Author: philovereem

Music monomaniac, retired English teacher, resident of Columbia, Missouri, former correspondent for ANOREXIC TEENAGE SEX GODS, READY TO SNAP, HITLIST, SUGARBUZZ, THE WAYBACK MACHINE, ROCK THERAPY, and THE FIRST CHURCH OF HOLY ROCK AND ROLL, co-lead singer of the non-legendary Wayne Coomers and the Original Sins of Fayetteville, Arkansas.

Fruitful Investigations (March 13th, 2018, Columbia, Missouri)

Once again, no narrative with which to surround these immersions–but I predict, based on the quality of these first-time listens, that narratives may be forthcoming.

South African rapper Yugen Blakrok is one of the few really interesting things about the Kendrick Lamar-curated Black Panther companion. I took a deeper dive into her 2013 debut, and one of the best things I can say about it is her mind-spray and fluid, fluent flow is gonna require I take an even deeper dive. She’s definitely got a seat in the Afro-Futurist spaceship; her rapping sounds to me like incantations; and she’s got a knack for joining abstractions with physical being–check this chunk from “Secrets of the Path,” one of many highlights:

What kinda ism is this?
We’re like light thru a prism before the schism is killed
In the prison of sleep…I keep rhyming through bars, lucid dreaming
Heard that love’s brighter from the outside, believe it
This morning when life woke up, I dove back down into slumber
Cuz in-between realities, there’s glitches when I stutter
Sleep-talking formula with in-breath
Exhale solutions, scientist in me is inbred
My language traps the tongue – caught in diction mazes lost for days – in hazy blazes
While fiery words transcend these mortal planes
My verbal play’s like smoke signals, home of the braves
And wild style thoughts can spray when the clouds spell riverclay
Psycho-analyst type in-between-the-lines reader
Deciphering codes beneath the eyelids as a dreamer
Diving deeper into abstract, non-conformity
My realest self’s created thru celestial artistry

Musically, Return of the Astro-Goth is just fine, though a bit of a static ground. This woman’s going to be much, much bigger, I think.

Saxophonist Evan Parker, almost 74, drummer Paul Lytton, freshly 71, and bassist Barry Guy, about to turn 71 himself, have long been friends, and for almost four decades a performing trio—the cream of British jazz improvisation. One thing I’ve noticed about the very best free performances is that it’s virtually impossible to determine the age of the performers. That idea is in play here: the reflexes, imagination, and ears of these men, surely aided by–yes–the profound familiarity of years, could be those of iconoclastic twenty-somethings looking took cut some old farts’ heads. ‘Cept these are the old farts, who long ago discovered a secret of life. As Parker says in the notes: “”Collective free improvisation is the utopian state arrived at in that other ‘little life,’ as the late John Stevens called the mental space of music making that happens when musicians of a like mind (birds of a feather) play freely together.” Like-minded. Yeah.

As I’ve mentioned a few times in previous posts, I’m subscribing to Joyful Noise Recordings’ “White Label Series,” in which established independent artists choose and curate overlooked albums from the very recent past for monthly vinyl release. March’s entry is one I’ve eagerly awaited; in fact, my motivation to subscribe to the project was largely due to sui generis rap MC Serengeti‘s involvement. I’ve long been a fan of the shape-shifting story-teller from Chicago, though much of his work is so gnomic, muted, depressive, and minimalistic that it not only demands sound-canceling headphone attention but can also, even then, defy parsing. The reason I mention that is Foreign & Domestic’s 2007 release, Your Mountain vs. My Iceberg, Serengeti’s “White Label” choice, shares those qualities. Is there such a subgenre as electro-twee? My first listen here tempts me to coin it. But I will be going back in when time permits.

Short-shrift Division:

Fans of Norman Whitfield, early Seventies protest-soul, and the Palmieri Brothers who haven’t heard this record need to change that fact. A landmark of post-assassination American pop that’s gotten too little attention–hell, I didn’t hear about it until a few years ago, and this stuff’s my meat and taters. With Eddie on piano and “theoretical arrangements,” Charlie on fascinating organ, luminaries like Pretty Purdie, Cornell Dupree, and Bruce Fowler in the musical mix, and the unsung Jimmy Norman on vocals. A taste:

Note: a great live album followed, which I wrote about last month!

