Headz the novel » Oracledang

THE SECRET LIE

J.J. Colagrande — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 23:31:54 +0000

The American music festival is not what it seems—not even Shakedown Street. You can’t have light without shadow. You can say the ideal music festival would go down a certain way. I can say this place is all about peace signs and harmony and it’s all-good, but it’s a lie. There’s violence and poison and betrayal just like the country where we have these festies. And just like America some think they’re better than others. It’s all a lie. That kind of elitist attitude contradicts the vibe the festival allegedly puts out. The vibe of righteousness is self-righteousness in disguise. The vibe of being humble could be a Land of Ego; there are wolves in sheep’s clothing. There are hippiecrits. The peace and love and screw the system attitude for many is an excuse to be irresponsible. Look at Thelonious. Go ahead and Google Thelonious Horowitz. There’s nothing on the guy. He’s almost famous, not notorious. Who was he to disrupt the forces of The Show? What power did he have? There are many forces at work. Some might say magic. A natural mystic flowing in the air. When someone acts they must expect their actions to be held accountable. Still, this scene works. We can be young here. We can be ourselves. We can take it and make it ours. We’re all freaks here. I tried to explain this to the officer when they interviewed me about Thelonious. It’s a wacky Family we have here. Who gets along with everyone in the Family? Family is like a Mr. Goodbar, the chocolate is sweet but there are nuts too. So if an American music festival is lying when it gives off the vibe that everything is all-good—don’t blame the festival. It doesn’t know it’s lying. To most, this is just music. But it’s more than that, and like America, this place isn’t fair and it’s far from perfect.

SHORE MORRIS IS JUST ONE [highly opinionated] FICTIONAL CHARACTER IN HEADZ [and he is a little extreme, especially politically] CLICK HERE TO READ THELONIOUS’ DESCRIPTION OF A MUSIC FESTIVAL

THE ECONONY OF THE SHOW

J.J. Colagrande — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 13:34:30 +0000

An economy feeding on ganja gooballs has no need for Alan Greenspan. Besides, the unemployment rate at The Show’s a remarkable zero. There’s work. Not for the sixty thousand plus from the area. They’re the custies. The twenty thousand heads who’ve dropped down on Chicago are the ones working. We work three kinds of industries: hospitality, selling food and drink; retail, kicking clothes and accessories; and entertainment, slinging drugs. You can trade for almost anything at a music festival. Three burritos and a coke for a glass pouch. Fifty valiums for a dress. A dejembe drum for a quarter sack of dank weed. Of course cash is accepted. The music fest isn’t a commune or rainbow gathering or Oregon barter fair. Headz need money to buy gas to get to the next festival and to throw down on a hotel room. Anything sold or traded at a music festival is done so at a wholesale level compared to the product’s value outside of The Lot. Geri sells apron shirts for sixty at The Show, she could get eighty online. Melody sells chillum pipes for forty at a music fest, off The Lot she could easily nab sixty. Listen to this. One summer I left New York with nothing. I caught a ride to a music festival, hooked up a kicked-down miracle, then ground-scored a gram of black-tar opium. I flipped the black-tar and bought twenty Beavis and Butthead doses. I flipped them and had money for gas and a hodie to get to the next city. Prior to the next music fest, at the supermarket, I invested the remaining money on cheese and bread. I borrowed a hot plate, generator, and frying pan, and sold one-hundred grilled cheese sandwiches at two-dollars-a-pop. I bought a ticket to The Show, weed for my glass pipe, and a sheet of acid to which I flipped ten-strips for thirty-five all day long. After ten fests along the eastern seaboard I returned to New York decked out in a new wardrobe of headie gear with an ounce of chronic, two bubblers, and enough money to pay six months rent. My boys back home, the deejays in my band; they could never understand how I could leave with nothing, party in ten cities, and return home loaded. Check it: you may not like how all this sounds, but it’s the truth. I’m just reporting the facts here, cubbie. We’re young and we want to rage and for the party to rock the drug dealing needs to get done. Someone has to do it. Then we can relax like party people in the house till the break-a break-a dawn.

