only love can break your heart-david samuels

the best article on hip hop that i’ve ever read that was written by a non-head:

“The most important ones, records that contain critical beats or unknown hooks or especially rare or unusual sounds, are stored in anonymous white sleeves to protect their identities from unscrupulous rivals, burglars, or others who might find their way into Prince Paul’s basement and reveal his secret musical formulas to the world.

Prince Paul’s records are the sonic equivalents of the bits of found paper or plastic or candy bar wrappers that a suburban Picasso might use to make a collage from his fifth-grade class. They are archeological evidence of the lifelong listening habits of the young music fan who wandered through his mother’s house in his pajamas, tilting his transistor radio from side to side as he listened to the latest hits by the Treacherous 3 and the Furious Five on Mr. Magic’s Rap Attack on WBLS. A photograph on his basement wall shows Prince Paul at the age of eleven, standing in front of his first-ever turntable, wearing a Spiderman shirt, Converse sneakers, and a fresh pair of Lee’s and staring at a spinning record with the same hypnotic intensity that has informed his music ever since.” (145)

see, if you refuse to engage with the most important musical genre of our lifetime, there’s no saving you. but perhaps it’s better that you remain ignorant of all that you’ve missed out on, are missing out on, and will miss out on. aw, fuck it, i’ma be sad for you anyway. thanks, don mills-i’ll get it back to you on time, i promise. i’m leaving now.


One thought on “only love can break your heart-david samuels

  1. because this one is too good not to share (because i’m not sure if people take that extra step to click the other blog):

    “The comparison between readers and writers on this score is instructive. While writers have historically made a point of displaying themselves as unusually sensitive, troubled souls (see Verlaine, Rimbaud, Thomas Wolfe, Plath, Burroughs, Ginsberg, et a.; note that most of the truly crazy ones are poets), it is also my theory that their dramatic sufferings are very often the product of too much ambition. Too much actual, organic suffering in one’s biography can make it impossible to sustain the energy and egotism necessary for a successful literary career. A career of reading, on the other hand, allows for more prolonged and spectacular forms of disturbance. It is no accident, at least, that most readers I know were unhappy children. They spent months in the hospital; endured long periods of friendlessness or bereavement; watched loved ones die of cancer; had parents who were crazy or divorced; spent formative years in a foreign country; suffered from early exposure to “fantasy” or “adventure” novels for boys or “mystery” or “romance” novels for girls; or lived through some overwhelming experience of dislocating weirdness, such as growing up on an army base, or on a farm, or in a cult.” (260)

    for serious.

    the rest:

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