The Be-Bop Boys (March 12th, 2018, Columbia, Missouri)

BUDSTITTkenny_dorhmam1

A very straightforward but exciting day of listening. I was a bit overwhelmed with tutoring chores and catching up on reading, but I made time for some amazing work by the individuals pictured above: pianist Bud Powell (left), saxophonist Sonny Stitt (center), and trumpeter Kenny Dorham (trumpet).

When the average music fan with a broad but general taste thinks about unit that personify the style known as be-bop, she must first think of Charlie Parker’s units with first Dizzy Gillespie and then Miles Davis on trumpet, usually driven to their legendary heights by Max Roach on drums. And those groups produced unquestionably masterful, exciting music that you can live your whole life with and never grow tired of. But another unit, recording during the same general time period, recorded stunning and thrilling tunes of their own that, while it may not match Bird’s group’s work for emotional intensity, will stop you short with their skill and invention.

I’m talking about the Be-Bop Boys, led by Powell, Stitt, and Dorham, virtuosos and composers all, occasionally augmented by two other young greats, Fats Navarro on trumpet and Kenny Clarke on drums. Here, Powell is poised to become, with his friend Thelonious Monk, the most influential pianist of his generation; Stitt is contending furiously for Parker’s alto mantle (experts differ on who was first to the attack they share, though the mercurial nature of the latter’s playing make them easy to distinguish–to my ear at least); Dorham, perhaps more in the shade than his compatriots, plays with a control that belies his years.

Of special note are the original versions of tunes that would later become established Powell classics (“Bebop in Pastel”–> “Bouncing with Bud”; “Fool’s Fancy”–> “Wail”), as well as another that is probably this unit’s claim to lasting fame in the jazz book: “Webb City.”

But here–don’t trust me. Partake and judge for yourself with this Be-Bop Boys playlist, which includes the three tracks above and more:

Monday Morning Hot (and Cold?) Tips! (March 11th, 2018, Highway 5 between Lebanon and Camdenton, Missouri)

I am not exactly a scoop-finder–things normally seem to trickle down to me. Once they do, I am fairly good at recognizing something interesting, but it might be months after the artifact’s emergence.

Hot Tip #1: However, on International Women’s Day, I did actually find something fresh that few seem to know about, based on social media’s evidence. Few readers would disagree with me that it’s easier to find international outlets for American garage-punk-styled music than it is to find domestic ones. As someone fairly passionate about that style, though, I have to dig through several layers of boiler-plate to get to something legitimately hot–to the extent, recently, that I’ve kinda given up. However, Madrid, Spain’s FOLC Records released the above compilation GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN!!! AND RIGHTS on Thursday, and–sucker that I am–I was intrigued enough by the album cover, the all-caps, the exclamation points, and the untranslated Spanish blurb to take a plunge without doing any research.

I’m damned glad I did! This lively and concise 14-song compilation made both Nicole and I sit up and take notice as we headed into mid-Missouri snow on the way back from a parental visit. The songs are neither all in Spanish (few are) nor all performed by women, but the commitment, enthusiasm, catchiness, and sheer energy that run like current throughout did honor to the release date and the title cause. The neat thing is, it’s also a little survey of styles: yep, there’s garage rock (Flamingo Tours’ surly cover of Roscoe Gordon’s “Just a Little Bit”) and garage punk (Las Calebras’ “Shake It”), but also straight-up old school r&b (Lord Rochester’s “Crawdad”), pre-war vocal group nods (Dr. Maha’s Miracle Tonic’s “She Stole My Bike But I Love Her”–imagine The Mills Brothers singing the line “Her perfect body / Fading Away”!), and a dab of hardcore-ish punk (Lupers’ “Me he vuelto a caer,” clocking in at 1:10). It’s a very enjoyable trip–and you can name your price!

