beat nuts

what a weekend.
Quasi-DJed Strategy CD release on Fri.; Nice Nice keeps cauldrons of musicology inside 99-cent megaphones, which Jason spits into the little amplifier thing behind the strings, on the guitar, whose name I used to know back before I gave up guitar for the Kawai ESX digital piano. BTdubs, if anyone wants to buy my tobacco sunburst Gretsch Duo Jet Stetsasonic or whatever it’s called, you know how to get me.
Strategy, known to commonfolk as Paul D., played no ambiance, but put down eentsy disco house morsels; I am constantly amazed at his ability to keep the funk in the micro. (Vladislav knows, it has been said before and will be said again that the smaller the pants, the smaller the pockets; in what crannies do deep, nasty basslines hide when rhythms are no bigger than a bleep on the heart monitor? So boys who bring it pack magic wands.)
These trapeze artists had an early show so all these parallel bars were CASCADi(a)ng down, plus magic blue light, like cirque de soleil goes to Berlin. I spun, like, four songs, including my signature track “Two of Hearts” by Stacey Q, who according to VH-1 Divas is living out massive crimped updos with the Dalai Lama and has channeled grand jetes into master yogism. I love how we can lead many lives.
Last night Vast Aire gifted his set to Karniege (who came like the Chicago Manual: “spelled like K-A-R-N-I-E-G-E, that’s Karniege, I’m on Def Jux 3, make sure it’s italicized when you blog it later”). K-A-R-N-I-E-G-E rhymed the bulk of Vast’s lyrics. Vast himself, amped on hefty plates-full of Oregon Duck, simply had us “do that shit” on the half beats. Either the monitors weren’t up loud or there was an echo in the room, because his rhythm was cooked like the Blazers in double OT. It’s cool, though, I’ll keep reading the liner notes. Then back to Holocene, where DJ the Incredible Kid killed the dancefloor with Latin house and hiphop (from Latin America, not Latino Americans). I did what I do (second?) best—played like I was God’s hybrid of Rita Moreno and Cyd Charise—while my new dance partner, a bona fide capoeirista, told me all about his job, none of which I understood because a drunk American dude spitting Portuguese was mushier than garlic in my mom’s molcajete.