REMEMBER THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION!! all these characters are in the novel Headz over there and up a little —->

CLICK HERE TO LEARN ABOUT THELONIOUS, ONE OF OUR CENTRAL CHARACTERS

MIKEY THE TAPER STRIKES BACK

J.J. Colagrande — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 03:38:16 +0000

There’s nothing wrong with the taper sections. In the taper pits I get to sit around with old friends, people I’ve known for years. We catch up in the taper pits, talk about gear. We have a unique understanding of the sound, man. Us tapers can talk about the tiniest moments from festivals past. We know everything. But let me tell you something. Front of the board is always going to have a more direct sound with less reverberation. If I think I can get a better DAT recording—I’m going to sneak front of the soundboard and set up shop. It’s all about the sound, man. Non-tapers think I’m a little anal. I don’t think I’m anal, man. This is technology. I’ve seen how many music festivals and spent how many hours cataloging? We’re cool. We made this scene. We spread the music. And now the bands have started to offer digital downloads direct from their own soundboard for a cost. Basically tapers are obsolete. Why go through all the trouble and cost of taping a music fest when you can download the same quality with the click of a button for a lesser cost. That’s why us tapers have to take it to a new level. Now we video record the music festivals and patch the video together with the digital sound from our DAT players. We have like three different heads filming from three different angles and later we edit the Show and everything. We’ll deliver the music festival right into your living room. It’s all for the headz. No one’s making money on any of this. That’s what it’s always been about for the tapers. It’s always been about the headz. We have to keep it going and we will because we made this scene. We made the scene.

REMEMBER THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION and these characters are in the novel Headz, over there and up a little –>

CLICK HERE TO LEARN ABOUT THE ECONOMY OF THE SHOW

THELONIOUS INTERVIEWS MELODY RAIN

J.J. Colagrande — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 04:05:29 +0000

Are you having fun?

Yeah, I’m having fun. Sky’s bringing me down a little.

What do you think of Chi-town?

Chicago’s hella cool. I like the way the breeze rolls off the lake…

What drugs are you on?

Man, I don’t even know. We we’re on Adderall then we got them OC’s from you…we must-a puffed like ten bowls…I sniffed a bunch of Molly along the way…I-FEEE-L-GOO—you knew that I would now…

No H?

Nah, none of that…

Have you tried heroin before?

Maybe.

When was the first time?

With Fraggle. Top of the Haight.

Who’s Fraggle?

Fraggle’s this kid from Santa Cruz I used to hang out with.

Where’s Fraggle now?

Dead—

How old are you?

You and me are the same age, remember? Twenty.

Do you know a lot of people that have died?

I know a couple…doesn’t everyone. Listen—why you asking me all these morbid questions. I don’t want to talk about Fraggle, kay? You’re bringing my head down…all right?

It’s kewl, ese. I can go back to the stock questions.

Do that.

Fine—was it raining the day you were born?

My ma said it was raining, that’s the story she tells me. A rainy day in the Bay Area—go figure!

Do you love your mother?

I love my ma! Sure—

What about your dad?

Never met him. I don’t have a dad—I have two moms.

Melody…what are you scared of?

What happened to the easy questions [pause] I’m scared of being alone.

Why?

I don’t know.

Yes, you do?

Because…because I don’t trust myself.

What’s really troubling you, Melody?

[Exasperated] The only trouble I have—right now—is that I have to baby sit a girl I’m not feeling.

So why don’t you let Keith have Sky and then you can get with Teflon?

Nah, no way…

Why not?

Just cause, Thelonious.

I think you left me in that warehouse and robbed me, probably with that Fraggle guy.

That’s absurd. Where did that come from?

I think you have a problem with drugs, specifically heroin.

This is a music fest and everyone’s using—

Yeah, but not everyone’s using heroin.

LISTEN—music fests are about getting fucked up and having a good time—I don’t want to hear anything…especially from you, Thelonious…don’t be a hippiecrit…

So, no problem with the H-bomb?

Shut up, Thelonious—you know what—this interview’s over…

THELONIOUS INTERVIEWS GERI ABOUT SEWING

J.J. Colagrande — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 03:49:38 +0000

Geri loves to sew—shortie’s always sewing. Tell me, sista—who taught you?

Before I came to sewing I first started crocheting, back in the day, before I met Curtis. I was like fourteen, living in Hialeah with mi familia. My Nana taught me.

And you dug it like what?

I dug it and it came to me naturally. What really hooked me—this might sound sadistic but I don’t care—was the time my mother’s boyfriend sat on my needle. He was a real dick, he treated my mom like shit, you know, it was so obvious to me how he used her. He was cheap, real cheap. Never springing for a dime. He didn’t even work, a lazy Puerto Rican—see I’m Cuban, we work. I’ve outgrown my prejudices against Puerto Ricans. He was just a puto. Anyway, one day, by accident he sat on my needle and it went like two inches into his butt. He had to go to Jackson Memorial and everything. I knew he was a tight ass, but, you know, however unintentional, to me it was a sign that the powers that be were trying to crochet his cheap ass butt cheeks shut. I’ve been sewing ever since.

That’s an ill story, Geri.

Yeah, since then I’ve been a member of the Crochet Guild of America. CGOA for life, baby.

