hitotoki |hee toe toe key|
noun 1. a single moment; one’s moment; a point in time.
hitotoki.org is a new literary site collecting stories of personal, singular experiences in Tokyo.
Flash-based real-time word scramble. Just what you need, another online distraction.
And now back to our regularly scheduled self-promotion. A very condensed rehash of Bjork, and an extended wanking of Apparat CD reviews in the current issue of Earplug (#95). Ah, the joys of recycling and the editing process.
Hey, this blog ain’t payin the bills just yet, m’kay?
Lately, whenever 41-year-old Björk peers over her shoulder, the bitwise sprite beholds a trail ablaze with quirky imitators nipping at her iconoclastic heels. While her latest is indeed co-produced (in part) with hip-hop chart czar Timbaland, it’s immediately apparent who’s schooling whom. (Hint: Timba long ago sampled “Joga” for a Missy Elliot track.) With a title invoking an African river, the inventor of the electrical battery, and poetic structure, Volta’s charged ambitions and rapturous production coalesce into a potency that rivals Post, Homogenic, or Vespertine. Familiar in places, Volta flares brightest on the tingling, noirish “Vertebrae by Vertebrae,” the heavy-lidded Antony duet “The Dull Flame of Desire,” “Hope” (the Timba-produced staccato ditty about a pregnant suicide bomber), and the polyrhythmically perverse “Earth Intruders” and “Declare Independence.” No longer muse du jour, Björk is still plenty amped and in command of her pagan agenda. As Volta — and her recent show-stopping Coachella performance — attest, Björk’s supernova hasn’t dimmed; the sky’s just suddenly oh so… crowded.
-JH
Of all the American musical meccas I’ve had the privilege of living in and visiting – Chicago, LA, NYC, Philadelphia, Atlanta, San Francisco, Miami – none stole my heart the way Detroit just did this Memorial Day weekend.
From its bass-laden dance floor nirvana to its bombed-out urban blight, there was nothing subtle about the experience. Unlike New York, where we have the dubious fortune of being surrounded by so much every day fabulousness that taking it for granted is a competitive art, Detroit demands whole-hearted, unconditional love. I got more respect claiming Chicago, than I did repping the Big Apple. Apparently, everyone else thinks it’s also easy to love the self-proclaimed center of the world. In the Motor City, as in much of the mid-west, land of harsh winters, industrial decay, white flight and exurban sprawl, you have to be down for your town; there’s not much choice in the matter, really. It’s not like there’s any other reason for being there.
For me, that reason was DEMF, the beleaguered electronic music festival. Because of organizational and financial problems, its future was looking dim. So when I heard my friend and coworker and Detroit native Anna was going home for the holiday stretch, I convinced her we should go together. (We bonded at work because she peeped all my tracks on my iTunes via the network, and hunted me down.) We could’ve gotten in free, and as New Yorkers we would’ve expected it, but we chose to pay as much as possible for everything to support the scene and the city. And so, I threw my NYC loot around, not out of bad-ass pride, but out of genuine love for the city that spawned some of my favorite music; from Motown (my first internship) to Ghostly records (one of my latest obsessions), I felt I owed the city so much already, it was the least I could do to show some respect.
In return, I got blisters on my feet from dancing, hangovers from pill-popping, handfuls of tchotchkes and a Gig’s worth of images and spine-tingling memories.
Clue:
Maybe the near-death experience of almost being side-swiped by a reckless driver while still giddy from dancing had something to do with it. Laughter, screams, silence, cursing, laughter….
Day One: Saturday
After my ordeal with the airline, I finally arrived a few minutes early Saturday night. From the airport we went directly to our hosts’ pad around the corner from where the first Model T Ford was built. We stayed with her friends Mike and Steve and their 2 really, really big cats, Molson and Barley. (One night on E, we created a MYSPACE for Molson.) We hung out long enough to drop our stuff off and toke up a bit before heading to Hart Plaza in time for Moodymann’s performance. I should have known when I stopped at McD’s in the airport and saw the busted up soda machines that disappointment would be part of the weekend. I did not expect it to include Kenny Dixon Jr, one of my idols.
When he finally came on, to say it was lackluster would be generous. He was late, high, drunk, he rambled, he disappeared, he kept his back to the audience, and ultimately what passed for a show amounted to little more than a few belly dancers bumping to old, familiar loops. There was a band, but no DJ set.
