them irie vibes are calling

had an unbelievable recording session at the commune home studio the other day. didn't feel unbelievable at the time... just some freestyles and some manic-page-turners, jamming some rhymes together and what. baptiste blessed the commune that morning (as he does every morning) and the irie vibes must have vibrated thru-out the commune home-walls, richocheting in chaos all day long. the vibe was undeniably good, just me and ves bound within the body-warmed recording room. stuffy and hot, grimy sweaty shit. tom manned the kitched (as he often does) with a waterfall of mountain lightning and gnosh.

i had a legal notepad filled with ideas and ideas for ideas, lyrics and phrases and rhymes... it seemed like chaos (on paper). and chaos always tends towards chaos... i scrawled and squinted, lyrics in low-light situations, bedside manners cast to the wind; i wrote with a pen, an unusuality in my instantaneous, button pushing-on-command, problem-solved lifestyle. i can't remember how to cursive. not properly, anyway. that was third grade or so! my loops and dips, droops and lower-vs-upper-case intertwine and intermix in my head. instant lysdexia. i digress, but that is how they were written; carefully, organically, sloppily. and chaos always tends towards chaos. but not in the studio, or not on that day.

the pre-game looked like a triangular syphon, passing at three axi; me, treble (who had stopped by to antagonize, chill, scavage, and rhyme) and the commune's tommune, tom. syphon and circles, for one-one-one.. two and no bogarts. treble started in on some freestyles, and soon, trailing the cypher (not cyber) smoke were the rhymes, usually one-behind. "i stick siblings' silverware straight into old outlets- neon-glow eighties shit in brazen bold outfits..." laughter eruption. 'don't break the syphon!' chuck says to ves, who had materialize behind the woodshed and elbowed his way into the cicle. 'gotta get me in on that,' ves mumbles, 'i'm on the boards!'

after the session with chuck and tom, and then ves, i moved solo into the studio. just me and my shadow producer, vesuvius. i was warmed from the cicle, already rhyming and finding a cadence in my head. from clicks to wraps, in two measley hours, we managed to track five sets of vocals. the energy was high, the room stifling, and it all felt good. i'm not sure that we'll even release any of these sessions, but that's not the point. it felt good to rhyme. it felt good to manage a mess of freestyles on a mono mic, no popscreen.

i'm meeting party at the commune south tonight. we've got some rehearsals to jam over, some preparations to be made for upcoming live showups. i'm still riding that high vibe off of preceding days events, so i'm up for a long-into-the-night rap and then rap more. we'll let you know how it goes off.. catch us soon at that stop.

hy.

today i saw a dinosaur

today, i saw a dinosaur. i had the priveledge of joining dj stretch at the buzz radio station. i had been there before--as has party--to record radio promo spots for the wine thieves. the buzz is a rare gem, still encased in the rubble of the radio stations of yore. placards honoring their community service fit framed professionally amongst a temple of posters and show fliers honoring the classic and contemporary gods of music. gods were made here; lord zepplin, father marley, the saintly police, and the friends of the devil, the grateful dead.

i let my eyes comb the covered-walls and decorated offices of the old radio station. they own several fm frequencies, but they also still have an am band. who has am anymore? the buzz, would be the answer to the preceding. no xm or anything too sirius (pun). just am and fm around these parts. it's a personal and hallowed experience.

you learn things from the walls in the buzz. they talk. apparently, back in 2002 there was a bash at the beach with soda, beer, wine and in 95 live was on tour. somebody sent the station staff a post card at one point or another. it read, greetings from asbury park. party and i used to chill in asbury park. drank a coffee there. i hold asbury park in a special heart-shelter. half town, half bomb shelter.

we hit the two-person-capacity production room from the getgo. it was pretty straight-forward radio stuff; we used cool edit (a program with a special heart-shelter for me as well... party and i tracked a majority of our older stuff using only cool edit) to track some quick radio promos for the official countdown single radio edit. then stretch lobbed me some typical musician questions (no offense, bro), which i promptly crushed out of the park.

a good time was had by both stretch and i. he's a chill cat, so we have a lot in common off the bat. i called party after the radio session to tell him how it went: great. i felt baptised, like i had been in the presence of some dusty-webby radio divinity, and just a little of their magic rubbed off on me. radio was once universal, like the interweb, but without the annoying anonymous feedback. but radio went the way of vinyl records and rock bands, existing with king elvis and brother morrison and mary mother joplin and the dinosaurs, somewhere in the ethereal.

post-prophylactics and good times

...sipping at the dunkin coffee before me, i wonder how the hell they get that dunkin taste... you already know, if you're a coffee fanatic like i am, that you can not replicate the taste of dunkin coffee in your own coffee maker. not even with their beans. there's something--something, probably terrible for your body--that swirls with the chemical compounds of styrofoam coffee cups and hormone-enhanced creamers (and one scoop of bleached, unnatural sugar) that makes me grin. yum yum.

talked to our boy jean-baptiste today... he was skating (skateboarding, not rollerskating... altho now that i mention it, remember when rollerskating was dope?! ...neither do i). actually, he wasn't skateboarding like you just pictured it. jean-baptiste is a pro fingerboarder! no joke here. he actually designs and sells his own custom, hand-made, wooden decks. today, however, he was skating a techy.. like the ones you can buy at wallyworld. a slick little number, logo-tatted with a plan-b graphic. the girls were oohed-and-ahhed by his skills... but they were laughing at his plan-b deck... i didn't get it. turns out plan-b is an oh-shit pill... like ru486... like the day-after pill, ya heard? and a skate company. post-prophylactics and good times taken by all.

so what does this all have to do with the wine thieves? well, i'm powered by ill-flavored coffee, for one. for two, party used to be sick on 8 wheels. i'm talking about a rollerskating-ballet like it was saturday night, 1979. for threed, jean-baptiste's sick fingerkickflips will be highlighted in an upcoming wine thieves music video. this cat can shred, i assure you. with his fingers. and fingerboards. and he shall do so to the tempos of party.picasso and the cadence of yours trues... more on that later, tho...

also, must shout thanks to gumshu! and party for that matter. those two tore up the final touches on the sex & co. ep. seriously--for a moment--imagine finishing a record in a bathroom... a record that was started in a multi-million-dollar studio... finally, wrapped in a room with toilet paper. thanks gum! that's how we roll, rolled for years. closets. coat racks. campers. communes. i thot you knew?!

in other, unrelated updating, i'm throwing down an afternoon of gaming with tom de la commune tomorrow. doritos and dews, bro & brews... you know. co-op style. (jean-baptiste hollers, 3.6.0.2.4.7.-inna-5.7.0. you know!!!)

stay tuned.

peaces,

hype o.