You must be good at crochet.

Mostly, as of late, I only crochet tams and scarves. Mainly I’ve been sewing a lot of patchwork.

Patchwork is dope. That’s the real headie Shiite. What materials do you use?

When I make pants and apron top shirts they’re always funky with random materials. But my trademark, as you should know, Thelonious, is the patchwork I do with the kid’s bed sheets.

That’s your niche, no doubt. I was trying to get to the kids bed sheets. Your patchwork could be on display at the Googleheim or sold at Art Basel or something. It’s that good.

Thank you, papi. That’s very sweet of you. You know, it takes me back to my childhood to do patchwork, especially with say Raggedy Ann bed sheets, or My Little Pony. I used to sleep on a pair when I was a kid. And the boys, when the boys see an Aqua-man graphic on a fat headie glass pouch they go nuts. Know what I mean?

I used to have the Justice League of America bed sheets. Pop culture superhero cartoon stuff is dope. You can be a poor gal from Dallas or a prep school chick from Seattle and you’re gonna know and love My Little Pony.

Totally. No one can take it away from us. I go out of my way searching thrift shops, vintage shops, E-bay, anywhere, to find the old bed sheets I use for my patchwork.

Yo—I think you’re the bomb, girl, but on the real, what’s the number one reason why you sew?

I crochet and sew because it’s relaxing. It’s hard to explain but when I’m working it’s like I’m suspended from space and time. I’m in a zone. Like I’m pure energy. Like I’m connected to The Flow. Like you and music.

Yo—you belong in Kali with all that connected to the flow Shiite.

[laughing]

Tell it to the judge, sista-love, but I’ll miss you too, baby.

if you like this, check out Thelonious interview Melody Rain

THELONIOUS EXPLAINS THE SHOW

J.J. Colagrande — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 16:28:33 +0000

It’s dope. Everyone bouncing around the room. Everyone running out-of-control, like antelopes. Getting down on the get down. I hate having to explain it. The music’s all sorts of sorts of music too. Don’t make me put a label on it. Besides, music festivals are so much more than the music. It’s the journey it takes getting to the music fest. It’s the parking lot outside the music fest. The parking lot is like a Mecca, the ends to a pilgrimage. It’s our holy place, our Zion, our home. Rainbow style, son. By the time we get inside the music festival our heads are in a different place. It’s the couple of hours in the parking lot that really matter. That’s where the real story lies. I totally hate having to explain it, even to Teflon. It’s like you’re on the bus or you’re off the bus, but no matter what, this thing is continuing, whether you like it or not.

REMEMBER THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION!!!

THESE ARE BONUS FEATURES TO THE NOVEL AVAILABLE AT THIS SITE!!

click here to learn about Mikey’s adventures in the taper pits

click here to read about Keith and how he took a liking to crystals

A HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE

J.J. Colagrande — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 13:23:30 +0000

There’s no place like an American music festival. And to be in Chicago, right in the middle of the east and west, it’s so apropos. Soldier’s Field to boot—just the metaphoric beauty of a music festival being at Soldier’s Field: all of us heads are warriors. This is a community we have here, another world, like the lost city of Atlantis. And, yes, this is a psychedelic community like Tim Leary’s old Millbrook estate, sedate and expansive and in an East Coast way, intellectually nutty. And, yes, what we have here is a tripped out circus like Kesey hosted back at La Honda, raw and western and gung-ho and totally American. This is all of that and somewhere in between yet further and it’s the next level but we’re still riding out ellipses yet decaying and at the same time starting something different. But that history haunts this parking lot today. These music festivals are the biggest outdoor concerts in the world. They draw the most people, generate the most revenue. And most of the time it’s music that isn’t even played on the radio. This is a maelstrom, but peaceful because we’re held together by strong family relationships and values. Our family values endear us in the end. They keep this whole resistance thing together. And there is a battle going on. There’s always a battle going on. And for us, these are the days. So find your battle. I guess it means something different for everybody, but to me, we’re resisting the big corporate mechanism. That’s why I admire KC. She’ll write a music book. She’ll write a music novel. She has the guts to take the baton and keep running with it. Forget passing it. Not until you trust the hand you place it into. You have to admire that.

