ridiculously well crafted pieces integrated into the billboard designs, other cats step up to the metal plate. Low-fi camera represent!
Those who lift their noses to the sky and not just towards their red velvet cupcakes enjoy whimsical and sometimes stunning treats without being taxed. When it's not Augor or Revok destroying heavens with ridiculously well crafted pieces integrated into the billboard designs, other cats step up to the metal plate. Low-fi camera represent!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Sun Ra: Calling Planet Earth
The cosmic jazz legend, Sun Ra (born Herman Poole Blount), is an enigmatic force embedded in technicolor myth. He has said himself to have descended to these lands from Saturn. Aliens from a distant rock disclosed to Sun Ra the power of music and soulful vibration. In other dimensions, music can wash clothes, heal diseases, free enslaved peoples. Galactic myth builds, saturates, transforms, and unravels before us.
In a series of interviews, films, and live events Sun Ra called without a touch of irony for the isotope teleportation of black people to another planet where self-affirmation, love, and community may reign. For Sun Ra, "Black" is no simple color term, but designates all persons oppressed or systematically frustrated, all living beings seeking spiritual rejuvenation and emphatic liberation.
In 1971, Sun Ra was given the chance to call planet earth through the role of an academic. He expounded his afro-arkestra philosophy to a UC Berkeley classroom in the African American studies department. My dear friend Edgar from World with Words has graciously researched the syllabus and found the list of books required for the class study. One might not have better luck actually finding these luminous scrolls on earthly soil. Nonetheless, thanks to Edgar, the music syllabus still circulates.
Sun Ra expounds, calls, and descends. For your consideration, a triplet of videos in tribute to the Sun Ra dynasty.
In a series of interviews, films, and live events Sun Ra called without a touch of irony for the isotope teleportation of black people to another planet where self-affirmation, love, and community may reign. For Sun Ra, "Black" is no simple color term, but designates all persons oppressed or systematically frustrated, all living beings seeking spiritual rejuvenation and emphatic liberation.
In 1971, Sun Ra was given the chance to call planet earth through the role of an academic. He expounded his afro-arkestra philosophy to a UC Berkeley classroom in the African American studies department. My dear friend Edgar from World with Words has graciously researched the syllabus and found the list of books required for the class study. One might not have better luck actually finding these luminous scrolls on earthly soil. Nonetheless, thanks to Edgar, the music syllabus still circulates.
Sun Ra expounds, calls, and descends. For your consideration, a triplet of videos in tribute to the Sun Ra dynasty.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Outro J Dilla: The Man Becomes His Music
I decided to revisit an old post on the late and great J Dilla. Enjoy.
The question of a supernatural afterlife remains a dubious if not outright unanswerable enigma for us beings of limited powers. If we would put aside such narratives of a divine heaven or cursed hell or even dreams of reincarnation, we might come to acknowledge an infinitely more tangible idea of the eternal afterlife here on earthly soil. The possibility of a resonating memory so essential that we cannot imagine the world without it. Paradoxically, this kind of consonant memory--human and fragile--can take on an absolutely necessary and eternal value for us.
Just consider for instance an artist gifted enough to create beautiful works and pass these animate memories onto us in the form of an aesthetic legacy. Such a legacy shapes our understanding of not only art but the sense of meaningfulness that orients our lives. A number of the more introspective artistic types--confronting their own inevitable deaths (despite whatever beliefs they might hold about a supernatural realm)--become intrigued if not obsessed by the possibility of such a legacy. Wracked by inner conflict, they grapple with the notion that the lifespan of sublime artwork outlasts that of the progenitor.
In recent memory, a young musician by the name of J Dilla (born James D. Yancey) reflected on the afterlife of his art in the 2006 release of his provocative and brilliant soundscape, Donuts (Stones Throw Records), just days before his untimely passing. Dilla's production submerges the listener deep into his idiosyncratic brand of soulful frequency and lush rhythms. His sonic universe provokes and inspires, lingering in the crevices of our imagination. As a voracious flood of tribute albums, songs and articles continue to praise the life and music of Yancey (this one included), there is no doubt that his music is transforming into just this kind of aesthetic legacy.
