Another Tequila Slumrise (May 25th, 2018, Columbia, MO)

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Picture a married pair of teachers, spending one of their first ed-genda-free days together after getting in a good, long walk and some reading during the early morning hours, standing in their kitchen examining the unfolding late morning and early afternoon as their shared oyster and wondering, “What to do?” No papers to grade. No tutorial appointments to keep. No student teachers to observe. No students whose grades need tracking. What to do when one (make that two) can do anything? One teacher catches a familiar cocking of his partner’s eye, and translates it–after many years, mere twitches can communicate paragraphs.

“Huevos rancheros and margaritas!”

The pair hightail it to their favorite joint. The huevos are great; the margaritas are so good, they shrug and admit, like lush-life Ernie Bankses, “Let’s drink two.” And a shot for good measure when they get home.

Two hours later, they awaken to slum the rest of the day away–well, their slumming might be considered more industrious than most folks’, but slumming is the name of the pace and the character of the choices, especially the musical ones. He browses the stacks for something that perfectly suits their pleasantly bleary mood, something that signifies creeping into consciousness, something that dawns slowly and then breaks brilliantly, something they both dig the most (and that they were digging the day before).

Ah. Yes.

After a few more tracks from the CD–“Can You Get to That?” “Me and My Folks, You and Your Folks,” “Super Stupid”–it occurs to him that the darkness of the, um, analysis is outracing the darkness of the actual day. There is a chill that blows in off of this Funkadelic album that might well suit the state of the nation, but does not match the state of the home. Also, a paranoia pervades Mr. Clinton’s sentiments, perhaps; is this what the couple need as they enjoy some well-earned freedom?

Warmth! Fondness! Good cheer! A seductive drawl, perchance? That’s right: he doesn’t even have to choose, he doesn’t even have to ask her if it’ll do. That quartet of requirements just adds up to an inevitability.

The intoning of Mr. Frizzell fits the cut of their slumming like a perfectly worn pair of sweatpants from ’05, and the pair just let Lefty roll from their, with a softly swinging closer a couple of hours down the night.

Short-shrift Division:

George Clinton & Parliament: Medicaid Fraud Dogg–I didn’t quite complete the near two-hour journey of what might well be the final Uncle Jam record, but–and I say this to comfort the cognoscenti–a weird journey it is. It’s damn near ambient funk, it’s so hushed, but it flows like lava, it’s offers a kind of concept that adepts will recognize (“One nation / Under sedation”), it hides munchkins in its grooves, it guest-stars an intriguing, speech-impeded pimp (Mudbone Cooper?), and, yes, it does indeed feature the grizzled Dr. Funkenstein hoarsing around funkily with his considerable accumulated wisdom. I am not sure how many times I (or you) may listen to it, but I can testify that it is interesting. And did I mention it flows like lava?

 

They’re/he’s back.

 

 

 

 

 

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