“Well, that was strange,” we thought, especially in light of Kerri Chandler’s diva-liscious house-leaning set and Hardfloor’s griding 808/303 acid-orgy. Given his legendary racist attitude, I thought perhaps he was giving the largely white audience a needed humbling. But, me? Me, who flew out here, despite the airport drama to support this, was I expected to stand in the rain risking pneumonia and applaud this? I refused, but held out hope. “Maybe he’s saving his super set for the Roller Disco,” which was out by Eminem’s stomping grounds, 8 Mile. Since it was back in the hood, perhaps he’d let it rip then. No such luck.
At the festival, we hooked up with a couple of Anna’s friends who were also going to the Midnight Skate. The old roller rink, though reserved for an over-21 “special” audience, still felt like a family picnic. We had expected a rave on wheels; what we got was a brightly lit, semi-crowded space where Moodymann played – NOT mixed, there’s a difference – mostly old funk 45’s from inside a darkened DJ booth, over a blown-out sound system. There was talk of 4am and 7am afterparties, but we decided to cut our losses and save our energy for the next day.
Day Two: Sunday
We started the day in the afternoon, with breakfast (“I don’t think they brunch in Detroit,” said Anna), at a place called Honest John’s Bar and Not Grill. John, it turns out, was born to a prostitute and a pimp, hence the name. The old location was just a bar, with no restaurant. But this new location had good grub at comparable prices – scrambled eggs, bacon, coffee, toast, $6.
The night before, “Miss Detroit” as Anna dubbed one of our fellow roller skaters, had mesmerized us with a story about an old public school book depository that had been abandoned for years and now had trees growing among the moldy books and crumbling walls. So, after breakfast, we headed over. The depository was adjacent the old train station, which was also abandoned and fenced off.
As we approached, looking for holes in the fence away from the barbed wire, we noticed a few other people hanging around. “Crackheads and all kinds of freaks squat there, so be careful,” we were warned. We found no way into the train station, but had better luck with the PS building.
Inside, the yellow brick walls had been smashed, the staircases rusted, paper and books strewn everywhere, it smelled like rot and cancer. Still, Anna and I took to the site with our cameras, working our way up to the top floor where part of the ceiling had collapsed and a few wayward seeds had sprouted into a canopy of overgrown trees rooted wildly from the mud, ash and soot. Almost all the walls were tagged with graffiti ranging from pithy incriminations like “This is Detroit’s legacy to its children”, and “Life is painfully beautiful” to the hysterically juvenile like one of Stewie from Family Guy flipping the bird next to the word “FAG”. (You know I had to pose with that.) Among the objects we found (and brought home) were old book check out slips, language exercises, and grammar posters, including one with burnt edges that reads in part, “In some libraries you can find…”
After we had our fill of fumes and our shoes were clumped with toxic sludge, we headed back to the loft for a quick change of clothes before going back to the festival for Baby Ford and Micheal Mayer.
Ford took the Pyramid stage early in the day. It was situated at the end of the plaza, by the Detroit river that separates USA from Canada. On the promenade, there’s a statue commemorating the Underground Railroad and the slaves who fled across the border to freedom. Not far from it, kids trapped in 1992 paraphernalia (pacifiers, glo-sticks, rainbow dreads) wobbled around as Ford unspooled dark, roiling basslines peppered with sharp, steady peeps and squelches in the shadow of the GM building.
As good as that was the night belonged unquestionably to Micheal Mayer, from Kompakt. Anna’s friends weren’t familiar with him, but my nonstop prodding and a couple hits of E, along with Mayer’s Hi-NRG, minimal Euro-disco-tech converted them. For a solid couple of hours, he channeled supernatural Moroder/Cerrone beams that conjured tambourines and Poppers. Unlike most Techno/House which follows a predictable build/peak/breakdown pattern, Mayer, like Ford, let his beats linger, simmer, as the audience stewed, teased and on the edge of release. Though initially resistant, they soon melted in his hands as the overcast sky darkened and the misty breeze cooled the plaza.
Class dismissed!!!