While struggling to survive in a hospital bed in late 2005 and the twilight months of 2006 with the debilitating immune condition, lupus, J Dilla gathered the courage to release his most captivating effort. In a story that has become almost mythical in proportion, he worked bedside with musical equipment brought by his mother, known intimately to Dilla as Ma Dukes. Each of the 31 tracks he completed do not last much longer than a minute reflecting Yancey's failing endurance yet resilient devotion to tie together his final creative vision.
Interpreting the conceptual purpose intrinsic to an instrumental hiphop album is quite different than analyzing the transparent narrative and content of a singer's lyrics. However, hiphop arrangement makes no unsolvable mystery of the multiple stratospheres that build its sampled architecture. And while listening more carefully to Donuts and unraveling some of its layered puzzles, there is no question that Yancey was trying to come to terms with his own death on the approaching horizon by way of his production. Some of the cryptic code offers itself to us listeners.
As if peacefully saying goodbye to the terrestrial and firmly implanting himself into the everlasting through his art, Donuts ironically begins with the 'outro' and ends with the 'intro'. It does not take a leap of imagination to think that Dilla, a man completely absorbed in his music, understood his own life in terms of a musical narrative. The title 'outro' on the introductory track hints to the idea that Yancey composed Donuts as a personal meditation on death. We bear witness to the outro of a human life--the conclusive chapter--in the form of a tragic yet triumphant swan song.
The meaning of the closing 'intro' is more veiled in structure and purpose. Prefaced by two hymns of goodbye that halt and hesitate, reach out and shudder back, each song addresses a farewell to a respective audience. In “Bye.” Dilla opens a dialogue with his listeners, holding onto the Isley Brothers’ crooning, “Don't ever. . .” as we finish the words solemnly, “say goodbye”. And in crushing sincerity Dilla implores us, “I feel you”, implying that there is no reason for us to say last goodbyes despite the emphatic period at the end of the song's title. In the brooding penultimate dirge, “Last Donut of the Night”, Dilla dwells on the arresting texture of his self-realization that his life's work would soon come to an end. We feel his anticipation of a pending finale through the ghostly guise of an MC introducing the life's work of an anonymous musician about to take stage. That frozen moment of suspense comes to an abrupt interruption with an insight of clarity hurled forth in the lucid 'intro'.
In this heart wrenching very last song Dilla manages nothing short of a musical apotheosis. He employs a sample of one-hit wonder Motherlode's 1969 single, “When I Die”, a heartfelt soul jam originally directed towards a distant lover readdressed to everyone who listens. The track is propelled by serene percussion that drives Motherlode to chant in chilling harmony during the chorus, "When I die / I hope I'll be / The kind of man / That you thought I'd be". In the concluding 'intro' Dilla strategically cuts Motherlode's chorus to elevate the self-proclaiming "be" intertwined twice with the contrasting concept "die". The acoustic quality of the words are manipulated into near incomprehension, as Dilla deconstructs the notions of being and death into their minimal sonic elements of raw feeling.
Facing death head on, Dilla elongates Motherlode's vocals into a celestial proclamation, emphasizing not only the beauty of life but even his own oncoming second life, as he dissipates into becoming, and finally being, the music itself. As a last memory recorded in wax, Dilla aligns himself with a heritage of musicians who have passed but continue to live on in the hearts of all who hear his everlasting sonance. Maybe that is why we do not ever have to say a last goodbye.
Intro J Dilla.
The question of a supernatural afterlife remains a dubious if not outright unanswerable enigma for us beings of limited powers. If we would put aside such narratives of a divine heaven or cursed hell or even dreams of reincarnation, we might come to acknowledge an infinitely more tangible idea of the eternal afterlife here on earthly soil. The possibility of a resonating memory so essential that we cannot imagine the world without it. Paradoxically, this kind of consonant memory--human and fragile--can take on an absolutely necessary and eternal value for us.
Just consider for instance an artist gifted enough to create beautiful works and pass these animate memories onto us in the form of an aesthetic legacy. Such a legacy shapes our understanding of not only art but the sense of meaningfulness that orients our lives. A number of the more introspective artistic types--confronting their own inevitable deaths (despite whatever beliefs they might hold about a supernatural realm)--become intrigued if not obsessed by the possibility of such a legacy. Wracked by inner conflict, they grapple with the notion that the lifespan of sublime artwork outlasts that of the progenitor.
