Wednesday. Two-thirty P.M. A teen standing near a tree lights a Kool Menthol 100. His unusually small eyes dart around, searching for someone to challenge his poor life choices. Fifteen feet away, two muffin-top-tattooed teen girls stand near a dumpster, both of them with iPhones in one hand and the other arm shoved elbow-deep in the back of the others’ low-riding skinny jeans. A teen sitting in the back of a small, foreign pickup truck watches them as he produces almost five times more saliva than the average person. In the cab of the truck a sickly-skinny teen boy plays tongue hockey with a girl two years his senior and twice his size. They both suffer from Victorian-era-grade acne, and smell faintly of Pine-sol.
Listen to how Booker takes over Steve’s solo, in rhythm, voicing, and harmony—so smooth, so overwhelming—and yet it’s just so that he can grab the mic long enough to transform that vamping that Steve starts (actually under the start of Booker’s turn at the dance) into a stomp that’ll give him enough room to weave the end up. I think I’m making Marc Parker a mixtape.
I got an LP from some local musicians from Off Square Books, called We Call It Soul by Wiley and the Checkmates, and, well, let’s just say I’ve got some ripping to do. I’ll get back to you on that. Until then, let me follow through on a recent promise, thanks to Ms. Margaret S. This is from Please Kill Me, of which I almost bought a copy while at Square Books.
Debbie Harry: I remember the look on Patti’s and Tom’s faces when they were caught kissing behind CBGB’s, whoaa. Tom blushed and Patti went, “Fuck off.”
Welcome to the New Year, brought to you by the Kleptones, via the today-released Uptime / Downtime. By the way, I predicted all of this. And I’m wearing a tie that tells me to have a blue suit at the ready, as I have been during this entire parent-filled, at-home, ridiculous cell phone service evening.