Day Three: Monday
This was it, the last dance. The clouds broke, the rain passed and the sun hit a muggy 80-degrees. On deck were hometown heroes Theo Parrish, Stacey Pullen, Kevin Saunderson and of course Jeff Mills. Theo wore a rag around his head to keep the sweat off the mixer; Stacey basked in the stark raving mobs’ shrill delight at his bouncy, acid-tinged set; and Kevin could not resist looping a few bars from “Good Life” which drove the intergenerational crowd into a frenzy. Just a couple of notes, the signature keyboard riff that comes just before the break and the “Let me take you to a place I know you wanna go” vocals. Without the chorus, sauteed into the thick mix, the loop brought everyone full circle. Mills, naturally, took the main stage last; even Ritchie Hawtin and Sauderson folded up their tent in time. We had been hoping that he wouldn’t get too abstract and keep it bouncy, and for the most part, he did. Some segues and breakdowns meandered a bit, but the crowd’s energy kept him on point.
Worn out, sweaty, dirty, stomach cramped from junk food and assorted party favors, we decided to leave before the exit stampede. Along the way, we spotted people crouched in corners, holding their heads in their hands, rocking on their haunches, or simply splayed out on the grass unconscious. We also noticed rave parents with strollers and dancing toddlers and pregnant, pierced, tattooed disco mommies.
It has, after all, been almost 20 years since this basement-made, 4-track, word-of-mouth culture first shook Chicago and Detroit and the world. This means, a week into my 38th year myself, I’ve now spent more time dancing than not. Simply, I have not known life before DJ’s. Happy birthday to me. Here’s to 20 more for us both.
Goodnight, God Bless and Thank You, Detroit!!!!
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Cara’s cat is in love with me. Like something out of a Stephen King or Jorge Luis Borges story, whenever another boy spends time with me at home, el “Jefe” takes to pouncing on their feet, scratching at their ankles and howling like a possessed banshee. Back when I was a PYT, before turning 38, as I did this week, I used to have this kind of effect on real men. *Sigh*
Memorial Day Weekend. Planes, trains and automobiles. Careful what you wish for.
Last night, I lost one of the company phones in a cab in the middle of the night. I was up til dawn fretting the consequences, changing passwords, etc. The 4 hours of sleep I did wrangle were Xanax-induced.
Continuing on a pharmy note, my Atripla meds were due for refill. I used Duane Reade’s auto-dial system which yesterday guaranteed it would be ready today. When I called to confirm, it turned into THAT Julianne Moore scene in Magnolia, every pill-poppin’ sissy’s wet dream.
“I need this to live, I’m not here just for fun. How, in all of Manhattan, you can’t handle this with 24 hours notice? Why have a Duane Reed on every corner?! It’s not like you haven’t done this before!” I stopped short of exclaiming, “I could die on the dancefloor!” The doc put me on hold, and miraculously came back with a fresh batch.
I skipped buying a camera, because I was already cutting it close. I picked up the laundry, showered the sudden 90-degree sweat off of me, and raced out to CPW to flag a cab.
Imagine my surprise when I found myself jockeying for a ride with a bunch of backpacking hostel-hoppin’ Swedes and single white yuppies. A couple of them got into it, so I walked down a few blocks, only to fight with cab drivers who pointed at the clock and exclaimed, “Garage” like it explained everything. Finally, I found one, and of course, he was more talkative—and curious about my sex life, and ethnicity. I threw him a couple of bones in the rear-view mirror, hoping it would get me to LaGuardia faster.
When I finally got there, I learned the real meaning of NWA, and it’s really NOT NorthWest Airlines, folks. From the counter to the gate, it was an unrelenting cascade of miscommunication and misdirection. By the time I realized their ineptness was threating my departure, it was too late. After dashing through the gate, bouncing from one line to another, the doors closed and the FIRST plane took off. When I raised hell at the counter, I was told it was because I was late, ignoring the fact that had they let me check myself in using the E-ticket kiosk as I always do, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time and been technically late in the first place. But, it’s impossible to argue with a kiosk printout. Or an ornery staff. So I accepted the standby spot for the next flight. When the 2 hours were finally up and I approached the line again, I was told there was no room, again because they had overbooked. A family of 3 before me was actually split up. Mother and screaming child boarded while indignant, stoic father waited among the exasperated. Thinking I could just hop the next flight for sure, or be switched to another airline, I approached the counter again, only to be told “That was the last flight to Detroit for the day. You have to re-book for tomorrow. Here, call the number on this pamphlet, they’ll help you.”
Since these clowns clearly were not the answer, I called the 800-number, and went for broke.
