That’s right. I just drank that huge bottle
of Coke and I’m ready to rock.
“Listen – The New Breed Pt2 MP3″
And a hail-fellow well met to you and yours.
The weekend is at last approaching with unstoppable momentum, and whether or not you left all of your party in some rest room on New Years Eve, the track I bring you today is guaranteed to get some of it back for you (if just a little).
This has been the longest “short” week in recent memory. I’m still not digging my new job all that much, but I guess I am getting used to it (somewhat). I won’t bore you with the details, but it seems the problem is not what the new job is, but rather what it isn’t – that being my old job, in which I was as free as an organically raised asparagus, growing wild in my little corner of the world, my creative juices flowing like pancake syrup in a lumber camp, my ability to tap into the zeitgeist and then hang on like a lamprey practically boundless. Now I find myself moved from protective custody into the general population where my free-range sensibilities are more liability than asset, and I have to watch my step, which really sucks because for the first time in a long time, someone else is watching it too.
Life is unfair…but then so was Ike Turner (how’s that for a segue of the week nominee???)
That’s right friends, we return to the mighty recorded legacy of America’s most notorious, wife-beating a-hole, who just so happened (once upon a long time ago) to have also been one of the country’s great musical assets.
Back in the days of yore, when the sharkskin suited, be-conked Ike strode across the landscape of rhythm and blues like some kind of gargantuan, guitar mangling (and shoe throwing) colossus, he was laying down some serious musical heat.
There are those that will swear by his “and Tina” recordings (as will I), but there are others (a group of which I am oddly enough also a member) that will hep you to the fact that Mr. Turner made some outstanding platters without the benefit of his wife.
Today’s selection is one of those.
I remember the day I picked up this disc, in the days before I headed into battle with a GP3 in my holster, flying blind – or deaf – as it were. I was rifling through what was probably the 100th crate of the day at some record show or other when I happened upon this 45. My curiosity was piqued by the name Ike Turner, but the hit that sent the ball over the left field wall was the title, i.e. ‘The New Breed’.
There’re some powerful – loaded – words for you.
In a classic dip into the steam of consciousness (may I invoke the zeitgeist one more time) we have the Brand New Bag, out of which Papa (that being the late, great James Brown) pulled the first reference that I ever heard to the New Breed. Then years later, when I found myself surrounded by parkaed and bowling shoed Mod types, the Jam (those parkaed and bowling shoed Mod icons from the other side of the pond) namechecked the New Breed once again, in their own conscious soul-worship, “ain’t we bad covering Heatwave” thang, not to mention that there were other ‘New Breed’ tunes, by Jackie Wilson and Jimmy Holiday..sooooo, what does it all mean??? Hmmmmm??
I dunno. I suppose that the likely explanation (outside of the unlikely scenario in which all of the artists listed above were involved in animal husbandry) is that the ‘New Breed’ is a self-serving announcement/boast meant to suggest a changing of the guard in music, style, whatever. The fact that Ike and his Kings of Rhythm chose to make their New Breed statement an instrumental says to me that Ike didn’t need words to announce his arrival on the scene.
For that he had his gee-tar.
And what an axe that was children, because when I say that Ike was bending those strings with a vengeance (no doubt channeling his uncontrollable anger/machismo/testosterino combo into his playing), I am not yanking your chain. You need only listen to this record once to realize that the recording thereof resulted in a pile of twisted, and snapped guitar strings (hell…probably a couple of busted guitars as well). I chose to lay Part the deuce on you because in my humble opinion, the guitar wrassling is just a little bit more frantic on that side of the record, in which he takes the whammy bar and forever turns it into the whamm-ing bar.
No matter how you slice it, this is one tough 45 that 42 years hence is still redolent of sweat, cold beer and cigarette smoke and should be listened to while shaking the ass (preferably your own, but if you ‘ve got someone that’ll let you shake theirs, go for it amigo).
Anyway, that’s your Friday party starter (or continuer) for this week.
Have a great weekend.