REMEMBER THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION!! all these characters are in the novel Headz over there and up a little —->

CLICK HERE TO GET A HEADIE TAKE ON THE SCENE

CLICK HERE TO GET A HEADIE TAKE ON SCALPERS

THELONIOUS WAXES ABOUT SCALPERS

J.J. Colagrande — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 15:49:01 +0000

Whatevs, whatevs, scalpers are not headz. They’re cockroaches. Bet they’d survive a nuclear holocaust and Shiite too. You know scalpers hustle tickets from headz. As cars are backed up trying to get into The Lot those punk-ass scalpers hold signs requesting tickets. Headz always have extra tickets, someone can’t make it, a last minute cancellation, a girl broke up with her boy and has an extra—these are the headz that sell the scalpers tickets below cost. These are also the headz that haven’t been to a lot of Shows or they’d recognize that an extra ticket is worth its wait in gold. The extra ticket got clout on the barter market. You can trade for anything with an extra ticket—STOOPS—an extra ticket is part of the experience of a music festival. DON’T YOU KNOW! Girl—have you ever been experienced…check it: I wanna know what goes on in your lil girl world, cause I’m on your mind, its hard to forget me, I’ll take your pride for a ride if you-se let me, so peace out y’all, PCP, song out, throttle to the bottle with Hurricane Clout —STOOPS give ME yo ticket before you give it to a scalper. Scalpers never go into music fests. Their only concern is making money off headz by any means necessary. Straight up scalper’s are public enemy number one, five-o said freeze and I got numb. Scalpers are like pond scum. They lie about The Show’s ticket availability. Ask a scalper if the music fest is sold out and he’ll always say it tis—even if it taint. They sell bunk tickets, photocopies, unused tickets from an old music fest, whatevs—you gots to be careful with their product—you’ll spend fifty bucks on a fugazi. Scalpers are the worst and getting rid of them might’ve been the best idea I’ve ever had.

For more inside music festival insight, check out Keith and KC talk about nitrous oxide

CRYSTALS AND WRITING

J.J. Colagrande — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 16:08:03 +0000

“You know why amethysts are purple?” Keith didn’t let her answer. “Because Bacchus, the god of wine, one day he was bent, you know, on a bender, probably with a jug of Sangiovese in tow. He’s raging drunk and pissed at all mortals, probably just sick of living, you can imagine.” He played the dork role fine but luckily KC thought he looked cute. “So there’s big Bacchus all mad at the mortals when he declares that the next one he sees will be eaten by tigers. Then the beautiful mortal Amethyst comes along, on her way to worship the goddess Diana. Follow? Now Diana didn’t want Amethyst to be eaten by a tiger. They probably had a little lesbo thing going on. Anyway, to save Amethyst from the tigers, the goddess Diana turned her into a clear crystal. Eventually, Bacchus finally calmed down and decided to get off the sauce, so he dumped out all his wine, right, like this one’s for my dead homies, and here his red wine landed on the crystal Amethyst. And that’s why amethysts are purple.” Keith smiled proudly.
“Manganese produces the color purple in amethysts,” KC corrected.
“What’s manganese?”
“It’s a mineral. It’s on the periodic table, bro.”
“You knew why amethysts are purple.” Keith pinched KC’s leg. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to hear your story.” She smiled and tossed her red locks.

***

“It must be great to be a writer,” dreamed Keith.
“Horseshite. You gotta be outtta ya head. The writer’s life sucks. You spend all your time revising and revising. For what? No one cares. It’s not real. No one cares if you ever write again. In fact, the design of the world is a construct to stop you from writing. Then to add insult to suffering, all you have to look forward to is rejection, fierce competition, no money, and the wackiest business on the planet, publishing. Yeah. It must be great to be a writer.” KC dug deep into her cooler and grabbed a Red Stripe. She popped the beer open with a blue lighter. The bottle cap flew ten feet into the air and then landed on the cement with a twang. “You know what, kid? It is.”

Click here to read about Keith and his baggage story

GLASS PIPES

J.J. Colagrande — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 03:08:29 +0000

