Hawk It To 'Em
Welcome to a special late-breaking edition of Thursday tracks, which will be enhanced with a couple of quick news items. Our first song is an explosive and especially timely number called "Hawk It To 'Em," brought to us courtesy of international journalist/DJ extraordinaire, Sam Hopkins. Sam found this 45 and did a write-up of it for Wax Poetics. This highly limited release by The Tips (backed by Gary Jackson and the Soul Messengers) was recorded to commemorate KU's 1969 Rose Bowl appearance, which they lost as a result of having too many men on the field. Thanks to Balagan for this fine find, which fans of soul music and KU athletics will delight in hearing. Here Come the Hawks, Y'all...!
Dirty Projectors
Monday night I went to the Record Bar to see one of my favorite groups of the past few years, The Dirty Projectors. I first heard the song "Lay Down Restless Bones" on my friend Andrew's annual mix CD. This beautiful, stirring and primitive tune from lead Projector Dave Longstreth's solo album led me to other songs such as this one called "Winter Is Here." Monday's performance by the band was excellent, if a bit short. Dave's caterwauling vocals and left-handed strat were backed up by two young women on bass/vocals and guitar/vocals, as well as a drummer of Deerhoovian ability. I bought a couple of EPs of theirs on vinyl, and they were kind enough to throw in the New Attidudes CD as well, which features this track.
I Could Never Fight A Cat Like That
Last but not least of today's musical offerings is this video from "White Flight." Not only am I a big fan of the White Flight record (more of which can be heard on www.rangeliferecords.com), this video was filmed at my girlfriend's house a month before she moved in. In fact, the scene when the guy meets the cat and decides to rescue it from the white hipster kids (one of whom appears to be Richie Tenenbaum) is filmed in her room. So if somebody asked me today, "Where Did You Sleep Last Night?" I would have to answer: "In the purple-blacklit den of the cosmic kittie, of course."
A quick note about the White Flight record: Fuck what Pitchforkmedia says, it's a damn interesting listen. And while I'm on that subject of Pitchfork, I'd like to send out a friendly "fuck you" to those self-appointed arbiters of taste. I was going to write up an angry response to the White Flight review, but my feelings on the matter are best summed up in a quote from Kansas City DJ/Oxblood Records founder Robert Moore, who said this in an article last year in Lawrence.com:
“I could give a damn...they’re like nerds with attitudes. Who the hell gives them the power to make or break a record? The public has given them the power which just shows how a bunch of sheep are out there... Naah, Pitchfork is a bunch of shit.”
Now I'm not going to pretend I haven't enjoyed reading Pitchfork at times, or that I haven't been clued in to some good releases there. Pitchfork writers, including a friend or two of mine, are generally genuine fans of music who are able to digest and write about a staggering amount of bands every month. But when it comes to number ratings and evaluations of whether an album is valid or not, I don't trust them any more than I'd trust any asshole from Chicago.
Non music-related news:
Good question, postcard. The answer: not me. A severe drought in Australia has led to attacks on villages and aborigines by feral camels. Although the brunt of their attacks have been borne by inanimate objects such as toilets and air conditioners, their frequency and ferocity have led to calls by the government for a culling (a softer word for "killing") of feral camels, which there are over a million of in the country. At least one news story I read reported that camel hunters have been assigned to kill no less than 100 camels each week. So if any of you don't have spring break plans and really need an opportunity to satisfy your bloodlust, this could be a real opportunity for you.
Finally, here's a foto of me descending the banks of the Kaw to check out a sunken automobile I found there while chasing an errant frisbee toss yesterday. It is thought that the car might be a rusted-out Studebaker that was pushed into the river somewhere near Manhattan by my car-collecting ancestors, but I'm not for sure.
Photo, as usual, by Jenny.
4 comments:
a late-breaking "amen" to this post. this is why you don't (can't) stop blogging. write on.
Nice medley of subjects. 'Twas an interesting read this morning on this quiet workday. The whole office (3 peeps) enjoyed the Hawks soul number. Looking forward to In-Voice w/DJ Wells. Reading Pitchfork is no different than reading your avereage newspaper. You have to filter through the fluff and ultimately decide on subjects once they are presented. I mean, it is pitchforkMEDIA. The same as all media. None are correct all of the time.
I always wondered if the purported water in camels' humps just sloshes around or is retained in some kind of porous, absorbent tissue, which seems like it might be more efficient. It bears mentioning, however, that I do not know what I am talking about.
While I'm sure that with a few tiny wrist/ finger movements and, say, seven or eight seconds, I could learn by what method camels store water (I keep mine in my tummy, mostly), I have made a conscious choice to not learn the answer, as there is a troubling lack of mystery in this world, waterlogged automobiles nonwithstanding.
You know what song is great? "A National Acrobat" by Black Sabbath. Put on some headphones, grab a scimitar, chase down an unsuspecting camel, and you've got a spring break that's easily ten times as awesome/ memorable as falling off some balcony in Datona Beach. This paragraph started off being intentionally unrelated, but I decided to connect it to the overall topic of the post, just for you.
Seriously, though. That Sabbath song will knock your dick in the dirt.
I trust all is well. It'd better be.
I'm going to tell the bartender at that record bar you've had too much.
It probably explains the epithets which follow. You need to be making some oral lucubrations with a bar of soap.
What I hate more than critics are critics in special workshops associated with publishing companies or movie companies because they have the arrogance to tell you "sorry it's not quite right for publishing" when you've spent an entire year trying to fix it according to their critiques. And they're not even in a position to decide what gets published, except to rate your manuscript so poorly that it doesn't rank in the top ten things that will be published. Also, I hate publishing companies because they raise the bar so high, and then don't explain what's wrong when they reject your manuscript.
On to the next topic, I'll fly 5,000 miles to smoke a camel.
Picture: You poor schmuck. What happened to your lower torso?
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