As the gap between the two parrellel hiphop worlds becomes more bizarre, that between the weird ass consumerist Euro West End rohypnol of post-Rihanna music and the frequently deeper/darker/woozier creative gold era currently uncoiling that involves A$AP, TheeSatisfaction, Clams Casino and Frank Ocean, I almost spit coffee over my laptop in excitement at this here. Domo Genesis' The Elimination Chamber is a rich cloud of smoke and yes, it's built around a jazz fusion loop but actually really works.
Ooze is a word often associated with releases on TriAngle Records for some reason and Holy Other's new track Held oozes out of your gramophone in the most elegant of ways. The Manchester producer (another in the current new wave of great producers who like covering a hand over their face in their press shot) seems to be able to suspend time here and towards the end the introduction of a mournful piano conjures images of urban melancholia as vividly as prime Massive Attack or Inner City.
So I got to DJ the Bruce Springsteen aftershow on saturday. Not that The Boss showed. Or the one from The Sopranos. But never mind, a good night was had. Anyway, here's some new XX for you, as stripped bare and spacious as their debut, the band are a post-warehouse Sade and all the better for it. By the way I shall be DJing at The Stag's Head, just off Kingsland Road, this friday.
What ages people? Fatty foods? Stumbling home in the wee small hours? Maybe but I believe the central governing factor that accelerates the aging process is irrational fear of what we do not know. It grabs us all, creeping over us as a wall of phobias, dislikes, distrusts and qualms that things are just not like how they used to be, that I just don't recognize the place any more, that it's not real music. This intolerant fear creates a buffer between us and progress. As the buffer grows, we stick more and more inside the fortress that we feel safe in, of the stuff that we have tried in that little window of time trying things that humans allow themselves outside of routine before these things themselves become routine. And hence, we age.
For example, without ever checking it out I have an automatic sickie burp reserved for the sheer mention of The Is My Jam.
This Is My Jam. Really? Who says that? Certainly nobody I'd like to entertain for dinner, unless of course they were referring to some actual jam they had made, bottled and were presenting to me. Maybe for desert. But the real This Is My Jam tells me that Patrick Smegfield really rather likes something off some album by Weezer. And Patrick Smegfield wants you to know this, that he really rather likes something off some album by Weezer. Ah bless Patrick Smegfield. Look everyone, over there, Patrick Smegfield, with his little lemonade stall, with his tiny figurines of Weezer themselves and a carboard stage he has made up for them, he loves Weezer he does. Bless little Patrick Smegfield's Weezer style cotton socks. Because Weezer are Patrick Smegfield's Latest Jam and Patrick Smegfield wants us all to know this, but in a very special, spwecial wecial little waysies. He doesn't want to just tell us all that he loves Weezer at the moment. But that they are His. Latest. Jam.
There is very little difference between poor old Patrick Smegfield's intentions and mine in highlighting music on this blog. I realize at the route of this issue is a problem I have with language. This Is My Jam is just a very silly phrase to describe what you are listening to. My prejudical walls have erected and they won't allow the site through.
Maybe we all need a bit of French style disco house to kick out the bullshit weather? Kool Bandits, above, may oblige. Also filtered around this entry are images from the collaborative photography project Are We Hard Yet, which to me has a similiar eerie auto-eroticism as prime JG Ballard.