Love The Woodville

Pete Jenkinson and Ben Davis from ye ole Paperecordings are back! We are Woodville is their latest music company, and “Love The World” by Karoshi Bros is my instant holiday season jam – chock full o’ phat, gooey Gary Newman synths, a catchy kiddie chorus, snappy beats, snarky lyrics and a darn cute video. Sing along: “Coca Cola is Pop/Madonna is not…Myspace is yours/Your space is mine…Let’s educate the United States.” But first, we dance!

WYSI -not-WYG

What you see is not always what you get. Trivia time! Here’s an old brain test. Focus on the plus/+ and the pink dots turn green; concentrate long enough and only one green dot remains.
Click to activate in separate tab/window. For some reason the animated GIF isn’t displaying properly on Blogger’s pages.

The Castle

Staring out the window at the park and “The Castle” across the street the other night, it occurred to me to Google its history and see what’s on record. I’ve always envisioned it as a perfect setting for a haunted house story. How many of those lost spirits found their way across the street and into this apartment, itself haunted by the ghost of the landlady’s father? I’d heard it was a cancer treatment center and an insane asylum. Both rumors, it turns out, are (almost) true.
The “Castle” was originally built as the city’s first Cancer-specific treatment center, inspired by Upper West Sider General Grant’s throat cancer. At the time, superstitions abounded about the cause of cancer and the disease itself was stamped with an AIDS-like stigma. The design of the building was influenced more by medical theory, than architectural principles. The distinctive circular towers that give it the feel of a French Chateau were designed not to attract wayward monarchs, but to repel disease by preventing germs from collecting in the corners; its ventilation units sucked sickly air up and out of the tower. The conical shape also allowed more space between beds and gave the nurses a wider field of vision. For all its best intentions, the place was basically cursed. Everyone from an early founding Astor to Marie Curie herself succomed to its dark aura – Astor from cancer and Curie from radium complications respectively. (Curie had been assured the radium supply, the largest in the country was harmless when she toured the hospital.) The crematorium in the basement did not sweeten the bedpan. As cancer research progressed, the reputation of the building worsened; eventually, the center was relocated and renamed Sloan-Kettering.
The Castle, pejoratively dubbed “the Bastille” at this point, then became not an asylum, but a nursing home that was run into the ground by a corrupt Medicaid and tax-defrauding magnate that allowed patients to wallow and die amidst filth and neglect. By the 70’s as all of NYC was in the pits, it was basically a glorified crack house, run over by squatters and vandals. It was barely saved from the wrecking ball by last minute Historic Landmark status. As the economy in the city improved, a wide array of buyers came knocking, including Ian Schrager who attempted vainly to convert it into a luxury apartment building. Eventually a Chicago firm took it over, Columbia University snatched up a block of apartments for professors and dignitaries, and the rest of the units went for sale in the $5-7 million range.
Over the last couple weeks, I’ve watched the remaining units in the towers fill up with youngish hipsters. Trucks – not vans – from Whole Foods and Fresh Direct pull into its circular driveway every day. I’ve become accustomed to the sound of the fountain gurgling and splashing on the cobblestone path. It helps me sleep at night. When I first moved in to this apartment and was sleeping on the floor, I used to lay there, watching the units fill up, wondering if the upscale tenants were aware of my bare-bones bipolar Positive ass across the way.
Occasionally, I still doze off, feeling someone, way up in the towers peeking back at me from one of its dark, tiny windows…

Cafe con Papi

When I moved to New York in 1996, I learned a few things about local “kawfee kulcha” in a (very) hot second. One, Big Apple java is usually served in a paper cup with blue and white Greek hieroglyphics in dubious homage to all the delis and diners owned by the founders of western civilization; at least it used to be until cup surfaces became primo advertising space. Two, “regular” usually means “would you like some coffee with your milk and 2 sugars?” Three, it’s likely going to burn your face off, especially when purchased from one of the ubiquitous rush hour street cart vendors.
There’s one such purveyor at the A/C subway stop on the corner of Central Park West and 103rd street, near my apartment. I don’t know what his name is, so in a bit of ethnic profiling, I dubbed him “Nico”. He called me “Papi” from day one. I felt a bit special until I realized he called all the guys Papi and everyone called him Papi too; which made me feel not so special at all. With every cup, he became attuned to my schedule and the small details of my life. “Going in early today – another meeting? Where’s your roommate?” Yet, despite all our small talk and my repeated clarifications which included pointing at my skin every time I ask for my coffee “dark, just a drop of milk”, it still comes out like a boiling caffeine milkshake. I could have seized every infraction as an opportunity for a diva moment and berated him over his ineptness, but I’ve learned to accept this routine of him asking and over-milking mi cafe as part of the color and flavor of the city, neighborhood and my coffee. When I have miraculously found someone who gets it right – usually a fellow Latino – either their schedule or mine changes and I’m back to slurping scalding beige soup.
On mornings when Nico Papi is not there, I actually stop in my tracks and feel a bit disoriented, as if I’d woken up on the wrong side of a parallel universe. Where is he? What happened to him? What does this mean for the neighborhood? These questions linger on the train ride to work, until I can take caffeinated comfort in the hands of Alex and Alex Jr, the two vendors stationed downstairs from the office. Alex and son are bit friskier, tattooed and husky. Jr sometimes wears provocative, tight T-shirts. Since I’m not firing on all guns until that first splash of coffee hits my brain, my quips stick the tip of my tongue. The two Alexes also have a grill in their cart, so you can get a mean greasy bacon, egg and cheese with hot sauce to further jump your guts and brain into action. The sight of all the uptight suits in the elevators reacting to the smell coming from my brown paper bag only makes the whole adventure even tastier.
That is, once my tongue stops burning and I can actually taste these dollar delights that literally give my city mornings so much of their local flavor.

