Marvin Gaye-I Heard It Through The Grapevine

Ains, a soulful brother if there ever was one, comes by with "one of" his favorites. Find him at a nearby bar, singing motown greats like this jamandahalf. Thanks Ains, you're the man.

Why is it that when we discuss the things we love, people are so quick to throw out the term “favorite"?

Can we not just converse about the music, books, or works of art that find a way to move our soul without having to give just one the almighty rank of “numero uno”? Are we not, as human beings, constantly evolving? As we experience changes in ourselves, do these “favorites” not similarly change?

Perhaps this concept has always bothered me because whenever I’m asked to name my “favorite” movie, band, or book, I consistently hedge my bets with a throw-away line: “Well if I had a gun to my head I’d guess I’d have to say….” (Die Hard, The Stones, Everybody Poops).

I’ve specifically struggled with this term when it comes to the question of my “favorite” song. Everything inside me wants to pick something obscure, something that only “true” fans of music would appreciate, but I just can’t do it. With this there can be no hedging. From the tender age of five, when I could be found running around my living room in He-Man undies and abusing my dad’s copy of The Big Chill soundtrack, nothing has ever managed to move me like "I Heard It Through the Grapevine."

Everyone knows Grapevine (or at least everyone I want to know), whether it be Gladys Knight’s gospel foot-tapper, Creedence’s eleven minute bayou jam session, or “I know we’re cute, but please eat us” version turned in by the California Raisins. However, none of these can touch the sheer heartfelt force of Gaye’s proclamation of romantic deception. From the piano line (which manages to chill your spine while it moves your hips) to the silky smooth wail that seems to come straight from a lover’s trampled heart, Marvin all but guarantees that no one will sneak behind his back again. Grapevine is one of those classic tunes that can instantly snap you out of whatever funk you might happen to be in. It’s as if a zombie-version of Gaye is patting you on the back and letting you know he feels what you’re going through, but now it’s time to boogie.

Truth be told, I chose Grapevine as my next jam-and-half for the same reason I chose (and will continue to) my previous entries: it makes me want to jump on a table, shake my ass, and sing as if I know what I’m doing. As anyone who’s ever shared a drink (or six) with me can attest, each sip I take is just another tick on the clock before I bust out into song. And who knows? Maybe my next one will be my favorite.

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Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears - I'm Broke

Ainsley has returned to continue dropping jam sandwiches. This time he takes us to the funky town of Austin, That's Texas Baby. Thanks Ains, and keep feeding the hungry.

The year is 2010, but the message is timeless. Everywhere you look, people are struggling to find jobs, put food on the table, and scrape together a few bucks to keep the landlord happy. Times are tough throughout the country and Black Joe Lewis wants to make sure you know that Austin, TX is no exception.

For those of you unfamiliar with the sweet sounds of Austin's Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears, I would run (not walk) and grab yourself a copy of 2009's Tell 'Em What Your Name Is! and partake in a funk-tinted epic that at times plays like James Brown backed by The Family Stone.

I really could have picked any song off of Tell 'Em to act as an introduction to The Honeybear's particular brand of the blues, but I'm Broke's simple, yet universal, message makes it a clear standout. Whether it reads to you as an outcry against the socioeconomic situation of southern blacks, an ode to burger-flippers and small time hustlers, or simply a well-crafted outlet of recession-induced angst, Black Joe doesn't care. As long as you're nodding your head, shaking your ass, and screaming in unison (particularly at about the 3:20 mark), he knows that you're hearing him.

LaLa Link

Mick Jagger - Memo From Turner

It is my great and distinct pleasure to introduce the wise words of Mr. Zachary Ainsley.  Zach is a member of the infamous rap crew N1G and a proverbial fountain of knowledge on many matters not the least of which is music.  An incredible movie and culture connoisseur Zach has been dropping knowledge on me for years, and now he will be dropping it on the community of the world.  Thanks Ainsley for what I hope is the first post of many.

 

Apologies to The Buggles, but Video Killed the Radio Star was not the first music video. Although Radio Star helped to kick off the pop-music juggernaut MTV in 1981, the world's first real music video premiered nearly eleven years earlier in the criminally under-seen (at least by today's crop of movie-goers) English movie, Performance. The film stars a young Mick Jagger as Turner, a popular British rock star (a stretch, I know) that rents a room to a mafia tough guy who has recently gone on the lamb. As the movie rolls on, Turner and the mafioso engage in a hedonistic game of cat and mouse which eventually reaches its apex when Jagger and one the members of his harem of groupies feed their tenant some not-exactly-garden-variety mushrooms. Predictably, madness ensues. Unpredictably, the movie switches gears into a drug induced musical and introduces the audience to the ultimate diamond in the rough in Jagger's (and the Rolling Stones')  entire catalogue.


Memo From Turner opens with a slide guitar riff that sucks you in immediately and swiftly moves into some spoken word action from Mick that lets you know that he means business. As it continues on, we're treated to the two things every rock song should have: sexual innuendos (“you're a faggy little leather boy with a smaller piece of stick”--not exactly PC) and brazen cries against authority (“the man who squats behind the man who works the soft machine.”) While Jagger builds momentum by continuously oozing sex throughout the song,  it is the gloriously funky slide play of legendary axe-man Ry Cooder that sustains the listener. What Cooder lacks in Keith Richard's coke-fueled lunacy, he more than makes up for with his flat-out ability to play. As the song draws to a close, Mick reminds us who we all work for, but it's Ry who truly writes the checks.