Abel’s 4000 Albums That Matter: Part Thirty-Four
I’ve been saying for a pair of years at least, that Liverpool forward and Uruguayan national Luis Suárez is a giant pile of festering shit but nobody either paid any attention to my words, ignored me or just plum dismissed me as crazy. Bitey-boy’s latest wasn’t his first stab at cannibalism, it’s like his third or fourth but it certainly is his first at an internationally watched level. Way to go guy. You’ve earned your retainer on this one. That bit of unpleasantness aside, this has been a remarkable World Cup. This weekend’s action (as I’m writing this on Friday the 27th at the break between the group stage and the Round of 16) is going to be phenomenal and I can’t wait!
I’m super stoked and pumped! Energy flows in and out of me like exploding stars and the deafened cries of burnt universes. Wait, now I’m losing it. I don’t even know what that nonsense means.
Well before I go and get all pedantic on you for the short span of these posts during Cup season, I’ll say this much: I like the cold and steady feel of Parker pens. Parker pens, the pens of confidence.
616. The Waterford Landing – S/T. I had the pleasure of interviewing longtime friend and musical personality Alex Caso this past week for the Miami New Times and it got me nostalgic for this old outfit of his, The Waterford Landing. Along with Ed Matus and Richard Rippe, the talented trio brought a refresing take on dark synth-pop with good New Wave references to South Florida that was equal parts danceable, introspective, brooding and edgy. I hope one day they have a reunion because I like to gaze at shoe-gazers dancing.
617. Os Tubarões – Tabanca. This group is perhaps the definitive voice for music and the Cape Verdean people during the transitional years of independence. Peg this with the “World Music” umbrella all you want, this is solid folk rock with native and post-colonial Africa endemic touches that will resonate with you whether you speak Portuguese or Cape Verdean Creole. It’s catchy and probably something I should’ve jammed out to a while back while reading a rather interesting treatise on electoral challenges/attitudes and techniques in the wake of African nations shaking themselves loose from colonial oppression. Way to go white people, your legacies are the stuff of legend.
618. LA’s Wasted Youth – Reagan’s In. I’ve always had this thing about Wasted Youth regarding the fact that to me they were always LA’s Wasted Youth and not just Wasted Youth. It’s like GBH. It’s not GBH because that would be stupid. It has been, is and will always be Charged G.B.H. Why do I lose sleep over stupid shit like that? Oh that’s right, because I was once a shiftless and dumb youth who took his cues from gems like “Uni-High Beefrag,” “We Were On Heroin” and “Born Deprived.” Why I haven’t gotten married and/or taken the reins of a Fortune 500 company yet is clearly a travesty and an affront towards the greater good of humanity.
619. Enya – Watermark. I was watching the final episode of the first season of the hilarious and quite frankly, eye-opening British television series Peep Show when the Enya as Jesus/Jesus as Enya bit happens during Jez’s uncle’s funeral. Good stuff. I’ve also touched the waters of the Orinoco River in my native Venezuela so I feel, like all good Venezuelans should, that the mesmerizing Celtic chanteuse wrote this song for me. I don’t believe there was ever any such bollocks as “Orinoco Studios” in England. That’s some rubbish right there. I know what I know in my heart of hearts. You folks are welcome to wear shorts to my funeral if I happen to kick it during the summer in South Florida. This place is hot. And humid.
620. Bobby Womack – Fly Me To the Moon. It’s true. Bobby Womack died on Friday, June 27th, 2014. Play “I’m a Midnight Mover” for him today. Play it loud. Don’t be shy. It’s hard to keep up the cheekiness and pedantic disposition when you get sad.
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