Colonial Bread Letter 77: th’yere ’twere

Lee Evin is not the age of someone whose ears can miss the tastes of 1977. Not that he’s heard Ornette Coleman’s take on “Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman”. Evin owns all of half his age in albums, though not even that really because none of them are outright his. Surely by now he’s stopped listening to the Elvis soundtrack, whose appearance in the house might be strictly down to a glut of beat up records at the drug store. Or not.There’s no accounting for taste, either good or bad, and Lee Evin’s’s determined by availability. There is radio. Where to turn the dial, dictated by curiosity or a lack of sump’m similar? Having only barely graduated from AM, the Freq Mod Album Orient is the new gatekeeper of what flows through his hair, which can’t hang higher than his earlobes.

In this neck not yet the burbs, 1977 means that in spite of the full lot of debuts, precious few of ’em Evin’ll know until the year is firmly in its dust jacket. As of the present, it’s the past in the making. Cheap Trick are as infectious as ‘ll eventually prove unavoidable, as are Talking Heads or Television to any DJ with the wherewithal to be a self-sleeved oddball, not in the middle of nothing but next to it.

Forget The Clash or Sex Pistols for a little while yet, unless it’s via TV news anchors musing weird on what’s going on in someone else’s world. Never mind Buzzcocks. Not even Bowie’s Low gets much play on the big two or three large here. After Before and After Science in December comes AOR indifference, Rumours is still getting cranked up after a year of airplay, liable to continue for years to come. Peter Gabriel’s debut solo gets spun, what with his genesis.

’77 is a foretaste; Lee Evin is not the age of himself when he’ll come to appreciate the vintage.

Historically speaking in puns

The Brothers Johnson are Right on Time with a reprise of recent Black history with their cover of Shuggie Otis. Even classic rock radio recognizes the supremacy of this strawberry letter. But Bootsy barely gets play even though he’s number 1, because Lee Evin heads to school the wrong direction to pick up on the vibe, spending time seeking interest on the east of the dial. On the other side of what passes for main street, only just, Bernie Worrell’s earth vibrating bass tone shimmers like a flashlight and, though you might not catch it, Herbie Hancock is all over the place.

Speaking of Black History [ Feb] and A Farewell to Kings, now’s when the King dies on his throne. #thankyouverymuch

Then of course there’s disco — say, Chic — to name a trend that will be around. Is the best that peach-fuzzed & greasy sandy-blond boys can do to buck that trend, in all their disco destroyer-ness, The Grand Illusion? Short answer: Yes, yes it is. Longer answer: The likes considered to be local lads will manage to drown out a lot with their ridin’ storms out and such. It’s a market racket, after all. Even in the Quietest Moments…

So long, 1977! He hardly knew ye.



Bootsy 66!

Not an excuse to link my trip to ’77, a year in which he featured prominently, but a Bootsy birthday recognition /slash/ album release alert. World Wide Funk flies to-morrow & can be got thru I expect it’ll be at the record store, d’boot. Also of note: Bootsy’s got the only Facebook site worthy of the right to exist (which conundrumly’d (dis)include FB itself).The following’re two tracks from 1993, whose blasting through a young man’s JBL100T speaker cabinets driven at volume from 100 watts per in my seems-like long-ago Lakeview lodging sent me out of sorts & into a figurative funk… for I felt everything else I had there-d’fore relished was not just suddenly pallid in contrast but meaningless, as in utterly, worthy of expressed redundant semantic hyperbolic superfluousness. This’d prove to be a silly if serious sentiment not of lasting affect, but the passion continues for this & all things Bootzilla. Plus both of these albums got the passed-perfect Bernie Worrell all up in ’em – not that there’s much Bootsy that don’t, the new one included.

This here’s ‘J.R.’, baby ‘(Just Right)’, from His New Rubber Band album. Bernie’s bouncy key riff really got meh &’s still so something to’th’ je ne sais quasi ditty doozy, baba!