“I travel all the time for business, and I’ve never had such a horrible experience. I’m a reporter and I’m due to cover a major music event in Detroit. There’s an entire crew already there who can’t move until I get there. This could cost me and a lot of people a lot more money than it already has. I expect to be put on the next flight, at no cost, if not upgraded at rebate.” Every time it came back to the late time-stamp on the network, I foamed through the same story—again. Finally, I was transferred up the chain to a supervisor named Karen, who listened politely, put me on hold briefly and came back with a confirmed seat—for tomorrow, Saturday!
“It’s 8:30pm, you don’t have another flight to Detroit, your hub?! Who owns you? Can you transfer me to Delta? I’ve been here for hours now, and I’m not sleeping here overnight, in hopes of catching a standby spot at 6am, either.” Since that was clearly as far as I was getting on this mission, I took my 5pm confirmed seat assignment. I’d be missing King Britt and Matt Dear, but really, on Saturday it’s all about Moodymann, and that doesn’t get jumping til 10pm.
I called Anna who was already in Detroit, because I had to somehow persuade the organizers to let her pick up our badges early, which were in my name—without my credit card or license. When I got home, there was an email from an actual person with a name at DEMF headquarters, confirming the will call process. I immediately emailed Jason and found his number. As I was typing and rambling and name-dropping into the answering machine about the airline fucking me over, Jason picked up. “I was just heading out when I heard the machine. What’s going on,” he asked. “OK, what’s her name and number? OK, I’ll make sure she gets these.”
I texted Anna that everything was sorted, that I’d land by 8pm and that she could grab the tickets early so she wouldn’t miss anything.
As I finished beaming all this info into the universe, another email rolled in. A pre-DEMF party, featuring, of all people Baby Ford (my other reason for hauling ass to the mid-dash-west to disco), in a rare NYC performance tonight. Too late. I had already popped another Xanax and was headed down the hall to Terre’s to hang with him and Jared and T’s new business partner in the paper jam. We toked and wobbled down to Broadway for midnight Ben & Jerry’s – “plain chocolate and strawberry, please.”
I came home, installed the air-conditioner in the bedroom, took a shower, and thought about how all morning I had been pining to just stay in bed and not have to deal with any of this today. When will I learn to keep my psychic mouth shut? Perhaps when it’s not telling me to do what’s best for me. Tonight, it was clearly about sharing a couple of scoops with the J & T, and not about haunting the “Ghostly” Motor City…
Guess who’s back in town tonight?
For someone who doesn’t like NYC so much, we’re getting our fill lately.
Not that we’re complaining! Any night with Derrick Carter on the 1’s and 2’s is a good night. Especially, if it’s the weekend before our birthday.
If ya don’t get stuck at the do’, we’ll see ya on the flo, ho!
And now, some righteous levity. Hey, even the NY Observer is up on this – it’s in their 8-day Calendar every single week, so there.
If you’ve never sat around , puffin and hootin’ and hollerin’ at the screen as Tyra plays Pygmalion to a posse of banjee girls, I don’t want to hear it!
Never mind “What Would Jesus Do?” – everything you need to know about life and how to live it glamorously can be gleaned in one single elimination round.
The Soundbites:
“Nine months ago I had a baby, and I thought my life was over.”
“If Natasha wins the competition, I’m-a pull off all her hair.”
“Its hard for me to get, because I don’t talk, like, English. I speak basic words.”
“She walks like a pigeon toed duck with a piece of poop hanging out of her ass.”
The Prize:
Jaslene Gonzalez is America’s Next Top Model and last night she walked away with a $100,000 contract with CoverGirl, a contract with Elite Model Management, and a cover and six-page fashion spread in Seventeen magazine.
Hopefully now that Tyra’s successfully got homegirl outta da Chi-town hood, homegirl can get the hood outta her head; otherwise, we’re looking at another Gia Carangi. 
She’s already got that late 70’s Janice Dickinson (and our dear friend Regan) thing goin on. Yeah, she’s too skinny, too ghetto, she looks like a man and she’s only got one look – but that’s modeling folks. Just look at Tyra!
The final shot says it all. The way T’s holding this girl is worth more than a thousand words, but here’s two, on the casa…
“Pa’lante, Jaslene!”
