This week’s selection is dedicated to my girl Foxy Brown, who has learned to walk her muddy paws back and forth on a towel when I stand at the back door and say FEET!!!
DJ Jake Rudh busts this song out every now and again at Transmission and I always get a chuckle. My favorite part comes at 59 seconds. Oh, and also at the beginning when the announcers says “metamorphosis.” Such fun. 
Me likee, very much. I mean, come on. Look at him. He’s like a hip hop Beck.
Based out of MPLS, with vim and vigor to spare, check him out.
Did I mention me likee very much?
Very much, indeed. 
Sending a little California-love your way today. We’ve been happily ensconced in a cute little bungalow in Venice Beach for a few days and man, I could get used to this. The people watching is out of this world and I’m glad to report that surf culture is alive and well.
L.A. is kind of blowing my mind. It’s just so vast and as we’ve been opting for side streets instead of congested highways, we’ve seen the city up close – colorful, diverse, bizarre, beautiful.
It’s a city of such extremes and the yearning is palpable – yearning for riches and fame or more simply, for a livelihood, a love, another bottle of booze. And those leggy palms, whispering in the wind: not all that glitters is gold.
I just spent the morning carrying my laptop from room to room as I made pancakes, got the kids ready for school and tried to clean up for the painter. Do yourself a favor and watch or listen to Bruce Springteen’s keynote speech at SXSW when you can stay in one place. Make some meatballs and enjoy an hour of the funny and self-deprecating Boss dishing music history, anecdotes, jokes and adolescent angst all interspersed with a little illustrative singing and guitar. Bruce is a silver-tongued wordsmith and his drippy hot descriptions of doo-wop alone, are worth the listen. Hard work, grit and caring too much are what have made him a titan. But he sure doesn’t act like one. He’s easy and cool. BY FAR the most riveting hour of video I’ve seen all year. What a guy.
How could I not? Doctor Dash and I travelled to the ‘Lou for a quick 24 hour get-away to see Radiohead and dip our toes into the lives of our dear friends, Dolly and Soul Daddy. Radiohead is one of Dash’s favorite bands, and so, by virtue of exposure, proximity, osmosis and all the rest, one of mine too. He’s the one who spearheaded this adventure, however, and for that, I am grateful.
Not only did we get to have our minds blown by one of the best concerts I’ve ever seen, for realz, we got to do it as two little anonymous people in St. Louis, swallowed up in collective adoration of the band with their very cool, happy, energetic fans. And not only that – this complicated, heady, loud, bad-ass show was sandwiched between lots of beers and laughs and nibbles with Dolly and Soul Daddy. We got to love up their kids, peer around their cute house, perch at their kitchen island and listen to their tunes, while they kept us fed, hydrated, giggling and on-schedule for the show. It was a blast – as lightening quick of a frolic as is humanly possible, with as many words stuffed into 24 hours as humanly possible, but so very satisfying for every little corner of my heart. The shimmer lingers on. 
(As you can imagine, I was swooning during the entire show, but I swooned particularly deeply when they played this song. I love it so.)
I wouldn’t be able to pick a favorite Stevie Wonder song, but this one makes me want to groooooove. Looooooove. Happy Monday, people. All I do, is think about you. 
Dessa wrote an insightful, smart op-ed piece in the Strib a few days ago, and though I’ve long known that she’s wise beyond her years, I have to admit I was chastened and a little humbled to read what she wrote.
Dessa takes on misogyny in rap – she challenges the pervasive attitude that disrespect to women is part of the genre and that if you don’t like it, you aren’t hip hop. She’s measured and reasonable, by her own admittance no girl scout in the profanity department, and she knows of what she speaks. She’s a rapper.
Reading, I realized that I have been way too cavalier about some of the music I let into my house and my excuses are vast.
1. My kids can’t really hear the lyrics and if they do, they don’t understand. This is ceasing to be the case, at a breathtaking clip. I know this.
2. The songs are “tall tales” – hyperbolic work that’s not meant to be taken seriously. Some of this stuff is so over the top, so gross, it’s funny. I’m not a prude (about words), I swear like a trucker, I appreciate a clever turn of phrase, a naughty line. Is this any different than some of the stuff Martin Amis writes? Charles Bukowski? Bret Eason Ellis? Norman Mailer? (This list really could be never-ending.) Just because you write it, does it mean you mean it? What of fiction in music? Well, arguably, if your audience is young and impressionable, it doesn’t matter if you really mean it. And in hip hop, it’s not really presented as fiction. Or is it?
3. The women being objectified aren’t real women – they’re somehow made-up women, hip-hop mannequins. So vastly different is their experience from mine, I was missing our basic glaring commonality: that we’re women. And more importantly, that my daughters will some day be women. And debasing any woman, debases all women.
4. The beats are just so good. That’s how they get me. Every. Time.
So am I going to stop listening to hip hop? No. Will I make my kids stop listening? No. Will I be more thoughtful about it? Yes. Will I point them in the direction of better, truer, hip hop – songs with stories and heart? I have and I will continue to do so. That’s easy, with neighbors like Doomtree and Rhymesayers.
Thanks Dessa, for the reminder. Nothing like learning from your minors.
Valentine’s Day is Dash and my quasi-anniversary. It’s sort of when we started going out, or rather when I stopped playing foolishly, flippantly hard to get. It was 1992, we cooked steak with blue cheese in the creaky blue house on St. Peter’s Street that I shared with five other girls. It seems like a lifetime ago and yet just yesterday.
