#Angel Park photo Philly

[mylifeinsound]

Electrifying Night at The Met: Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Sasami Deliver a Sonic Spectacle

Yeah Yeah Yeahs at The Met! Photos & Words: by Angel Park Yeah Yeah Yeahs‘ recent performance at The Met, with Sasami as the opening act, was an electrifying showcase of raw energy and musical prowess. From the moment Karen O took the stage, clad in her signature eclectic style, the band’s dynamic presence captivated the audience. The Met‘s intimate setting provided the perfect backdrop for the…

[dossi-io]

An introduction to DeVita

Do you want to learn all about the AOMG artist DeVita? This article will cover everything you need to know about the third female member to join the labels roster.

The content of this article is also available in video format, embedded at the bottom of this article.

Prelude

In early April of 2020, the Korean hip-hop label AOMG ambiguously announced that a new artist was signing onto the label. This label was grounded by the Korean-American triple-threat; Jay Park, who’s also one of its executives. This is a label with a very organic feel and artist-oriented nature, which stands out compared to many other music labels.

On April 3rd, the label’s official Instagram account posted a video. It was titled, “Who’s The Next AOMG?” where fellow AOMG members talked about this upcoming recruit. They sprinkled small hints and details by sharing their thoughts on the artist without mentioning who.

Around the world, fans immediately began speculating on who this could be. The major consensus was that it had to be the solo artist Lee Hi, due to reporting like this: “AOMG responds ‘nothing is confirmed’ to reports of Lee Hi signing on with the label”

A few other names got thrown in fan speculations like Hanbin (B.I), previous member of IKON, Jvcki Wai, and MOON (문) aka Moon Sujin. This despite a few of these already being signed to other labels.

On April 6th, three days later, the account was updated with a part two. This time dropping more hints, which would exclude many names from fan speculations.

On the 7th of April, the label’s official Instagram account posted a short teaser. The video sported an 80’s retrofuturistic setting, with a woman turned from the camera, dressed in all black, rocking braids, and some glistening high-heels. As it seemed to be a female, some were now certain that it had to be Lee Hi. A small few actually guessed correctly that the one who would be joining AOMG would be Ms DeVita.

Finally on April 9th, it was official! She debuted with the music video, from which the teaser clips was taken from, EVITA!, which accompanied the release of her EP, CRÈME.

What does the name DeVita mean?

The name DeVita, draws inspiration and meaning from two things. Firstly, Eva Perón – also known as Evita – who was Argentina’s former First Lady. When Chloe was learning about Eva’s life, it inspired her to combine “Devil” and “Evita”, thus creating “DeVita”. The name signifies the duality of how both Eva Perón and DeVita could be perceived. Either being a devil, or an angel depending on the eye of the beholder. Secondly, Salvatore Di Vita, a character from Cinema Paradiso, was also a source of inspiration.

An introduction to DeVita

Chloe Cho – now known under the artist name DeVita – was born and raised in South Korea, until the age of eleven. In 2009, she moved to Chicago, where she would learn English.

In 2013, she went back to Korea and participated in the third season of the show; K-pop Star. A talent show, where the “big three” (the three largest music labels in Korea) hosts auditions to find the next big k-pop star. However she didn’t win, therefore neither got signed.

Later on, she returned to Chicago and graduated high school. After reflecting on what she wanted to do next, she decided to make music. In 2014, her pursuit to become an artist brought her to the talent show Kollaboration. On this show, she performed covers and actually ended up being a finalist. Despite her talents, she did not triumph as the winner of the show.

Not letting these losses stop her, she started releasing music on Soundcloud. The earliest release I could find, Halfway Love (Ruff), was from 2016. Her catalogue consisted of both covers and original music.

One day, Kirin, an artist and CEO of the music label 8balltown Records, was introduced to DeVita’s music. He liked what he heard and the two linked up. In May of 2018, WEKEYZ, one of 8balltown’s producer duos released a track titled Sugar. This track featured both DeVita, and the AOMG rapper Ugly Duck. This was the beginning of many collaborations to come.

On August 28th of 2018, just a few months later, AOMG released Sugar (Puff Daehee Mix).

This was a remix done by Puff Daehee, the alter ego of Kirin. Along with this track, it was accompanied by a music video starring Kirin, DeVita, and Ugly Duck. For most people, this was their first time seeing DeVita.

DeVita continued doing features on many songs by Korean artists while creating a little buzz for herself. There’s one notable feature, which could be seen as an important milestone in her career. That is her feature on the track Noise, from AOMG artist Woo Won Jae’s project, titled af.

In a tweet a few days after the release of CRÈME, she shared the significance of this moment.

“I was still making minimum wage working at a restaurant back when Noise dropped- I wrote my part during my shift on the back of this receipt paper. This was about a year and a half ago. A little bit after that I got a call from Pumpkin at 3am Chicago time. He said Jay wanted to meet in Philly in 4 hours. They put me on a plane and the rest is history.”