Blog Nation

Outside.in, a location-based/neighborhood-themed social network released a list of the bloggiest cities and hoods in the country. A common preoccupation? Gentrification. Hmm. Check out the network and the story > Here.

1. Boston
2. Philadelphia
3. Pittsburgh
4. Washington, D.C.
5. Portland, OR
6. New York
7. San Francisco
8. Seattle
9. Chicago
10. Los Angeles

1. Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
2. Shaw, DC
3. Downtown LA
4. Newton, Mass
5. Rogers Park/North Howard Chicago
6. Pearl District (“The Pearl”), Portland
7. Watertown, Mass
8. Harlem, NY
9. Potrero Hill, SF
10. Coconut Grove (“The Grove”), FL

It’s an Ad, Ad, Ad World

Ever wonder how much all the marketing pollution vying for your attention costs? This vignette from Good Magazine breaks down the prices for every bit of ad space you encounter as you make your way through your New York day, from coffee cup sleeves to subway cars. It’s enough to warm the cockles.

Belated Eulogy: Tony Wilson, BPM

The new issue of BPM is out and online now. I was expecting to find the Global Inheritance and ARE Weapons pieces, but as I was flipping through the digital edition, I stumbled on this tribute to the great Tony Wilson who died in August. I’d actually forgotten about it because it’s a couple months late, but in the magazine world of 3-month lead times that’s not so bad. It was dashed off at the last minute as the editors were “putting the book to bed”, so I didn’t have a chance to sit with it, which was a bit unnerving especially because Tony Wilson was one of my heroes. He actually made “impresario” seem like a viable career choice worth listing on my 1040EZ. As the bitchy fates would have it, I was supposed to interview Senor Wilson last time he was in New York with Happy Mondays, but then the Mondays had visa/passport issues (not to mention lackluster reviews) and my chances for a freelance chat with either Tony or the Mondays went zip. Not too long after that, so did Wilson. *Sigh*

Minced Beats: Prefuse 73 Q&A

You are here: Earplug Home > Issue #107

Feature: November 8, 2007

Minced Beats: Prefuse 73 puts hip-hop through its paces

For almost a decade, Prefuse 73 has rocked Warp’s glitch-pop roster with hyper-edited, slightly schizophrenic, somewhat melancholy hopscotch beats. While globe-trotting in support of his latest CD, Preparations, Guillermo Scott Herren (also one half of Savath y Savalas) set aside a couple of hours to talk roots, edits, and karma with Earplug’s Jorge Hernandez.

Earplug: What inspired your time in Spain?

Guillermo Scott Herren: My father’s Spanish and my mom’s Cuban/Irish. I was born in Miami, but I came up in Atlanta — a largely black-and-white world. So, I didn’t have a chance to dig into that part of myself. People would say, “You’re what?” The whole time I was [living] in Spain, I was devoted to absorbing the culture, the people and getting a sense of myself.

EP: Did you do any partying?

GSH: I know I’m on one of the ultimate electronic labels, and I love Warp — they’ve been nothing but good to me — but I really consider myself a hip-hop artist. I don’t really know much about electronic music and the club scene’s not my thing; so no, I didn’t party at all.

EP: Are you tight with other Latino/Hispanic electronic artists like Tommy Guerrero, Kid 606, or Matias Aguayo?

GSH: Tommy’s my boy. I love that guy. His head and heart are totally in the right place and his music’s great. A couple others I’ve actually had trouble with. At a recent festival I had words with someone over the heritage thing. I’m not going to name names because it’s not important.

EP: Fair enough. I saw your newborn’s picture on MySpace. How’s that going?

GSH: That’s Alejandro, and he stays with his abuela in New York while I’m on the road, which is a lot. I’m 32 now. Over the years, I’ve had everything — girls, drugs, fame — up in my face, and when you’re young, you can get caught up. As you get older, you realize that’s all meaningless and a big distraction that has nothing to do with anything real.