Hot Tip #2! I’ve long been a fan of Oakland’s indefatigable activist MC Boots Riley and his group The Coup. I do have to admit, however, that after reading his screenplay Sorry to Both You a bit over a year ago, I was slightly underwhelmed. From Boots, I expected world-shaking, and the material seemed a light punch to the world’s shoulder. I am fully aware of the cruel tricks a trailer can play on you, but the above preview for the finished film convinces me to take a flyer when it comes my way. Why? Well, one, if ever a time was ripe for a Boots Riley production, it’s now, and the trailer convinces me he may have put very substantial meat on the screenplay’s bones. If you’re not all that familiar with Boots, he has proven he can tell a story. To wit:

 

Cold Tip #3, for cassette-seeking hipsters: go look for this item, which collects some ravin’ early tracks from the sadly-departed Pope of Memphis Music, Jim Dickinson. You can hear him doing his best Jerry Lee on the 88s, roarin’ through souped-up jug band music, closin’ down Sun Records’ golden line of singles with “Cadillac Man,” rubbing shoulders with The Cramps, and world-boogieing with Mud Boy and the Neutrons. Definitely worth the hunt, and you’ll have to.

Cold Tip #4, for those working on meditation: I have been striving to learn to meditate effectively with music as a focus. The above item worked great for me this weekend, mainly because I was focused on just experiencing things becoming as opposed to anticipating what would happen in the next moment. The music collected herein also eluded my attempts at analysis, because I don’t have the background to analyze it if I wanted to. Most important, the minorities making the music need all the spiritual support they can get, even if my mid-Missouri meditation will not help them not be oppressed. At least I’m conscious.

 

 

Arkansas Adventure: Crystal Bridges (March 10th, 2018, Bentonville, AR)

Nicole, my parents and I took a trip down Highways 37 and 62 to Bentonville, Arkansas, where one of our very favorite museums lies tucked into a lovely wood: Crystal Bridges. I’ll let you click that link to read the story behind it, but suffice it to say it’s a perfect home for an impressive collection of American art, and it’s free. Yesterday, we explored a Frank Lloyd Wright Usorian home (I’d live in it; my parents and wife would not) and absorbed the bounty of Soul of America: Art in the Era of Black Power, which runs until April 23rd, if you’re interested. My favorite artists in the collection? Narrative quilt maker Faith Ringgold and collagist Romane Bearden. But those two names are just scratching the surface of those whose work are represented. The special program, which costs $10 (a steal, considering), even has a booklet one can hold onto; it provides patrons three expertly-selected music playlists that mirror the artists’ concerns.

Because we were preoccupied with art, NCAA basketball, a game of Five Crowns, and each other’s company, Music wasn’t much on the menu. But on the way back from Bentonville–when intermittent service allowed it–we enjoyed the greatest hits of Louis Jordan, Brinkley, Arkansas’ best-known citizen and bedrock innovator in rock and roll. When you listen to Jordan, you get a lot: rockin’ rhythm, a mischievous and observant lyrical eye, sly singing, sharp alto sax playing, and a seemingly bottomless well of classic tunes. And though black power aficionados might possibly view Louis is an Uncle Tom variant, I and many other folks would argue that he was one of the first performers to play songs that reflected black life, and pulled white listeners in. Plus, anyone sworn by such a range of luminaries as Sonny Rollins, Chuck Berry, and Ray Charles must be taken seriously in cultural conversations. Here’s our favorite single-disc Jordan collection, and a great place to start:

If you like that, go here:

Report from the Road (March 9th, 2018, Monett, Missouri)

Some musical musings from the road:

Jimi Hendrix: Both Sides of the Sky–Despite a blazing “Hear My Train a-Comin'” and an interesting “Cherokee Mist,” this is flat-out barrel-scraping. Stephen Stills, anyone? I didn’t think so.

Hamad Kalkaba and the Golden Sounds–I can’t get enough of these rough and ready tracks from mid-Seventies Cameroon. Aside from the rhythmic propulsion, which one might expect…oh the horns ‘n’ guitars! And I love Analog Africa’s album cover.

Etta Jones: Lonely and Blue–Have you met Miss Jones? If you love Dinah Washington (and why shouldn’t you), you must make her acquaintance. She lacks Dinah’s power, humor, and intensity, but like Washington she can sing the blues. Also, Etta’s edges are mellower, which can make this particular album addictive.

