Cigarette and Coffee Duel, and a Resulting Hypothetical (June 11th, 2018, Columbia, Missouri)

Every morning for the past damn-near-decade, I’ve awakened and posted two songs on my Facebook wall. Sometimes they address current events; sometimes they are morning earworms; sometimes they are predictive of what I’ll be listening to later. I awakened this morning having listened to Lefty Frizzell for over two hours yesterday, and sure enough, Frizzell’s “Cigarettes and Coffee Blues” was humming in my ‘drums:

What to pair it with? I do tend to awake almost immediately into full consciousness, and in a flash, Otis Redding’s “Cigarettes and Coffee” came to mind:

Talk about two very different songs, as much as their titular subject matter is almost identical. Frizzell’s is a bouncy blues about separation and loneliness; Redding, with the genius assistance of the Stax/Volt house band (especially drummer Al Jackson and guitarist Steve Cropper), creates a dramatic, just-before-dawn solemnity in which is embedded a moment of great joy: a marriage proposal.

Usually, these song posts just end with the posting. Sometimes folks will comment, sometimes I pursue the artists’ music further. In this case, though, Redding came back later, on Facebook, but in a different thread. Last night, several friends and I were playing a game of “Make Me Choose Between Two Bands” on my wall and having a blast. B52s or Go-Gos? Skynyrd or Allmans? Cecil or Thelonious? Dolls or Stooges? Sonics or MC5? You can see how music nerds would go hog-wild with such questions.

In last night’s case, I had been in the position of doing the choosing (with some justification required), but as I prepared to retire for the night, I decided to pose a choice of my own: Pickett or Redding? An unspoken rule of the game is that, if you pose the question, you let the other player/s choose. Myself, well–I’m fortunate I don’t really have to choose, but I am more an Otis guy as far as taste and my own personal makeup are concerned. Otis was deeper, and, as my buddy Ken wrote, warmer. And a sharply skilled writer, too.

Be all that as it may, a question came up, or was suggested, in the thread: had Otis lived, what would have been his path? Maybe I run in the wrong circles, but I hear that question asked about every other tragically snuffed-out music icon, but not about Otis. And it’s a very fascinating question. One participant stated pretty straightforwardly that his star would have continued to rise, but–not that I would have it this way, it’s just that the circumstances he would have faced would have been complicated–I found myself disagreeing. I’m going to blatantly plagiarize my Facebook commentary/suggestion to said individual, if you don’t mind:

Take a close look at the soul masters of the Sixties with a) a rural background, even a Southern base; and b) no particular innovative acumen. Then trace their progress in the Seventies. Also, I’d take a look at the book Sweet Soul Music, by Peter Guralnick, and the chapters that deal with the impact of King’s assassination and the collapse of the Civil Rights Movement on, in particular, Memphis-based soul, and the financial disaster at Stax. I LOVE Otis, and I’m not saying my theory is fool-proof (you could argue Al Green is an exception, but I have a counterargument for that), but he had a very specific thing — within that thing a little variation — that I see him having some difficulty adapting out of. “Dock of the Bay” was different, maybe a sign of a shift, but I’m not sure. Disco Otis? Doubtful. Silk – suit slick – session Otis? Unlikely. Indelibly Southern, naturally gutbucket and unpretentious Otis? Probably. And there you’re heading into Latimore/ZZ Hill/Bobby Bland territory. The Staples adjusted, so maybe Otis could have. But Pops already had a quarter-century of biz-navigation under his belt. A fascinating question, but you’ll have difficulty convincing me he could have sustained his success much further than the early Seventies.

Here’s the dealio: if you’re reading this, and you have a dog in the hunt, would you mind giving your take? Again, the question is fascinating, and infrequently asked.

 

Elsewhere in the day, I was striving to finish Lamont “U-God” Hawkins’ Raw, his look back at his Staten Island Youth and time with the Wu-Tang Clan, which he helped found. It’s pretty good, if in need of some editing (might have been more powerful at 200 as opposed to 290 pages), and it pushed me to listen to two amazing rap rekkids I hadn’t unshelfed in forever.

While listening to The 36 Chambers, I practiced identifying each of the MCs. That’s easy, I think, with Meth, Ghost, and Rae, but the others not so much. Ever more impressed with production, the lyrical skills, the personas, and the concept, but they sure as hell never topped it:

I am embarrassed, somewhat, to say it, but I had not listened to Ready to Die since the mid-’90s. That’s right. Initially, I guess, the insistent sex rapping backed me off from it. I’m funny that way. BUT THIS TIME? Jeez Louise, those beats broke my damn jaw, and Biggie’s command of accents and dark sense of humor? Audacious.

I guess I’ve grown up a bit since I turned 31….

 

 

 

 

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.