How an old Chevy, the Army and Art Blakey made Cedar Walton’s career.
Some people go to New York to be discovered. When jazz
pianist Cedar Walton drove his Chevy across the country to get there in
1955, it was for anonymity. “Everybody knew me in Dallas,” he rec
Esperanza Spalding is a popular woman. The
bassist/singer/composer will tour at least 10 countries this summer
after wrapping up the lengthy U.S. trip that brings her back to her
hometown of Por
The Soul'd Out festival has been a blast thus far. I've seen Maze (and, perhaps not coincidentally, the most black people I've ever seen in Portland); I've seen Slaughterhouse (and their insanely devoted crowd); I've seen AfroMassive jammed into the basement at Goodfoot and last night I saw a downright inspiring set of ska standards from the Skatalites. Damn! Am I forgetting anything?
[HIP-HOP] We’re used to Serge Severe being the Sharon
Jones of boom-bap (boom-Baptone?). On his last two records, the Portland
MC has branded himself as a throwback, flowing over jazz and
Kurt Thomas can’t compete with Blaze. The NBA’s oldest
player and his team’s mascot are representing the Trail Blazers at
Russell Academy’s rundown elementary school gymnasium in Northeast
There are five words to this song.
I often wonder what would have happened to Josh Hodges music if no one ever danced to Starfucker. I think things could have gone one of two ways: He'd either be making really elaborate experimental music by now or he'd be releasing stripped-down, minimal songs like this on his own, perhaps under the old Sexton Blake moniker.
Of course that's all speculation...
Music(UPDATED 4/13 with thoughts from members of Fruition and Quixotic)
From my brief time with him, I can't imagine Gavin Soens—who rapped and produced music under the name Gavin Theory—using any cliche cancer phrases about himself. He wasn't "a fighter" or "a trooper." He was, in his own mind, a guy who was blessed with great friends, a supportive family and a supportive music community...
This new video from Mean Jeans, which finds the band blasting green space aliens and drinking Jägermeister—one gets the distinct impression that most of the set props come from the band's personal collection—is pretty amazing, though it threatens to distract from just how awesome this song is. But then, the band's ultra-specific party aesthetic is always going to be a little love or hate for ...
So, I always feel a kinship with referees. I was reminded of this a few minutes ago, when one offered a friendly but distant half-hug to Raymond Felton. I know that feeling. I write about music for a living. And you can get close to a band—physically close, until your ears bleed—but you're rarely close to a band. And, of course, if you get too close you've got to stop writing about them. I can...