Gang Starr: Daily Operation–I always found Guru and Premier’s enterprise underrated (at least here in the Midwest), and here in 2018 I find it has aged very, very well. A uniquely perpetual flow (delivered with equally unique warmth) atop expert beats and jazz-tinged samples and instrumentation.

The Kinks: Face to Face–Hey, if you just know the hits, Something Else, and Village Green, you might be missing their most underrated album. Quirky, funny, rowdy, thieving, eccentric, gender-ambiguous (in a moment), very English: all the things they were, entertainingly performed, in one place. Ok, maybe no power chording. Thank you, Kenny Wright, for enthusing about it all those years ago.

“What If You Knew Her?” (March 8th, 2018, Columbia, Missouri)

You’re sitting in a restaurant having lunch, staring into space, trying to organize your mundane day. The restaurant has a satellite radio subscription, and oldies–comfortable, rockin’ oldies–are blasting out into the space. The other diners are working on their taxes, fiddling with phones and laptops, complaining about their days so far, asking a server why mustard’s on their hamburger when they clearly didn’t ask for it. The cooks pick up the tension and nervously, clandestinely, dart glances at that table. There’s a silence as a song (Stevie Ray Vaughan’s “Pride and Joy”?) ends. That silence dovetails with the coincidental sudden pause in patron chatter.

Then, a lurching, threatening, familiar guitar figure, and:

And:

What if you knew her
And found her dead on the ground?
How can you run when you know?

Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,
We’re finally on our own.

The anguish that rolls out across the melody behind those first three lines would have seemed impossible for us to tune out. The anguish–and the awful familiarity–shot through the words would have seemed to command our attention. The truth of that fifth line? A confirmation we could surely recognize.

From the first note, I’d been sitting bolt-upright. In Macbeth, a knocking at the palace gate and an ensuing comic hellscape imagined by a commoner snaps us out of murder-induced shock. In this tableau, the horror should have snapped us out of a routine-induced trance. I looked around, into every nook and cranny of that restaurant, and nothing had changed. So I resumed eating.

But those lines echoes all day, and all night, and this morning, and assuredly, horribly, tomorrow.

 

On the brighter side, in honor of International Women’s Day, I put together the following YouTube playlist. Enjoy, if you’re curious, but beware a couple of full albums I mischievously dropped in, and be vigilant for an appearance by Diamanda Galas.

 

Short-shrift Division:

The Clash: Sandinista!–I can still remember, as a college freshman at the University of Arkansas, and already-avid Clashaholic, snapping this triple-LP up the day it showed up at White Dog Records some 37 years ago. I, um, liked it, but–Clash fans will understand. On impulse, I slapped it on, and–as it has been doing to me for the past two decades–it rendered up new favorites I hemmed and hawed through as a young man. I wasn’t ready. Thankfully, not only do we never step in the same river twice, but we also should stop stepping into the river, period. Tracks I repeat-played yesterday: “Something About England,” “Somebody Got Murdered,” “Crooked Beat.”

The Kinks: The Kinks’ Greatest Hits, Face to Face, disc one of The Kinks Kronikles–Mick Jones’ fragile, plaintive singing on “Something About England” flipped my Kinks switch, and based on past experience I will be in their England for the entire coming weekend.

K-Pop Skype-Strike (March 6-7, 2018, Stephens College, Columbia, Missouri)

Jonghyun

Since I began integrating pop music discussions and writing assignments into the freshman comp class I teach at Stephens College, a private women’s liberal arts school here in Columbia, I have tried to convince working music critics to visit the classroom, dollop out their wisdom, and talk about their philosophy, process, struggles, victories, and obsessions. Wednesday, Hyperallergic and SPIN reviewer Lucas Fagen valiantly Skyped into class (it was 6 a.m. his time) and, after some annoying technical delays, engaged us in a very interesting and wide-ranging discussion.

