Limited to only 218 copies on green vinyl, Oot & Aboot by Honest Don’s The Real McKenzies looks like your typical, run-o-the-mill black record until you shove it up to any given light source. The music is decent pop punk, but the quasi-hidden color makes for a fun, limited release.
With shame and guilt do I type these pathetic and shadowed words… I have no idea what this comp sounds like. I don’t remember ordering it, spinning it, nor can I, for the life of me, recall even a fraction of any of these unreleased tracks. The Sultans, Sonny Vincent, Beehive and The Barracudas, Hot Snakes, and Rocket from the Crypt! Please excuse my momentary lapse of all controllable comprehension. This evening’s goal… digitize this album! Thank you for allowing me to share my scandalous humiliation… carry on.
A hearty thanks to Bri, Meggles and the kids for this amazing instrumental album! 1998’s double Grammy award winner, and the fifth b-boy studio album, Hello Nasty, was greeted with a (not-so-on-the-level) stripped down, almost naked, vocal-less version released some five years later. A perfect way in which to listen to a classic album in a completely new way, Hello Nasty: Instrumentals, and bootlegs altogether, make for perfect gifts, don’t you think?
Thanks again, B, M, K & B!
A few days ago we had an earthquake here in Southern California. Initially it was monitored as a 4.7, and then was downgraded to a 4.4. How a conscious-inducing seismic anomaly can be reduced in mere hours is beyond my pre-K comprehension. Anyway, my girlfriend and I have, what I believe to be, a rational and logical understanding about what to do when the planet has a seizure. She finds the closest doorway, and I rush to the record wall to keep it from falling. Makes perfect sense to me, although death by records is not necessarily something my GF is keen to. After our 4.7 (or 4.4, depending on what wizardry of scientific evaluation you trust) we regained composure, picked up a few things that the Earth apparently wanted on the floor, and we went along about our day.
Among the debris of gravitational plunging, was a drumstick I luckily acquired from a Ministry concert during their 2003 Fornicatour (that’s what it was called). It had been resting above the doorframe to the office, opposite the drumstick from a Har Mar Superstar show I’d seized sometime in 2007 (my only two concert acquisitions). Since this was the first quake I had witnessed to knock anything over, the image of that beat-up baton lying helpless on the floor stuck with me. So now, I drop it here, like it has been dropped before, first from the stage to my outstretched arm, then to the floor from that early morning tremor. Beware of tumbling matter, kids, for when drumsticks fall from the sky, anything is seemingly possible.