Posts Tagged ‘Shuggie Otis’

Running Into Old

October 14, 2016


Is so very nice.

I saw two people tonight that I have not seen in some time and it was really good to catch up.

“It’s been forever!” I exclaimed to one of my friends, who raised an eyebrow.

“It doesn’t feel like that to me, but then again I read your blogs.”


I love that.

It just made my night.

Especially when it comes from people who I respect and admire, who I think are smart, it warms the cockles of my heart.


It’s a word.

Look it up.

Granted it meant not getting home until after 10:30 p.m. tonight, but I really needed to catch up with my people and it was super nice and I feel more connected and seen.

Sometimes I just need to claim my seat.

And I did that tonight.

I also got to relax and come down from work, the breaking up the week between gigs is challenging.

Not just from the standpoint of the differing locations and the different times, but also in establishing my boundaries again with the boys.

It’s something that usually happens on Mondays.

But I’m not with them on Mondays anymore, I don’t see them until Tuesday, then I’m at the other gig on Wednesday and that means the last couple of Thursdays have been a much greater challenge than they used to be.

I’m rolling with it, but by the end of the day I have been pretty worn out.

Of course.

I have my second wind, but it’s like after 11 p.m. and I should be winding down.


I’m listening to

Bon Entendeur.

Fuck it’s good.

So good.

It’s a bunch of French actors who open the set of music with a little monologue, then the music.

Ooh la la.

I’ve been quite into it.

It’s electro, chill, deep house, hip-hop, disco, house, techno.




More please.

My darling French friend at school had put together a Spotify play list for me and one day she added this awesome mix by The Kungs, a French dj–Valentin Brunel–Cookin’ on Three Burners, This Girl and I just couldn’t get enough of it.

I ended up saving all their music to Spotify and listening pretty compulsively to their artist page on Spotify.

I was so hooked.

Then when I ran into them for the mess in the park that was Hardly Strictly melt down for me, I mentioned it to her husband.

She had relayed to me that he was the one who needed to be thanked for the Kungs hook up, he had discovered them.

So I did.

And the next thing you know he’s adding Bon Entendeur to my phone and, well, god damn, it is so, so, so good.

I’m a happy clam listening to it, let me tell you.

There is always something new and amazing to listen to.

I can’t keep up with it all and when I get hooked on something I do tend to stay with it for a while.

I mean.

I am not necessarily embarrassed by it, but I did listen to Mike Doughty’s Stellar Motel for a couple of months pretty non-stop every night earlier this summer.

I got to where I could basically sing a long to everything.

I either want something that I can sing along to.

Or I want something I can groove to when I’m writing.

Once in a while.

I need jazz.

On a Sunday.

Chet Baker.

Miles Davis.

Coleman Hawkins.

Or I need some Regina Spektor, a Saturday night spell of girlishness where I will sing and sway alone in my room.

Sometimes I need The Myna Birds and I need to stomp and shout and be mad melancholic.


I need some Van Morrison.

Which is familiar and wistful.


A little Shuggie Otis Strawberry Letter Number 24.

Which is got all sorts of undertones to it, some raw and perfumed with the devil of jasmine on a cold night in the Mission with the fog cool on my heart and the breath of autumn rains soon to come.

At times I need the Bach cello sonatas.

I am an emotional eater of music.

Bon Entendeur really has my ticket right now.

It may be that way since I’m going to Paris in May.

It may be that I like fucking good music.

Probably a little of both.


And even though it’s late for me, on a school night.

Tomorrow is Friday.

Thank you God for helping me get through the week.

I do have a lot of homework, a lot of papers that need to get written.

But thank God, I finished the reading for one of my classes–which meant being caught up with the back log of reading I had for the class and finishing the reading that is due for next weekend of classes, so that paper will be easy to write and it’s short.

The other I can do in an hour, max two.

The third, yeah, there’s three.

I’m not exactly sure how to approach.

Depending on how early I get up tomorrow and what the weather is going to be like, it’s supposed to rain, I may knock one paper out tomorrow morning before I go into work.

I bet I can get it done.

Then one on Saturday and one on Sunday.

Totally doable.

Even if I don’t feel like doing them.

I will.

Even if I’d rather dance around in my house listening to god damn tasty French music.

I can probably manage to do a little of both.

Fingers crossed.

Hello weekend.