Only seven of my already small class of 11 appeared (it’s midterm week), of those who did, only two had read any of the selected Fagen essays I’d assigned–and only one of those read all the essays I’d assigned. In addition, I was flustered from the tech delays and slightly off-balance when Lucas wasn’t sure what I wanted him to tell them about his life. I switched quickly into moderator mode, and posed the first couple of questions while prompting the class to think of some of their own (we’d spent 20 class minutes last week brainstorming a long list of those, which were apparently bound away in the ether). They owe me a record review rough draft Tuesday, and the whole point of Lucas’ visit was for him to share tips.

Fortunately, by the time Lucas had clicked away back to Portland, we’d discussed preparation, record review non-negotiables, writer’s block, negative reviews, ideal writing environments, audience relations, striving to suggest (rather than state) judgments, the relevance of private lives, a bad Randy Newman record (I’d wanted to discuss Lucas’ Lil’ Uzi Vert review, but my students’ abstention from homework rendered that direction null and void), cultural context, other young writers we should read, and the impossibility of objectivity (on the part of the reviewer, but also where songwriters are concerned). I judged that be evidence of fair success, and students affirmed to me they had gained some confidence in their upcoming task. I really wish, though, that one of them hadn’t asked if Lucas were single.

Once question I was hoping some student would ask was, “Hey, what reviews are you currently working on?” As time was winding down, I wedged it in myself, and Lucas responded quickly, in a burst of enthusiasm: “I’m reviewing Jonghyun’s new album! The title isn’t great–Poet / Artist–but it’s my album of the year so far for 2018.” I expected to see uncontrollable twitching overcome the class, as K-Pop has been a frequent topic of very animated student discussion since 2015, but apparently this lot is immune to its charms.

As had I been; students having subjected me to several K-Pop videos in past classes, the genre seemed a frenetic blur of hyper-ramped, blindingly colorful, rap-n-r&b-influenced tween-tunes…ummm, do you remember that scene in High Anxiety?

That has been K-Pop’s effect on me. However, Mr. Fagen’s impassioned defense of the artist’s and the record’s merits, plus my ever-creeping suspicion that I have become a calcified old fart, forced me to promise him I would listen to the album carefully once I could cloister myself properly. I must admit, too, that the artist’s suicide late last year, apparently simultaneous with his having reached a creative pinnacle, saddened and intrigued me.

 

If you’d like to take some time, you can simulate listening to the album with me:

 

Now. If this is where K-Pop might be going, I’ll hitch a ride there. I found the young man’s singing marvelously flexible; he shifts effortlessly in and out of a wide range of moods: jubilant (“Shinin'”),  desperate (“Only One You Need”), chilled-out (“#Hashtag,” tinged with Steely Dan cool),  seductive (“Take the Dive”), and desolated (“Before Our Spring,” the deeply poignant closer). Admittedly, I’m guessing at some of these since I hear in English only, but it’s further proof of the young man’s skill that his singing’s consistently affecting beyond vocabulary’s reach. Also commendable is that the young man doesn’t over-sing. He’s in full control, floating, dropping in and out, modulating, easefully riding the album’s varied tempos and rhythms.

Poet / Artist‘s musical settings, pop/r&b-flavored, are clean, percolating, and unobtrusive, staying out of Jonghyun’s way and providing him just the right walls off of which to bounce. I’m a bit of a gestaltist–as much as I love classic singles, I’m rather helplessly an album guy, a listener after a vaster artistic whole–and, by those lights, Poet / Artist is stellar. Only what I hear as a holding-pattern filler cut (“Rewind”) would keep it from my own early-2018 Top Three; it’s certainly a Top Five for me now. At 27–not again! have they started up yet?–Jonghyun left us far too soon, but nonetheless I’m eager to explore his back catalogue, and maybe hunt down some translations (YouTube seems a good resource).

Now…if each of my seven students who were present had at least one similar breakthrough moment as a result of Mr. Fagen’s talk, I’ll forgive them that unprofessional proposition (after all, what if the parties’ genders had been reversed?).

There will, of course, be a quiz over it.