In recent memory, a young musician by the name of J Dilla (born James D. Yancey) reflected on the afterlife of his art in the 2006 release of his provocative and brilliant soundscape, Donuts (Stones Throw Records), just days before his untimely passing. Dilla's production submerges the listener deep into his idiosyncratic brand of soulful frequency and lush rhythms. His sonic universe provokes and inspires, lingering in the crevices of our imagination. As a voracious flood of tribute albums, songs and articles continue to praise the life and music of Yancey (this one included), there is no doubt that his music is transforming into just this kind of aesthetic legacy.
While struggling to survive in a hospital bed in late 2005 and the twilight months of 2006 with the debilitating immune condition, lupus, J Dilla gathered the courage to release his most captivating effort. In a story that has become almost mythical in proportion, he worked bedside with musical equipment brought by his mother, known intimately to Dilla as Ma Dukes. Each of the 31 tracks he completed do not last much longer than a minute reflecting Yancey's failing endurance yet resilient devotion to tie together his final creative vision.
Interpreting the conceptual purpose intrinsic to an instrumental hiphop album is quite different than analyzing the transparent narrative and content of a singer's lyrics. However, hiphop arrangement makes no unsolvable mystery of the multiple stratospheres that build its sampled architecture. And while listening more carefully to Donuts and unraveling some of its layered puzzles, there is no question that Yancey was trying to come to terms with his own death on the approaching horizon by way of his production. Some of the cryptic code offers itself to us listeners.
As if peacefully saying goodbye to the terrestrial and firmly implanting himself into the everlasting through his art, Donuts ironically begins with the 'outro' and ends with the 'intro'. It does not take a leap of imagination to think that Dilla, a man completely absorbed in his music, understood his own life in terms of a musical narrative. The title 'outro' on the introductory track hints to the idea that Yancey composed Donuts as a personal meditation on death. We bear witness to the outro of a human life--the conclusive chapter--in the form of a tragic yet triumphant swan song.
The meaning of the closing 'intro' is more veiled in structure and purpose. Prefaced by two hymns of goodbye that halt and hesitate, reach out and shudder back, each song addresses a farewell to a respective audience. In “Bye.” Dilla opens a dialogue with his listeners, holding onto the Isley Brothers’ crooning, “Don't ever. . .” as we finish the words solemnly, “say goodbye”. And in crushing sincerity Dilla implores us, “I feel you”, implying that there is no reason for us to say last goodbyes despite the emphatic period at the end of the song's title. In the brooding penultimate dirge, “Last Donut of the Night”, Dilla dwells on the arresting texture of his self-realization that his life's work would soon come to an end. We feel his anticipation of a pending finale through the ghostly guise of an MC introducing the life's work of an anonymous musician about to take stage. That frozen moment of suspense comes to an abrupt interruption with an insight of clarity hurled forth in the lucid 'intro'.
In this heart wrenching very last song Dilla manages nothing short of a musical apotheosis. He employs a sample of one-hit wonder Motherlode's 1969 single, “When I Die”, a heartfelt soul jam originally directed towards a distant lover readdressed to everyone who listens. The track is propelled by serene percussion that drives Motherlode to chant in chilling harmony during the chorus, "When I die / I hope I'll be / The kind of man / That you thought I'd be". In the concluding 'intro' Dilla strategically cuts Motherlode's chorus to elevate the self-proclaiming "be" intertwined twice with the contrasting concept "die". The acoustic quality of the words are manipulated into near incomprehension, as Dilla deconstructs the notions of being and death into their minimal sonic elements of raw feeling.
Facing death head on, Dilla elongates Motherlode's vocals into a celestial proclamation, emphasizing not only the beauty of life but even his own oncoming second life, as he dissipates into becoming, and finally being, the music itself. As a last memory recorded in wax, Dilla aligns himself with a heritage of musicians who have passed but continue to live on in the hearts of all who hear his everlasting sonance. Maybe that is why we do not ever have to say a last goodbye.
Intro J Dilla.
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