We pay attention to Valentine’s Day. It’s a good day for me and my man. Some years we cook at home, some years we go out. This year we are stepping out for the Poliça concert. The singer, Channy Moon Caselle, was also in GAYNGS, who I LOVE, and Roma di Luna, who I didn’t know, but is no longer together. Poliça plays around with auto tune to great effect and there are TWO sets of drummers. Caselle is a songbird and the whole mess is cool, hypnotic and SEEEEXXXXXY! Perfect for Tuesday night. After the show we’ll find a perch at a bar and feast. I can’t wait. Tuesday! Tuesday! Let it be Tuesday! 
Could she have been more talented, promising, bubbly and flat out gorgeous? She should have grown old and become one of the QUEENS.
I’m feeling as scattered as chicken feed. I’m woozy and hungover from a weekend away with my increasingly rowdy book club. I’ve got something up my sleeve that I’m getting ready to spring on the world. I don’t seem to have time for anything these days. And I’m kind of in love with this lanky red head. She’s a cerebral fashionista and that’s not even what she really does with her life. Cool chick. And in addition to the aforementioned, I’m saaaaaad we got shut out of tix for her April show. Sniff. OK, back to scattered life. Maybe after listening one more time. 
Twitter isn’t good for much, but it is good for finding out things like the fact that Don Cornelius, the creator of Soul Train, died of suicide at age 75. Rest in peace, Don. This bit of sad news brought back vivid memories of watching Soul Train on the brown shag rug in the basement of the house my parents fled in favor of new construction, because the molds were giving me asthma. In fact, I believe that shag rug was largely to blame for many of my issues as a tween, asthma-related and otherwise.
I remember being entranced by the dancers on Soul Train – their outfits were so wild and their moves were so fine. Nothing like that ever happened in my house. In honor of Don Cornelius, I decided to see if I could find any Soul Train on youTube and, OHMYGODYOUGUYS, this NEVER happens, but it’s even better than I remember. Nothing is ever better than you remember. See for yourselves. I must warn you that this is possibly the most wildly entertaining thing you will have watched in a long time. And it begs the question: WHY NO SOUL TRAIN TODAY? Come ON!
This music monday is a long distance hug for my little brother, Maestro de Bife, who just left for a year in Australia to do a hepatobiliary fellowship. Spell check does NOT recognize that word, but it’s for real – something about livers and such. The other day my mother was telling me what times to call him and kept illustrating different 15 hour time differences for me to try. My two thoughts were 1. ya ya ya, I can do math and 2. damn, he’s far away.
I love this song by Australian/Belgian Gotye. The whole thing is beautiful, but it sort of explodes around minute 3 and swallows you up. And it turns out Devil Baby really loves body paint, because she kept asking to watch this video over and over. 
Through the rabbit hole that is youTube, I discovered the awesome Kimbra. She’s from New Zealand but based in Australia and it’s hard to pinpoint her genre, except to say she’s a little soul, a little pop, a little jazz, and a lot catchy. There are moments when she kind of sounds like Santigold to me, in that she has a unique, silvery, slippery sound that’s hard to categorize but impossible to resist. Don’t let the fact that she looks a bit like Katy Perry fool you. This girl is legit. And also, possibly, has THE BEST collection of dresses ever. The pink in Cameo Lover and the black in Settle Down are to DIE for. And if you too find yourself going down the rabbit hole, don’t miss the Live at Sing Sing Studios sessions. There’s yet another dynamite dress in it for you – as well as a stripped down, soulful Kimbra. 
Last week I had the pleasure of curling up on the couch to watch Under the Great White Northern Lights with Dash in the middle of the afternoon. There are some real perks to having a husband who works nights. His first day off after a week of work is a cobwebby affair for him – a day best spent having long lunches and catching a movie. Nothing too taxing, but entertaining enough to keep him awake during the hours he’s usually in a deep sleep. It felt indulgent, almost unseemly to be so firmly ensconced in our basement on a blustery January day, but hey, someone’s got to keep him company.
I loved this movie. If you like the White Stripes, you will love it too. And if you don’t and somehow I can convince you to watch it anyway, I can’t see how you won’t fall head over heels for this band (which is sort of a cruel thing to do to you considering they are no longer a band). No matter, this documentary is cool to look at, gorgeous to listen to and Jack White gives us a generous look into his creative process, which is impressive, fascinating and completely humbling What he does looks effortless, but as we learn, it is anything but.
Resplendent in yellow, I love Nina singing Ain’t Got No – I’ve Got Life. This version is almost downright kicky, a perfect dose of sunshine and self-love for this Martin Luther King Day. And that dress? I want it. Enjoy. She’s incredible, isn’t she?
David Bowie turned freaking SIXTY FIVE yesterday. He is like no other. He is spectacular. J’adore, like, for realz. Oh man. ANY Bowie song, ANY time, ANY where will send my hand to my chest in a dramatic I may swoon gesture. It’s Pavlovian. I love. I love. Lovelovelovelovelove! Check out this collection of 65 iconic images of the Thin White Duke and see if it doesn’t make you want to tape your boobs down and put on a tuxedo, or if you’re a boy, you know, the opposite. Hats off to you, Mr. Bowie.
