Mr Scruff is a legitimately good DJ. This song is a pretty good song – maybe a little repetitive and pointless, but it’s got a good groove. So what’s so embarrassing about this song?
Anyone reading this blog on a PC knows exactly why this song is so embarrassing. It’s because this is one of three or four songs pre-loaded onto the Windows Media Player as sample pieces. I don’t know why they did that. All I know is that, one day, when I had to work at another facility and I didn’t have my own music with me, I hoped against hope there would be something already on the Windows machine I had to use – and, God bless America, there was. I listened to this song on repeat for eight hours.
Okay – first of all? I know the drummer. That drummer is a friend of mine. (And you, sir, are no drummer.) That drummer is a total badass and just about the nicest person you’ll ever meet. So, now you, by extension, know the drummer. You see once again why reading this blog is a good idea.
And second of all, this band is seriously incredible. How they manage to have a sound that’s tight and at the same time so gritty, I’ll never know. I’ve been a blues band myself it’s hard to sound…right. You don’t want to sound too polished because that’s inauthentic. The blues is earth-bound and cracked and held together with tape. But if you sound too sloppy, then you just sound like you suck. Bad Influence does not suck. Anyone who knows me knows that’s a pretty big compliment. Rock on, gentlemen. And all y’all who like these guys, go to http://www.badinfluenceband.com for tour dates and other stuff.
This song goes out to two dear friends of mine who are today beginning their cross-country moving trip to resettle on the west coast. (Pro tip: if you want to speed past the odd and theatrical intro, the music starts at 0:57.) Westward, ho, dudes! Pedal to the metal – no parking on the dance floor.
So here’s something twisted: kids who were born in 1993, when this record came out, are old enough to drink now. They’re gonna be hitting the bars tonight buying drinks with real IDs. Curse you, relentless passage of time.
I remember buying my first legal drink. I ordered a glass of red wine in a Legal Seafood restaurant in a mall. I didn’t get carded, the wine was a bit blech, it felt very anti-climactic. Ordering a drink at a bar, of course, was very different. I really did feel like I was getting away with something. I kept waiting for someone to tap me on the shoulder and give me a condescending “Okay, honey, let’s go.” But no one did. So, bars were no longer mythic – less Mists of Avalon, more Terminal B Airport Lounge.
So, a bar is a bar is a bar. (You of course are a bar, but were always a bar. (Robert Frost, up top!)) The best bar I have ever been to is basically an enormous living room, filled with squashy sofas and arm chairs. The drinks are reasonably priced, the food is delicious, and the service just desultory enough to allow you ample time to wonder if you’ll die in the chair you selected, and then realize you won’t really mind because it’s so very comfortable. In fact, the bar in “Tukka Yoot’s Riddim” slightly resembles this Elysium of bars. So, while drinking tends to cram a half-hour of loose amusement into three hours of unpleasantness, you might as well do it sitting in a blue velveteen low-rider sofa listening to an upright bass player. Word to the wise, newly-minted 21-year olds.
Oh and one more thing: shots are the Devil’s plaything. Shots are how the Saxons fell. Don’t do shots. Promise me. Ok? Look me in the eye. Ok. Now be home by 11. And would it kill you to wear pants that fit?
To say this is one of my personal theme songs – me, a woman who lives for music – would be like a devout Christian saying that the ten commandments were the rules they lived by. It’s so obvious it sounds dumb. It’s not at all lost on me either that there are few well-known female funk musicians, so I also bow down to Ms. Davis for kicking it in a male-dominated field. And finally, she’s belting out a funk song about how people think she’s weird for loving the music she does. That’s a pretty baller combination. So, whenever I’ve been made to feel weird, or whenever someone patronizes me because I’m a woman, I lean on Ms. Davis for a little pick-me-up. Works like a charm.
