Brother Power the Geek
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This record promises something we’d all like. More Chuck Berry.
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Who wore it better? Here is Ivanka in her inspired and on point fashion choice last night, Silver is the new black site!
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Now playing: Prince protégés on cassette. Wendy & Lisa up first.
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Trying to generate some fresh content in 2017. Listened to Sinatra (gray label mono ftw) and the Cure (2016 Rhino reissue) this morning while making breakfast.
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Little Medleys chillin.
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Had to take a minute out of the busy grind to show respect to the brotha Allen Toussaint who left a catalog of greatness behind due to his work in front of and behind the boards.
The Meters, Lee Dorsey, Dr. John…..and so on
Blessup
(via ijustmakepizzapies)
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Each CD is both master and worthless copy. Today, when boxes of CDs are the cheapest object at the flea market, it’s hard to appreciate the value of the information they hold. But whenever we reissue our older albums, the mastering engineer asks for a commercial copy of the original CD, as well as any master tapes. And more than once the engineer has elected to work from that CD - identical to the copy you might find at a thrift store - because its uncompressed digital transfer proved a more reliable source than now-compromised master tape.
In his landmark study of sound recording, The Audible Past, Jonathan Sterne argues that the ubiquity of early records led to their rapid disappearance - since each of the thousands of copies of pre-war 78s were merely one among so many, none was saved. By the 1950s, collectors like Harry Smith had to scour the country for even a single copy of what had been immensely popular recordings a couple of decades earlier.
As we can now stream seemingly any music to our smartphones or computers, it may seem that Harry Smith’s kind of physical search is as much a part of the twentieth-century past as the old-timey music he loved. But streaming music could never be used as a master recording. It is compressed, compromised sound - unfit for reproduction.
The Harry Smith of our day may well be browsing the local Goodwill, sorting through those worthless stacks of jewel cases.
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
[from “A Supermarket in California,” Allen Ginsberg, 1955]
(via ijustmakepizzapies)
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(via kwmurphy)