John Lee Hooker, "Mama, You Got A Daughter" [songaday]

SHIRT OFF. Warm whiskey, Rite-Aid's finest. Used to be Thrifty. Let a little dribble on ya, just so everyone you talk to knows where you're at. Sometimes it gets infectious, and you may just end up with a street corner's worth of daytime-drunk-on-empty-stomach mafaggas laughing at cars. Cop a squat somewhere the sun's in your eyes; keeps the grin strong. If you're wearing panties, come sit next to me on this wall right here. That cinderblock's gonna leave an outline on your dress and your thighs too. I wake up on the grass, and the sun is shining on my face, like it's supposed to. You're sitting up next to me, talking to your friend, and I can see your backbone. I smile, lay my head back down on the grass and listen to you natter on while kids squeal and ants crawl through my hair. The days I live for.


Ashford & Simpson, "Solid" [songaday]

WHEN YOU HEAR THE TAXI THEME, YOU KNOW YOU'RE LIVING DANGEROUS. You watch that scruffy yellow cab trundle over the Brooklyn Bridge behind the garish title font. You look at your scuffed digital wristwatch which leaves the underlying patch of wrist perpetually clammy because you never take it off. 12:32am. For a five-year-old, this is the unknown. Doesn't TV like, end in an hour? By the time that hunchback Danny DeVito starts kvetching over the garage from that chickencoop he never leaves, you feel like you should be watching with a date, and you wish it was that redhead. But women don't like little boys with milk breath. Work the levels, kid. One day you'll be Bruce Willis. Just try to stay awake for now. I heard that after TV ends for the night the screen goes all multicolored and stays that way until five fucking thirty.


BEETHOVEN IN TIMBERLANDS. Canibus, "Vitruvian Canman" [songaday]

In this episode, LL Cool J is somewhere in the posh end of Queens, polishing his Grammy with one square of slightly dampened toilet paper and acting like anyone remembers his reply song to "2nd Round Knockout". In a studio across town, Canibus is beginning to pace his cell a touch slower than in years recent, as Wyclef doubles his dose of tranquilizers under the weighty glare of one hundred and eight diabetic record executives. Suddenly the meters start jumping. Canibus flexes his temples and the cobweb of nodes attached to his head fall off like dead skin. Arms outstretched, he floats almost a full two feet off the ground as he combines with the beat: "let me wipe the mucus out the side of your mind's eye..." It is two minutes and eleven seconds before the orderlies can break the door down and dogpile him into submission. Later on, a hairline fracture is noticed in the three-inch-thick glass.

The mix is terrible. The song is too short. The album didn't go straw. Just imagine what the side of your head would look like if this song had actually been done right. Hip-hop was too much for the world. I'm surprised the mainstream withstood so much intensity for so long.

POLL: What's Worse Than Gym Music?

not a thing
nuclear war
screw you, Maroon 11 rocks
pollcode.com free polls

I know, this is my fault.

It's common knowledge that Apple pays Bally (again, no apostrophe-s) Total Fitness hefty clammage to blast the kind of music the US military tortured Saddam Hussein with in his final days, routinely moving throngs of patrons to run clear off their treadmills, out the front doors, and screaming into the Best Buy next door to buy the first iPod they can get their trembling hands on. This post wouldn't exist if I had remembered my mp3 player today, and the words to Aaliyah's "One In A Million" would probably still be pinging about in my head like they have been all week since my boy Belief posted his excellent remix which you should listen to while having slow, wet sex in an opium den as soon as you can. In its place, I now have a murky goulash of anonymous ballads from wispy blondes with names like Taylor Degrume and Morgan Legume, and KROQ radio-rock nuggets from the likes of Macaroon 11 and many other bands who seem to think performing on a rooftop is still a cool video concept.

My feelings on gym music should be clear by this point. But I'm interested in your opinions on this too for some reason, so vote early and vote often in the poll below, and tell a friend. And then come see me deejay Friday nights at Saints & Sinners. Sum has jumped ship to the land of Friday night backrubs and salmon croquettes, so the plan is to puff my hair up so huge that I will actually look like two people, so when people offer to buy shots, I can still order two. Do not bring your iPod.