 

‘14, ‘17, ‘24, ‘31 (March 6, 2018, Columbia, Missouri)

I spent half my day with a group of my favorite jazz pianists. This was set in motion by the unexpected arrival from Strut Records of Sun Ra’s In Some Far Place: Roma 1977(Earth’s water supply may run out before Mister Ra’s vault does). I’d subscribed to the label’s Original Masters series in February of ’17, mostly out of interest in some curated international dance records but also because the cost of my purchase was being donated to a great social justice organization. Four records were to come my way, but the label couldn’t secure rights to the fourth, so in its stead I received this double-disc sans-Arkestra show. Hearing Sun Ra alone or with drums only (as one does here) can be a revelation: his sense of humor comes more to the fore, the path of his thinking’s a little easier to trace, and, while I prefer to hear him leading the Arkestra, it’s a fun and trippy ride across styles and eras, with the pianist occasionally switching from acoustic to electronic keyboards as the mood suits him and toggling between his own catalog and beloved standards.

As Nicole and I settled in to read in the evening, I loaded three study-friendly discs into the changer. The first was Memphis pianist Phineas Newborn Jr.’s 1956 outing, Here is Phineas. As the Ellington interpretation linked above demonstrates, the man could fly across the 88s–perhaps, as this early album occasionally reveals, too speedily for his own good. But his light, precise touch and feeling for the blues tempers that tendency; the album’s a decent way in for the beginner. (According to the expert Memphis sources I’ve consulted, his name’s pronounced FEE-nuss.)

Next up was 1959’s Thelonious Alone in San Francisco. Every night’s a great night for Monk’s music in the Overeem home, and, after the pleasantly wandering experimentalism of Sun Ra and the full-bore momentum of Newborn, this solo recording, featuring both familiar and relatively obscure originals as well as some very mischievous interpretations (like the above), was the perfect shift. Listen to this ’53 version of “There’s Danger in Your Eyes, Cherie,” from Rich, Young, and Pretty (!), then try Thelonious’ adventure navigating it, and ask yourself, “What did he hear in this tune that attracted him to it? Without the assistance of words, what does he transmute it into?”

We closed out the night with Bud Powell’s 1956 recording, Bud Plays Bird, which is one of the few releases I’ve owned in which the notes significantly enhance the music. They’re penned by old hand Ira Gitler, who examines the complicated musical and personal relationships between the titular two, shares his experience having witnesses the men play, and leads us through some very close and adept listening. Powell, while not in his earlier, frighteningly skilled and intense turn-of-the-decade form, plays exceptionally well, and is fluently augmented by George Duvivier on bass (that man’s invaded my house!) and Art Taylor on drums. A great addition to any be-bop enthusiast’s collection.

Note: The post title refers to the respective birth years of Ra, Monk, Bud, and Newborn. The earliest-born outlived them all. With the exception of Bud, whose career was damaged by the brutality of racist law enforcement in the North, these men were Southerners who came of age and worked in the shadow of Jim Crow–how might their work have shone more brilliantly without the obstacles of systematic oppression?

Short-shrift Division:

Oh, and before all that I listened to the expanded edition of Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures, learning to appreciate the production ideas of Martin Hannett (I hadn’t realized that the effects didn’t also emanate from Ian Curtis’ tortured soul) and the raw-and-daily-growing attack of the band on stage in ’79.

Tomorrow:

Influenced by the man pictured below, who spoke to my comp / pop music class this morning about writing record reviews, I am going to interface at length with K-Pop–specifically, Jonghyun’s POET | ARTIST. Wish me luck! Dive in with me and we can compare notes tomorrow.

Narrative-Free Takes (March 5, 2018, Columbia, Missouri)

Sara and Maybelle Carter: An Historic Meeting–Something about the Carters’ stoicism hypnotizes me, as does their hard-earned authority. You do wonder if the hand that rocks the cradle can change the world (again), and do they have some kind words for immigrants (in a song that’s a sister to their stunning “Hello Stranger”). And: Maybelle’s autoharp is up in the mix, a wise choice.

Wu-Tang: The Saga Continues–And I almost wish it didn’t. While for a new group this might raise eyebrows, the multiple absences lead me to a regrettable conclusion: those who never thought the group had soul in the first place will have to acknowledge its presence then as a result of its absence here. If that makes sense.