For sale or trade at the glassblower’s table are chillums, spoons, Sherlocks, and bubblers. Chillums are skinny funnel pipes smoked by placing the bottom of the tube between the index and middle finger then clasping the hand tight. If held correctly an airtight pocket forms and the smoke is sucked through the thumb and index finger. When smoking a chillum, one’s lips never touch the pipe—the hand serves as a mouthpiece. Spoons define simple—a one-piece pipe, mouthpiece on one end, bowl on the other. Some spoons have sidecarbs, some don’t. A sidecarb is a little hole in the side of the glass. The smoker covers the hole with his finger while inhaling, the pipe fills with smoke, the finger is released from the sidecarb, and the chamber is cleared like a vacuum. Sherlocks also have sidecarbs, as do bubblers. Sherlocks get their name from Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes character. They are big pipes curving downward then upward. Bubblers are expensive bong pipes. A glass tube runs down the middle of the bubbler and water is put into the pipe. The water filters the smoke creating a bubbling effect when puffed. A lot of bubblers, because they’re so expensive, at least $200, are considered headies. A headie is a pipe a head calls his favorite. Headies can be bubblers, Sherlocks, chillums, etc. They’re unique in some way. Either a popular glassblower blew them, they’re expensive, or they’re extra intricate in design and form. The vender on Shakedown has a whole bunch of headies. Many of his Sherlocks are special because they are blown inside-out. Inside out pipes have patterns of color worked onto the inner surface of the glass giving an added depth to the design. The vender on Shakedown also has a collection of pipes blown by Snodgrass—the Picasso of pipe glassblowers. His trademark pipes have skull marbles attached to the side. Glass is colored by the addition of metals to the melt. The blower attaches to the end of a glass rod the metal he chooses and the pressurized flame from the torch sprays the burning metal onto the glass. Cobalt creates blue; gold creates red; silver makes yellow; copper green. The head selling glass on Shakedown has a huge setup with the glass displayed in guitar cases padded in Styrofoam egg crates. The cases are sprawled along three long tables forming a square around the vender from Eugene. All his glass are Pyrex pipes. Pyrex is just a type of heat resistant rolled glass. The unique feature of Pyrex pipes is that they change colors. Before smoked, Pyrex pipes are for the most part clear. Maybe there is some blue or green from the cobalt and copper. But, as people smoke, the glass heats up, resin builds, and the pipes change color, the clear spots on the Pyrex turn yellow and red. When blowing colored glass, blue and green show their colors immediately, while red and yellow are at first invisible and only come out when heated. The vender on Shakedown has enough glass to fill a gallery. And that is where a lot of the pipes belong for they are like pieces of art. Their beauty and originality, unique in the fact that no two are exactly alike, make his pipes collectibles, appealing to the aesthetics of heads.

If you like this, check out Thelonious comment on glass pipes from a headie perspective

THELONIOUS ON GLASSPIPES

J.J. Colagrande — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 03:15:55 +0000

It’s a conversation starter—you might hear me say, yo, holmes, who blew this? And if the pipe was a Snoddie or blown by an apprentice of Snoddie, it’s like Louie the Fourteenth cognac, man—that head gets mad respect when packing a Snoddie. Dude’s probably from Eugene—the place is Zion for glassblowers—that’s where Snodgrass had his studio. People go crazy for glass—I’m tellin you. From a rookie buggin out cause the Pyrex changes color to the old school head flippin because someone threw some schwa or red rock in their glass. It’s funny—headz pack pipes like gangstas pack steel—know what I’m sayin? Even looks like headz are packin—way we’re strapped with pouches. Every head needs a pouch or their glass will break. I like chillums—that way you don’t have to suck on anyone else’s lips. The worst part of smoking an L is when headz nigga-lip that shit. I don’t want to suck on anyone’s spittle—right—who knows where they’ve been? By the way, when I use the word nigga it ain’t rascist—you should know by now—nigga is a synonym for brother in my lingo. So, that’s why lately I’ve been strapped with a chillum. I gots a fatty Snoddie at my crib back in New York—it’s RE-donkulous—big dragon bubbler. Must be worth a G. I don’t even smoke out of it—which is sort-a stoops, you know? I mean—what’s the point in saving anything? Really. What’s the point? Understand where I’m coming from on that tip?

Check out Thelonious explain Shakedown Street

A BIZARRE LOVE TRIANGLE??

J.J. Colagrande — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 16:17:43 +0000

“So tell me about your friend,” KC said.
“Sky?” Keith looked nervous. “She’s into politics. She cares about things.”
“You two know each other long?” asked KC.
“Oh, yeah, years. We’ve a lot of history together. First loves and all that. There was a little lull there. We took a break, her idea.” Keith raised his hands to the air and wiggled his wrists like an evangelist. “Sky and her Buddhism, she didn’t want to cling.” He looked at KC hard. “That’s when I toyed with the notion of moving to LA. I kind of used it as a threat. But I did have a wacky notion of being an actor.”
“An actor?”
“I know.”
“So what happened?”
“With acting?”
“With Sky, dummy.”
“Sky got pregnant.”
“Pregnant?”
Keith nodded. KC was glad she asked about Sky.
“Did she have the baby?”
“Yeah,” he looked away.
“So you’re a daddy.”
“No. Yeah. It’s complicated.”
“Huh?”
“She gave it up for adoption.”
“So what are you doing here now?” KC asked.
“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Sky sounded like she was in a weird place.”
“Why do you care?”
“I think about her.”
“Do you love her?”
“Of course.”
“Are you in love with her?” KC asked.
Keith took a deep breath. “I think about her a lot.”
“Are you thinking about her now?”
“No.” Keith looked KC dead-in-the-eye. He played with a loose piece of fabric from his shirt. There was a comfortable silence between them to which they stared around the South lot. A sudden gust of wind caused the flag above them to whip. Then a customer walked over and took KC’s attention away from the flag and away from their conversation. KC sold a copy of Wascally Wabbits and looked eager to return to her conversation with Keith.
“I broke up with my boyfriend recently.”
“You miss him?”
“Nah,” she said, “he was holding me back.”
“From what?”
“My dreams.”
Keith again stared at KC hard. He played with his beard, in mock contemplation.
“You’re a dreamer. I like that.”
“Dreaming is like flying. When you dream you soar. You’re five hundred feet in the air. Look up, all you see is sky—” KC regretted the word but she finished the thought. “—look down, you’re gonna fall.”