No wonder personal instructors are douches.


A Toast to The New Beginning

Sumhead the Undead (artwork by Sir Ian Dangerous)

There was that time at happy hour when the homeless guy walked in, sat down and then left a mysterious pair of dirty underwear behind without taking his pants off. There was the Fat Tire Phantom, who'd walk in and kill a beer quicker than you could say "D.U.I.". There were Fidel's dollar tacos on the patio, the wild Bart-fight in his first week of work and the time Chip sprayed seltzer all over Jorge's bare chest while he rubbed it in. There was the time Chip and I almost got into a fight because one of my cheap ass friends was getting the hook-up but not tipping. There were the terrible drunken freestyles with Greg Leonard, my failed fireballs and the Halloween where I thought Physics Mike was in Blackface but he was really just a living iPod commercial. There was the fundraiser raffle sponsored by a mysterious green liquor named "Carnivo" that looked and tasted like the piss of many tadpoles and made Malkovich pass out on the sidewalk in front of the bar. There was Jeffrey Dammit coming in to work with a half-burnt beard from reckless fireball blowing. There were the afterhours dances with Truck and Cooper, and Turski handing out lessons on how to dance with a lady the right way. There was Claire flashing her new knockers at the DJ booth, The Wild Men of Borneo screaming "I Hope" for two years straight, and that guy who immediately threw up a Hellfire onto the bar while he was smiling. There was DJ Lee stuffing the air vent full of flyers, the thirsty cougar pits, Old Man Max screaming "Sum and Malk, IN THE HOUSE!" after a few tequila shots, the Venezuelan love affair with Saints and Ian turning into an overgrown three-year-old whenever we played "Da Rockwilder". There was Southy's world-famous Lemon Drop martini that quenched the thirst of many a summertime Thursday....

And there was the occasional flavor of melancholy borne on the winds of change. The disintegration of the Sum-Malk-Southy dream team on Thursdays. There were the times we had to say goodbye to staff and bartenders we'd gotten used to seeing every week. There was the time we came together to raise funds to save one of our regulars lives but couldn't do enough to help her. There was the massive beheading of all weekday DJs from the roster, the opening of a rival bar down the street and the mass exodus of once die-hard regulars. There was the mysterious disappearance of Fidel's, the reluctant retiring of Palms Thursdays and the shady robberies, muggings and attacks we'd hear about.... but all of these things were the nature of Westside Nightlife and the hallmark of evolution.

So it's in the name of evolution that I've decided to take an indefinite sabbatical from the toils of The Palms Weekend and focus all creative chi toward my band, The Milky Way. Gotta make sure the shit blows up like it's supposed to. While I'm off doing that, Malky will continue to drunkenly bear the mighty Palms Weekend flag and charge into the uncertain wilderness of our home bar's future. From what he tells me, he's adding some new tricks to his repetoire, so he can really go monster with the extra breathing room in the booth. Unfortunately, I won't be able to play bad cop anymore and tell Amber who just heard The Police and is asking for The Police, or Joquita who wants to hear more strip-hop, or coked-up Jeff who's asking "what happened to real DJs with vinyl?", to go fuck themselves, which was getting funner by the month. Oh well. I'll be on the other side of things, drinking and talking shit with the rest of you, tossing Malky shots and making good fun of the characters in the bar.

Looking foward, The Palms Weekend will stay alive and move to the next stage of it's evolution. The blog will feature posts from our kinfolks in music, Chris Clarke, Ali Abnormal, and P.U.D.G.E., in anticipation of the Palms Weekend album, which is officially taking shape. The same characters who contribute to the album will be contributing to the blog. Grab a raft and a lifejacket, those floodgates are about to open.

Tonight, with one last tap of the beer-coated spacebar on my laptop, I celebrate my 33rd birthday and the good times I had DJing for my neighbors. After the band is a little more of a household name, maybe I'll come back.....if the flavor of the season is right and if you guys will have me. Either way, I'm a Saints regular for life, so you're not all the way rid of me.

That's if I live past tonight.

P.S. I sure am gonna miss that staff discount.

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