EP: Sounds holistic. What’s your spiritual life like?

GSH: I get that from my mom; she’s a big New Age hippie type, and she’s been a big influence.

EP: Your tracks are highly disembodied. Why mince the words of vocalists and MCs like that?

GSH: When I started out, I was almost obsessed, compulsive, about that editing style. I was trying to get at something with the vocal treatments and I was reacting to something and defining something for myself. Lately, I’ve eased up on that and now the words are much more important and present.

EP: Your music’s like a bipolar dialect…

GSH: I’ve definitely experienced that — the highs and the lows and the mood swings. I’ve learned to work through it and use it to put more passion into my music.

EP: You’re pretty hardcore about the state of hip-hop and the industry. Antipop Consortium was on Warp, and you’ve worked with Mos Def and El-P. Any collaborations you’ve passed on or regret?

GSH: Again, I’m not into calling people out in print, but I’ve turned down some pretty high-profile calls because I’m not into doing things just to make a buck or be part of some gimmick.

EP: You started out DJing and working for a commercial studio. Has radio success killed hip-hop? Anyone on the Top 40 you’d care to produce? Mary J. Blige, maybe?

GSH: If Mary J. Blige came knocking, I’d be all over that, no doubt. And some of the tracks on the new Kanye album are really smooth. Many others, including some of the more allegedly enlightened ones that are selling out, I still have issues with.

EP: On the subject of issues — your name refers to the jazz period pre-fusion, 1973. Your inward style seems suited to that era’s free-form experimentation. Why the disconnect? Are you a bebop head?

GSH: Music lost focus around then. I admire musicians like Alice Coltrane who had a solid vision and explored it all the way through, and took the listener along, no matter the fallout or feedback.

EP: While we’re talking feedback, how do you like doing press?

GSH: Cats who get on the phone and straight up say they’ve had a promo for a month and didn’t bother listening before calling, that just kills me. There are good guys out there. This one guy, at another website, his editors questioned his integrity and fired him. I heard from him the other day; he’s reporting on Iraq now.

Benign Ethnic Cleansing, You’re Bringin Me Down

Ha! So – I’m not alone in pissing in the wind about the end of Manhattan. In my interview with ARE Weapons, this was Brain’s kicker – “The NY we love is disappearing and that’s plenty to be angry about.” On the last LCD Soundsystem CD, James Murphy hit a nerve with “NY I Love You But You’re Bringin Me Down“. Today, I came across an article in the NY Times about a group of academics decrying the suburbanization of NYC and spewing similarly dire warnings. Of course, when you’re gay and have a compulsive refurbishing fetish and can’t imagine surviving beyond the Hudson and East Rivers, it’s hard to tell if you’re part of the solution or the problem. Lest I get sued, hit the link and read for yourself. File under “benign ethnic cleansing.”

Sparkle Motion

While we’re in a manic mood swing and camping it up on YouTube, here’s one of my Homo 101 favorites from Donnie Darko. I can’t wait to drop this in the next company meeting. It might go a long way to explaining why my numerically-dyslexic ass can’t put a sound Profit and Loss chart together.

Let’s Get Physical

Who needs words when we can communicate via Body Talk? The Glimmers’ version is way funky; but who can resist a Euro-disco vogue dancing trainwreck? And, don’t front like you didn’t love the O-Neutron-Bomb – you know your sissy ass burned off a few pubescent pounds lip-syncing in front of the mirror, M’kay?

Twitter Love

If you’re in my email address book you’ve likely received one or two or three invitations to join me on some mobile social network. Friendster, Myspace, Facebook, Mog, Flickr, Twitter – check, check, check…. There are more that I’ve tested – MeetMoi, Socialight – but the ones I’ve checked have weathered my notoriously fickle attention span and have become incorporated into my daily second/digital life. On Twitter, the micro-blogging application that allows users to ping the minutiae of their lives to each others’ lists of followers, most pings are painfully generic or self-serving (duh), ranging from witness accounts of local events, random celebrity sightings, job listings not posted elsewhere, to people looking for lodging. Now that I “Tweet” I actually SPAM less.
Occasionally, there’s something even a bit touching. This guy saw a girl on the subway, created a website devoted to finding the “NY Girl of My Dreams“, his link found its way onto Twitter, I passed it around to someone who forwarded it to NY 1 news, as many others likely did all over the place – and not only did the guy end up going on various news programs to discuss his search, today comes news that he actually found her.
If I were Twitter, I’d pay them to name their first child after the service that helped spread the word. Then, I would rent a muscle bound escort to pummel me and call me a bad, dirty marketing slut. Maybe I can ping someone on Twitter? BRB…