click here to learn about KC’s old boyfriend

HIP-HOP BATTLE

J.J. Colagrande — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 16:36:28 +0000

Thelonious looked around the hip-hop scene. A few backpackers assembled on the outskirts of the area. These locals stood locked and loaded with EP demos, tapes and fliers promoting after parties. They took advantage of the foot traffic from the one block proximity to Shakedown Street. Backpackers were always promoting something. Teflon did not stand with the backpackers. Other hip-hop heads gathered around a 73’ Cadillac Coup DeVille with a red leather interior. A Playboy Bunny and a disco ball hung off its rearview mirror. A Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy sticker rested on the bumper. A Louisiana license plate, but a Motor City monster. Four hundred and seventy-two cubic inches in the belly of the beast. Seven miles to the gallon. A true hooptie willing and able to cruise the Mississippi on its eight-cylinders. And with a mean grill that said, I’m a real car, what’s your name? What a beast!
Atop this gray vehicle rested a boom-box. “I Ain’t No Joke” blasted out of the radio. Layered with the sharp cuts of Erik B and the eternally smooth lyrics of Rakim, the song had everyone in the area’s head nodding.
In front of the car, on the ground, lay a dance floor made out of cardboard. A homeless man’s condo-conversion. This box once housed a General Electric refrigerator and was now a dance floor for B-boys.
And the B-boys tore it up. A circle of dancers around the cardboard took turns break dancing..
Thelonious looked for his brethren at the circle. He nodded his head to the music. No Teflon.
Next to the landmark Cadillac a handful of ladies lingered. They wore summer tanks and daisy dukes. They had tight pony-tailed hair and hoop earrings. These girls popped bubble gum, half-listening to the hollow hollas from over-zealous blingers, half-watching a tall fella a few yards away. The tall fella Thelonious came to see.
Something seemed wrong with the tall fella, Thelonious could tell.
Teflon looked uncomfortable. He shook his head at two people. It looked like these two were trying Teflon. Nobody better dare and try Teflon. Thelonious immediately skated over. Teflon continued to shake his head.
“Nah, son,” Teflon said. “I ain’t down with a battle.”
“What’s going on here?” Thelonious asked.
“These two kids want to battle,” Teflon said.
“Battle?” Thelonious asked. “Where the fuck you from?”
“Detroit,” a young black kid, with a fade, tats up and down his arms.
“L.B.C.—trick,” said the other, a tall white kid, cornrows, a scruffy moustache and goat.
“Headz don’t battle,” Thelonious said.
“What up, buster,” Long Beach said. “Ain’t got no skills.”
“Yo, like I said, we ain’t down with battlin,” said Teflon. “You want to start off a cipher—”
“Fuck that,” Detroit said, sipping on a Corona. “I just smoked a huge tree and my mind is open.”
“Stoops,” Thelonious said. He intended to end the charade. He had enough. A real MC did not need to smoke weed to have a flow. Thelonious would squash it. He put his arm around Teflon. “Come on, let’s go.”
They tried to walk away from the battlers. They tried to take the higher ground.
“New Yorkers ain’t shit.”
It didn’t matter who said it. It was said.
Thelonious and Teflon stopped in their tracks.
The boom-box turned off. “I Ain’t No Joke” ended. The dancers stopped.
Whispers swept through the area like a broom of gossip. All the b-boy’s, backpackers, and bling-blinger’s
turned their attention towards the impending battle. A gust of their synergy sparked the melee. Teflon and Thelonious turned, walked up to the battlers, and raised their arms in the air. “Wh-a-a-t,” they both roared.
Detroit rallied and stepped up to Teflon’s face. “I’m out all night, you’re home with a sitter,” he pointed at the prettiest girl he could find, “see that hottie, I did he, cause I’m a winner, a sinner, a pro not a beginner, fuck with us faggot, we’re gonna eat your ass for dinner.” Detroit stuck a finger in Teflon’s face. Teflon didn’t flinch.
A few heads acknowledged Detroit’s opening rhymes with some props.
Long Beach felt enabled enough to step up to Thelonious. “I’ll borrow your glass and plug it wit hubbas, Tolkien like a Hobbit, no borrow then I’ll rob it, I slice dicks like you and I fucked Lorena Bobbit—” The crowd reacted to that line with approval. Even Thelonious squinted, half in disdain, half in a suspicious appreciation of an MC referencing the smoking of crack out of a headie pipe, a total taboo. It didn’t take long to win a battle. The momentum gave Long Beach a sense of power and in his ignoble state he tried to finish it off. “—cause I’m the boss like Tony Danza, fuck with me and my crew, you’re loco, like, like, um, fucking with cancer, buster.”
The battler from Long Beach had stuttered. Uh, oh, better get Maaco.
Thelonious and Teflon didn’t wait a second. They jumped on the stumble.
Thelonious set it off and Teflon had his back. They went at it line for line: “punk , you must be bona fide drunk, stumblin round here fakin the funk—” “—wasting your time with Corona and limes, you need to shut up—silence of the mimes—” “—oops he means lamb, damn I mean chops, bust, we mean stoops, hip hop’s what we drops—”“—stop—” Teflon paused. He counted off two beats then continued, “plop plop, the way our shit drops, 5ive 0h six up, it’s time to call the cops.” The New Yorkers could’ve packed it up. Their rhymes, however short, were the equivalent of an uppercut from a young Mike Tyson. Like Tyson knocking out Spinks in ninety-one seconds. They could’ve walked away and every head would’ve known the victor. The battlers knew it but they signed up for the fight, they couldn’t run now. There were no flags to throw in, no referee to stop it; it didn’t work like that. They could only hope the New Yorkers would go gently on their heads. Thelonious had one more round in him. “You want to see loco,” he began, very much in the face of both the battlers. “I’m cocoa for puffs leaves trees and roots, drinkin on tuesdaze and knockin boots, a butcher slicin words in his shop, CHOP CHOP, it’s just phat from the top—” Teflon finished it, his style refrained, like Pas from De La Soul, one of his influences. “—Oh no, I see circling vultures, you stepped to the plate with some wack pop culture, talkin who’s the boss like Tony Danza, we keep it real, you lie like George Costanza , pop culture? we got more hits than Kirby Puckett, kick it with us, you’re bound to kick the bucket.” The nail in the coffin. The battler’s heads went down. Everyone else threw their hands up. A chorus of ohhhh combed the air. Yo that was dope, Holmes. That was fly, son. That was fresh, kid.