If that’n’t enough, here’s one from Lord of the Harvest under one of William Earl ‘Bootsy’ Collins’ many aliases, Zillatron. It’s one of a slew of great works Bill Laswell put out on his Black Arc label around this time.

For a live taste here he is Stretchin’ Out on the Night Music program with something from where it began with his original Rubber Band, here however harboring the likes of the late Hiram Bullock (probably courtesy of David Sanborn who was curating the show by then) and Omar Hakim, who I just happen to’ve seen perform live w/n.o.t. KT Bush <warning: most clicked davidly):


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Crim’s Lead Hat Ink

Of crimson kings and talkin’ heads… I said as I read what had prompted Facebook Fripp to post:

From Adrian Belew’s FB page. A longer discussion is possible of this, and most likely not a happy one. The happier version is, both the excellent AB Power Trio and King Crimson are playing live, and both have interesting repertoires.
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record review: Encoded Couplets for Ma (on 78)

Divine thine essence!

If not for the constancy of dwelling on one’s shit,
One could reach the root beyond the smelling of it.

Bred heredity, nurtured traits:
Makeup made of mixing mates.

Feel the veer & Venn of your Xs & Ys.
Commonplace’d again, both in truths & lies.

Ascribe wit to the one and depth to the other.
Find the inversion is as true in view of the mother.

Declaim gratefully, this fatefully wondering why
As well, flippantly wanting whilst waiting to die.

“What would you say are your strengths and weaknesses?”
No! What do you think the crime in meekness is?

It’s professed He shall return all pompous for to judge us.
That’s what I’d deem: Classist proverbial mis-algebrus!

Via Hellenists or Romans, however it’s read,
Didst decree He a gala for them living & dead.

O! I wish I were awake. I’d say,
‘You, something something, Blessed Birthday!’


Long ago I read a review wherein guitarist Andy Summers said his certain solo was a tribute. From a song called “Mother” off an album dubbed Sychronicity, it was slower than the one referenced, done by Fripp for Eno’s “Golden Hours” on Another Green World.

(When I think that the one was only eight years after the other, the thirty-four years since waxes.. . true to the span of a lifetime!)

The Passage of Time

Two things have occurred to me subsequently (subsequent to one another (many years later and in between)), only consequential occasional to this diary entry.

In reverse order: 2) Already at twenty-seven, Eno was culling the depths of an imagination that told of a time that, for the young, would be too far away to see, let alone contemplate in the 1st person: His mind’s whiling waning while fuzzily fading to black.

Of course, he might easily have observed this occurrence in a mentor or relative, read about it regarding someone else, or seen a depiction on film, television or the stage. The text and mood of the piece, however, hug how I imagine such state of mind subsists – such that I feel as much to be living it as I should seeing it yet to come, although that wasn’t the case not so long ago. Least of all did the depth of the ditty’s darkness reach me when I was twenty-seven, when I had heard the song umpteen times, and in as many contexts.

The mood was always there, I just don’t remember when I started to feel this way. I suppose it’s growing, this waning. The whiling was always part of the program. Of course the whole damn dream is hard-wired.

Im Takt

1) The rest of the structure of Summer’s song resembles more the original than I had previously bothered to consider. Somewhere along the line I took both songs and mashed them up into the audio that accompanies the imagery below. I am not sure when I did the matching & splicing of the music, but if digital information is to be relied upon, about ten years ago.

Still, it was only rather recently that the irony of the lyrics in correspondence presented itself to me.

Now. There is truth in comedy, and drama in truth, but that doesn’t mean that what you are about to see & hear isn’t of zero significance. Or, contrarily, contains all the substance there’s to be. Or both. Or neither. Or always whiling in between when not hanging with the one &/or the other.

What I mean to express is: No pun intended. The puns intend themselves upon us forever & ever. Beyond that is anyone’s guess.

Happy Birthday, Mama. I love you.

Turn up the volume & wait ’til the end; it fades for a while.