PS – Arianna, and haters – lighten up. Every photo student (myself included) has a “fashion victim”/murdered model shoot/idea in their book; the concept’s not a big stretch. We’re all just trying to pay some bills, here. What’s more empowering – Jaslene’s old job as an online college admissions administrator, or a season of self-discovery on someone else’s dime? M’kay?!
24. Iron Butterfly – In a Gadda Da Vida
23. Rolling Stones – Dead Flowers
22. The Searchers – Needles and Pins
21. Beach Boys – I Get Around
20. John Cafferty & the Beaver Brown Band – On the Dark Side
19. Chuck Berry – You Can Never Tell
18. Lyres – I Want to Help You Ann
17. The Hollies – Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress
16. Elvis Presley – Don’t Be Cruel
15. AC/DC – Ain’t No Fun (Waitin Around to Be a Millionaire)
14. The Dominoes – Sixty Minute Man
13. Willie Alexander – Mass. Avenue
12. Little Richard – The Girl Can’t Help It
11. The Beatles – She Loves You
10. Elvis Presley – A Big Hunk O’ Love
9. Micky Hawkes – Big Bop Boom
8. Wanda Jackson – Let’s Have a Party
7. Gary U.S. Bonds – New Orleans
6. Bruce Springsteen – Ramrod
5. Eddie Cochran – C’mon Everybody
4. Connie Francis – Stupid Cupid
3. Elvis Costello – Mystery Dance
2. Elvis Presley – Burnin’ Love
1. Sex Pistols – Anarchy in the UK
Fire is in the air….from the foothills of LA to the streets of France…
Wildfire Burns in Middle of Los Angeles
LOS ANGELES – Firefighters said they were making major progress against a wildfire that roared across brush-covered hills in the city’s sprawling Griffith Park on Tuesday, triggering evacuations of homes and some of the city’s most famous landmarks.
A wall of flames raced across ridges and jumped fire lines late in the evening as the fire drew closer to homes and the Griffith Observatory, one of the locations for the 1955 film “Rebel Without a Cause.”
It’s been forever since I hung out with Pamela. Last time, it was Thanksgiving, and I had just finally met Steph Luva, who she’d been with for a while without us ever meeting. (Geminis we are, we made it up that night.) So, today when I got an email about an extra ticket to tonight’s Yankees/Rangers game, I jumped on it.
The weather was finally rockin’ 80’s, firm, and I had started the morning by oversleeping, and getting into email fights at work.
Baseball, and in particular Yankee Stadium, always cheer me up, even if it was weird seeing the new stadium going up across the street from the classic – unbelievable, really; the architecture and energy are magic. So, off we went. We met up at the apartment for a couple quick puffs, then took a cab to 125th and hopped on the D train. Three stops later, we were rushing in as the action picked up in the 3rd inning.
We were in the bleachers so the crowd was extra rowdy, even without the beer.
There were a lot of kids there, screaming their lungs out at everything, one guy in a Rangers hat who was BOOED heartily, and several botched attempts at starting “waves” to go around the stadium that resulted in entire sections taunting each other “you suck, you suck!”
While Pam was still at Playboy, we’d get box seats behind home plate, waitresses and cup holders included, but the bleachers remind me of Dodger Stadium and all the games my mom and aunt took us to because it was practically in our back yard; once, my brother and I were those skids screaming at every swing, pitch, catch, run.
Once the night’s runs started coming, they didn’t stop until the final 8-2 score. 
After, we came back to the apartment so she could visit with Terre for a bit. But, all of us being grown up and what not, we called it an early night after a few more tokes.
Just as well, I’ve been on a bit of a manic cycle again, and having Dr. D out here filling my head with visions of Silicon Valley millions, didn’t help me focus on my work and my freelance scribbling. But, considering how stressful and at times downright depressing things have been lately, it was nice for just one night to leave work early, forget everyone’s drama and take the D train to the Boogie Down Bronx and watch the Bombers kick ass with one of your best friends and a few thousand of your fellow New Yorkers.
###
While we’re stuttering through the 80’s… Funny how YouTubers find themselves in love with Talk Talk. As often happens when you’re suckin on the Tube, one click leads to another. One minute you’re researching The The, and next thing you know, you’re watching someone practice the bass along with a Talk Talk track, and then an odd video mashup of “I Believe in You” and Ernie Kovacs clips, then back to a home made video remix of “It’s My Life.” Take it away, kids…
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