click here to hear Thelonious respond to this battle

RASTAFARI BRETHREN CIRLCE

J.J. Colagrande — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 16:26:31 +0000

THELONIOUS HOROWITZ

A big hole in Rasta ideology is Haile Selassie. How can anyone make a man divine in the sense of a black liberator who first of all never claimed to be one, and secondly, who sought exile in a white land. For a brief period of time Ethiopia was colonized by Mussolini and the Fascist Italians, at which point Selassie fled in exile. Where did Selassie flee? Great Britain. He stayed there four years until with the help of the British he returned from exile and regained the thrown of Ethiopia until he was booted in 1974, when he was allegedly arrested and taken away in the back of a VW like a peasant, never to be seen again in public. Selassie was no hero and no martyr.

SHORE MORRIS

You are right. His exile is frowned upon. Ethiopian rulers are historically known as warriors who would die in battle before fleeing. It seems he would’ve been more of a martyr if he indeed went down for his country in its defense rather than to have fled into the white world. Still, Rastas have always been the poorest and lowest in the Jamaican social hierarchy. They didn’t have access to information like we have today. Shit. They didn’t have electricity. The fact that Jamaica was a British colony and Tafari went to England in exile is a coincidence that may have something to do with why he was anointed. Remember. There are two very interesting things about Ethiopia. One, historically, the majority of religion in Ethiopia has always been Christian, this in a part of the world dominated by Muslims. And two, Ethiopia is the only country in Africa that, for the most part, avoided European colonization. Ethiopia held its own. Ethiopia was a land of black pride. In 1930 it was a big deal when an African prince who claimed to be of a direct descent from the union of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba was crowned king and emperor of the only Christian and un-colonized country in Africa. This was a legitimate black king of a Holy Land in a world that if you were black, looked whiter and whiter. So, yeah, Rasta took the crowning of Haile Selassie as a divine thing.

THELONIOUS HOROWITZ

So why is this obscure Caribbean cult embedded in a counterculture of middle white America?

SHORE MORRIS

The folk roots are appealing, and the rebellious nature of Rastas draw empathy from the American counterculture.