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They say I’m different ’cause I’m a piece of sugar cane Sweet to the core that’s why I got rhythm My Great Grandma didn’t like to foxtrot, no instead she spitted snuff and boogied to Elmore James
Spit On!
They say I’m different ’cause I eat chitlins I can’t help it I was born and raised on ’em That’s right, oh, every mornin’ I had to slop the hogs and they be gettin off humpin to John Lee Hooker
Gettin off!
They say I’m different ’cause I’m a piece of sugar cane and when I kick my legs I got rhythm My Great Grandpa was a blues lover He be rockin his moonshine to B.B. King and Jimmy Reed
Rock on pappy!
That’s why they say I’m different That’s why they say I’m strange
Talkin bout Big Mama Thornton Talkin bout Lightning Hopkins Talkin bout Howlin Wolf I’m talkin bout Albert King Alright Alright Chuck Berry, Chuck Berry, Chuck Berry When I was sweet sixteen
And that’s why they say I’m different That’s why you think I’m strange
I’m talkin bout T. Bone Walker I’m talkin bout Muddy Waters I’m talkin bout Leadbelly, Sonny Terry, Brownie McGhee, Son House, and Freddie King Bessie Smith! Bessie Smith! Oh, Oh, Hey
Oh Bo Diddley have you heard it?
That’s why they say I’m different That’s why they say I’m strange and that’s why they say I’m funky
Little Richard, Wild Lou, sunshine you sure can sing Robert Johnson, Robert Johnson, Robert Johnson! You play the blues for me
That’s why, That’s why, That’s why they say I’m different That’s why, That’s why, That’s why they say I’m strange
So, like everyone, I have a number of circles of friends. Some of them overlap, some of them don’t. Within each circle is a person or set of people that know me really well. And these people form their own special little subgroup – the sanctum sanctorum, if you will (or even if you won’t. This is my blog. Get you own, you crank). These are people I tell everything to, who let me be crass and laugh at my dumb jokes, and don’t wig out when it’s a Friday night and I all want to do is hang out with them in our PJ’s and enjoy some microwavable chicken pot stickers and crap $3 wine from Trader Joe’s and ask questions like, “how weird would it be if humans evolved to not need noses anymore?” People who would be down to join me if I said “I’d rather dance in ugly pants in the comfort of a lounge room in suburbia.” Parties are where your people are. So thank you, sanctum sanctorum. You know who you are, and man, “things don’t get no better – better like you and me.”
I have been saving this song for a very special day. Today is such a day. It doesn’t matter why today is special – who really cares – but let’s dig into the song.
This is one of those songs that I would consider to be absolutely perfectly constructed. What is a song composed of? I would posit (because I love to posit) three things: tempo, melody, and rhythm. First of all: the tempo. The tempo is absolutely right on the money. It’s slow enough to give it a real sultry groove, but it’s fast enough that you want to get out of your chair and dance to it. Secondly: melody. This song has a simple enough melody that you can remember it after you hear it once, and then sing along with it the next time it comes on. It’s also just intoxicatingly bluesy. And third: rhythm. The rhythm of this song is straight up four-square, meat-and-two-vegetables, staple-diet stuff. It musical bedrock.
So why in the world is such a song, with such simple bones, so extraordinary? Obviously part of it is Redding’s voice, that manages to be so gritty and on pitch at the same time. Another part is the strategic use of – yeah, you guessed it – horns. But for me, it’s how everything drops away before the next verse. What do I mean? I mean that the song starts with Redding singing alone. He sings a verse. Before he asks us whether we’ve ever been lonely (lo-oh-oh-oh-ohnly), it’s just him and the drums – and then the horns come it. And god help me when Redding can’t help himself at 1:03 (“ooh yeah”) – he knows it’s cooking. It just keeps building until we can’t take it. And then what happens? The guitar lick at 1:58, straight out of a Temptations song – and then song slips into minor.
It’s just…man. I just can’t even. This is like the Hope Diamond of songs for me.
The Daily Tune-Up 