Bettye LaVette: “Things Have Changed”–After nailing my ass to the wall with I’ve Got My Own Hell to Raise and a Memphis show I saw on the subsequent tour, LaVette’s raw magic has quit working on me. She often sounds so in love with the effects she used in just the right places on that album that she’s just used them as much as possible since, though if the material is just right, it just doesn’t matter. This lead cut from her coming album, a set of Dylan covers? I love the song so much I can’t really tell, but the world-weary fabric-rip in her exhortations suits the lyric.

Young Fathers: “In My View”–“In my view / Nothing’s ever given away / I believe / To advance, then you must pay / … When I leave / You’ll be dancing on my grave / … I wanna be king / Until I am.” Pretty intriguing, until the video (above) ruins it, if you’re watching it. Or does it? The thing (that last line, the video’s close) takes a weird, telling turn.

Janelle Monàe: “Make Me Feel”–I’m right about next to nothing without hindsight, but I once told a classroom of students (six years ago) that Janelle was going to be a big star, and even if that didn’t happen, she’d never be boring. I seldom need confirmation–but I’ll take it!

That’s The Way (uh-HUH uh HUH) She Likes It (March 4th, 2018, Columbia, Missouri)

When I was a seventh grader, nothing more propelled me more immediately into bump-doin’ action–even if I didn’t have a partner–than a KC and the Sunshine Band hit. In true teen fashion, I was deeply, often instinctively attracted to any phenomenon I knew would drive adult nuts, but also: I LOVED THIS BAND’S MUSIC. The band’s songs were insanely repetitious, at that, repetitious of hormonally relevant but vacuous lyrics, and repeated by a singer and band of no special gifts other than unquenchable party cheer and simple funkiness–was a band, though, ever more perfectly named? But the instant “That’s the Way I Like It” (or “Get Down Tonight,” with its squiggly guitar opening that scratched every adolescent’s deep itch) exploded from the radio speaker, I (and pretty much every kid within earshot) would twitch into our  hip-bone-bruising version of boogie–and adolescents do have them some hip-bone. I can still remember a junior high dance that left me and my good friend Laurie with massive bruises that I was perversely proud of. And, though I was way into black radio pop at the time, I was certainly delighted upon seeing KC (Harry Wayne Casey to his mom) on TV for the first time: he was a white guy, and he had my haircut!

It’s no surprise that, when I finally settled on a partner for life (twenty-eight years ago this coming May 8th), she’d have the mark of the Sunshine Beast stamped on her sacroiliac. She’s not been a teen for a long ol’ time, but I know if I stealthily load KC and The Sunshine Band’s Greatest Hits into the CD changer, no matter where she is in the house, she will bump into action. Yesterday, noticing that she was industriously occupied somewhere else in the house, I knew it was time for a KC Sunshine Energy Surge. I pushed play, waited about five minutes–and, as if on cue, here she came, bopping into the living room and giving me a mischievously frustrated look that said, “You know I can’t help it when this stuff is in the air!” We’re too old to be bruising each other on purpose, but–unquenchable party cheer? BRING IT ON!

 

Also, a word for this new item from the indefatigable Christopher Kirkley at Sahel Sounds. I’ve not heard any music from the label that I didn’t at least like (I have a weakness for the music of Northern Africa, I admit), but this isn’t (just) music. Well, it’s isn’t just music as most people define it: among the most musical ambient noises of this field recording are, as Kirkley describes them “the sound of desert oases, late night radio broadcasts, village calls to prayer, and riverboats drifting down the Niger river.”

One of my favorite new records (it’s actually digital or cassette only) of the year.

Short-shrift Division:

Sharon Jones and The Dap Kings: I Learned the Hard Way–Lordy, she’s missed. But, by God, she left a mark…and her music can inspire you to levels of determination within shouting distance of her own as we came to know them, and that’s considerable.

Junior Kimbrough: Most Things Haven’t Worked Out–Lordy, he’s missed. But, by God, he left a mark…and his music can turn a Sunshiney day into a dark cave corridor.