THELONIOUS HOROWITZ

But you have fifteen-year old white kids blazing joints listening to Marley growing dreads and it’s like what’s up. When you know what Rasta is about it’s not supposed to include 15 year-old white kids from the suburbs.

MELODY RAIN

You down with Rasta you down, you down with the under dog, you keep it real, you don’t sell out, Rasta is about keeping it real. The Rasta stand against authority is the exact spirit that a middle class American teen or young adult would elevate, especially if Rasta in trouble over the ganja. Rasta to me is not about Haile Selassie. I don’t believe he is divine in any way. Rasta to me is about the concept of oneness. I & I, man. Jah love. One love. All peoples.

TEFLON JONES

Rasta is a black thing. It’s spiritual but it’s a black thing. Marcus Garvey is worth idolizing more than Haile Selassie. Remember Marcus Garvey’s four main principles: one, Africa for Africa—there should be no colonization or religious rule, two, unity amongst all blacks, three, self-reliance, and four, look the white man in the eye. Garvey said that a black people’s God must be black because they’re created in his image. Garvey said economic strength is the only way to political power and if there is any justice in the world then the richest continent on the planet, Africa, will one day gain the power and glory it deserves rather than the suffering and gutted manipulation it has received. There may be no justice on this planet but there is irony. Irony may be the ultimate judge. Isn’t it ironic that the richest continent in the world is the poorest? But wouldn’t it also be ironic if the poorest and most abused people were one day to become the most powerful? You have to flip the script. Talk about suffering. The black race will always have a delegate or three at any American round table on suffering, a table chaired by an Indian chief, and void of whites other than women and the occasional suffering poet. Rasta understands this. Rasta has suffered.

SHORE MORRIS

Ethiopia is a black thing and all the power to that. But Rasta is not a black and white thing. Maybe it is a rich and poor thing, but not a black and white thing. It’s a Zion vs. Babylon thing. And Babylon is more a mental concept than a physical place. Babylon deals more with any frame of thought or reference outside the thinking of Rasta. And Rasta thinking is one. Depending on one’s own relationship with the other one, the one creator. To me Rasta thinking is anti-repression, anti-aristocratic, anti-system, pro-individual, pro-positivity, not necessarily pro-black.

TEFLON JONES

At the end of the day, it will always fall on the individual to decide what to believe and where to put their faith.

SHORE MORRIS

Rasta’s have headie values. Rasta’s live different lifestyles than the mainstream; they smoke ganja and wear dreadlocks; they have their belief system but don’t push it on people; they eat healthy, for the most part vegetarian; they love and respect the Earth; they look out for their brethren. This is why heads are down with Rastafari.

If you liked this, click here to hear Thelonious explain music festivals or click here to learn about rainbow gatherings

BEER VENDERS ON SHAKEDOWN

J.J. Colagrande — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 02:45:41 +0000

Beer venders are scattered all over Shakedown. One head perches on the side of the aisle, a huge red cooler wide open. Another beer vender works up the aisle a bit. Another head wheels around a blue cooler. With one hand he holds a cardboard Red Stripe sign torn off a six-pack, meaning Red Strip chills in his cooler. Another vender, also in motion, wears a bulging backpack and a Sierra Nevada sign. Guinness and Red Stripe are popular on Shakedown Street. Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, with the green label, also popular. Obsidian Stout, Black Butte, Red Hook ESB, Anchor Steam, New Castle Brown Ale, Bass Ale, Pete’s Wicked Ale, Harp Lager, Grosch, all for sale somewhere on the lot. Maybe a Heineken and Corona can be found on the bottom of a few coolers, the last to go. You’d be hard pressed to find any Budweiser on Shakedown. Or Miller Lite or Coors Light. On the Lot heads drink only dank beers. The dankest of the dank is Samuel Smith Oatmeal Stout. Connoisseurs of beer, heads know Sammy Smith Oatmeal Stout is the granddaddy of beer. Jet-black in color, with a fluffy tan head, the Oatmeal Stout’s flavor is dominated by roasted malt with a hint of coffee, chocolate, plus a bit of a hop. Samuel Smith Nut Brown Ale and Taddy Porters are also among the king of beers at the show. Sammy Smith’s sell for five bucks a beer; they are more expensive because they sell for eleven dollars a four-pack at Kruegers. All other beers on the Lot sell for one for three, or two for five; they cost eight bucks a six-pack at Kruegers. A head selling beer can make anywhere from a seven to ten dollar profit per six-pack. It never works out exactly since some beers are kicked down and others swilled to the head. So it is in the unlicensed world of beer commerce on the Lot outside of music fests.

Like this? Maybe you’d like to learn about glassblowers and glass pipes on shakedown street