So nice to see you.



It’s Three A.M.

July 21, 2012

Do you know where your blog is?

Ah, good gravy.  I did it.  I went dancing.  Full on slam tilt boogie.  Hollered my head off, shook my ass, got good and hot and sweaty and let it all out.

All of it.

I have not had a session like that in some time.  It was just what the dance doctor ordered.  I made new friends.  I saw old friends.  I smiled so hard my cheek muscles ached.  I sang.  I even cried a little.

Uh, I mean, I got mascara in my eye and it made them water.

Ah, yeah.

Music is cathartic.  Dancing is soul sustenance.  I need them both.

I could tell today that I might have to do a rally when the day was over.  But oddly enough, even at 9:30 a.m. this morning I knew I was going dancing.  I don’t know if it was a case of the fuck its.

Fuck work.

Oh, I’ll still be going.  I don’t know how not to work unless I am sick and even then it takes some grave ass sick to get me down for the count.  I just won’t be my normal, I slept 8 hours perky self.

I will have a lot of coffee and at some point I will probably crash the hell out. So be it.

That’s the biggest fuck it I have today.

No more calling in sick from the back patio of the End Up.  No more after hours after hours after hours parties.  No more trying to flag a cab to get home before the sun rises and my room-mate gets up.

Nothing is worse than creeping in early in the morning and running into a room-mate getting up for their job.


Oh, and I will be a little sore tomorrow.  I am sore now.  This body likes to act young, but it ain’t no spring chicken anymore.

I was envying the gorgeous blue suede platforms that Siouxsie was wearing this evening and half-heartedly wished I had worn my heels too.  They made a brief appearance before the evenings dancing began, but I took them back off after acknowledging that although retardedly cute, they were not shoes meant for breaking off a groove in.

Out came the Converse.

I am glad that I made that choice.  I would not have lasted half as long.  My knees are sore, my neck is sore, my arms are sore.

Such a good ache though, the tenderness in my body pure unadulterated evidence of having gone out and embraced my life and let myself get right with God.

Yeah, music is God for me.

Get your Flash Dance reference in now, please.

Music is spiritual.  Music is love.  Music moves me.  I can’t explain it, I just know it when I feel it.

I certainly felt it tonight.

I probably looked like I was rolling on some sound E.


It’s not you, it’s the E talking.

Wait a minute.

It is me.

It is me channeling the heavens right down through the palms of my hands into my arms to radiate out my breast-plate and down through my feet and connect me to the ground.

I felt it.

“I think some one has a crush on the dj,” a friend once said to me after I heard an earth-shaking set at 1015 by Jonathan Ojeda.


But I had seen God.

I had a white light experience.

They do happen.

It was the E talking.

Yet, still there is a fondness for that memory.  I was searching for something, communing with something, even when I was mucked up in the brain, I have always known that something was carrying me.

Maybe it was the J.Davis Trio.

Or Madisalsa.

Maybe it was Moby.

Or Dubtribe.

It might have been Jeff Buckley.

It certainly was Morphine.

Tori Amos nailed it.

Tortured Soul banged it out.

Exquisitely Soul Coughing.

Torn apart and put asunder by Terese Taylor.

Blown down and rolled over by Underworld.

Then they blew me up again.

I only mention this because I seriously had an orgasm listening to them play at the Warfield.  I danced so hard I got myself off.

It was definitely a spiritual experience.

Maybe it was the party panties.

Nevertheless, I have found God not only in the small quiet space between the notes but in the lyrics, the rhymes, the primal beat of the drum.

Music is evocative and like smell will take me back to a memory a place an emotion, so visceral, so vivid, that sometimes I can’t even listen to it.

I still have a really, really challenging time listening to Shuggie Otis.  The depth of sorrow I was in during the time of my life when I was playing Inspiration Information was devastating and horrid that even listening to Strawberry Letter Number 23 makes me cringe in remembrance.

I was very near my drug bottom and I could not play it anymore.

Music had deserted me.  I was left alone in the quicksand of my own brain.

I stopped because it was too painful to listen to.

My head made up its own mantras instead.  The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.  On loop for hours.



Stop it.  Stop it.  Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

Ad nauseum.


No more.

Music is my recovery, my raison d’être, my passion, my love, my inspiration

And I owe my life to the dance.

And a very beat up pair of Converse.

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