The phone call she mentioned in her tweet, about Jay wanting to meet, must have been made around September 2018. Jay was performing in Philadelphia at the time. The moment they met in Philadelphia was actually captured through a photo of the two. However, this picture ended up getting removed later on.

Fast forward a few months and Jay had just released his Ask About Me EP. The project focused on a western audience, so he went to the States on a promo run. During his visit, he also met up with DeVita once again, as can be seen here.

Finally, on April 9th, her being signed to AOMG was officially announced and she debuted with her EP titled CRÈME. Her joining AOMG, looked like something that happened pretty naturally. The vast majority of artists she had collaborated on tracks with happened to be AOMG members. Getting comfortable with the AOMG family, likely made the decision to join crystal clear.

Artistically

Just a quick look at her body of work thus far, a majority of it is in English. However, she has no issues singing in Korean, as proven by her feature on Code Kunst’s; Let u in. The tone in her voice has this sort of mixture of many singers, a melting pot of sorts. It reminds me of Audrey Nuna, SAAY, H.E.R, some vocal riffs from Dinah Jane, and at times, just a tiny bit of Ariana Grande.

As an artist, she’s still in the early stages of carving out her own unique sound and style. There’s incredible potential here, but her distinct identity is not completely there yet. I see before me a caterpillar that within a couple years, will transform into a butterfly, with its own identifiable pattern to spread its wings out on.

From what she’s shown so far, I would say she seems most comfortable doing R&B and soul music. However, beyond a quick description I prefer to refrain from categorizing her. Mostly because artists generally feel limited when categorized. More importantly, because we have no idea what she has in store for the future.

Debut EP: CRÈME

CRÈME is DeVita’s “crème de la crème”. She constantly modified the tracklist to present her debut project in a way that held her personal standard; essentially presenting us her best tracks. The result is CRÈME, which consists of five tracks, with a runtime of fourteen minutes altogether.

This EP showcases the fact that she is a competent songwriter, able to write some soulful, emotional ballads. It is completely in English and all the tracks are written by her, telling both life stories of her own and that of others. A majority of the production was handled by her “musical soulmate”; TE RIM, but other notable names, like Code Kunst show up as well.

Tracks:

Movies, introduces the project in a very gentle manner. In the track, DeVita paints a picture of a criminal couple, getting a rush, by committing crimes together. The lyrics feel inspired by movies like Bonnie and Clyde. My initial thoughts were that, for some ears, it could possibly be “too” calm as an opener. It doesn’t demand attention the way EVITA! does. Simply put, it’s not a bad track. I would just have put this track later on in the EP.

EVITA!, is something different compared to what I hear from others in the K-R&B lane. I love the 80’s aesthetic in both the track and music video. Sonically, the nostalgic saxophone riffs, warm lush synth pads, thumping bass line, results in a trip back to the 80s. With this recipe, topped with DeVita’s “current” contemporary soul and R&B voice makes for an interesting combination. The music video had that futuristic 80’s look with the neon colors, and I loved how the guns she played around with looked a lot like the “Needlers” from the Halo franchise.  The title is once again just like DeVita’s name, an ode to the controversial Eva Perón. The instrumental was originally used by TE RIM, the producer of the track in 2017. His version has the same title as DeVita’s version and I recommend giving that one a listen as well, as it has a different feel to it. This track was definitely one of the highlights of the EP.

All About You, is a simple yet beautiful piano love ballad. Originating from her own tales of love, her vocals effortlessly capture what she felt during these moments.

1974 Live, is yet another ballad, but this time, with a calm guitar backing, playing a poppier R&B chord progression. DeVita’s voice is given a lot of space to be in the center of the track. As soon as I heard this track I became curious. What was the significance of this year, which would have her title the track as such? My questions were left unanswered… until the EP had marinated a while, when she tweeted: “1974 Live is about Christine Chubbuck”. In case you’re unfamiliar, Christine Chubbuck was a television news reporter, who made history in 1974. She was the first person to commit suicide live on air. According to her mother Christine’s suicide would on paper be due to an unfullfilling personal life. All throughout her life, she had experienced unreciprocated love. With this information tying back to the track, it becomes a lot less ambiguous and reveals a more cohesive narrative.

Show Me, is the final track of the EP, featuring immaculate production from the talented CODE KUNST. The sound is very moody, which fits her voice like a glove. This is my favorite performance on the entire EP, both lyrically and vocally. The lyrics present someone who’s fed up dealing with men, who talk the talk but don’t walk the walk. Now she’s looking for love with someone who’s honest and “real”.

With the project being a year old now, it has already gotten her nominated for both Rookie of the Year along with EVITA being nominated for Best R&B & Soul Track in the 18th iteration of the Korean Music Awards.

A majority of listeners seemed to enjoy the project. Many seem to be in love with her voice judging by the endless amounts of praise she has received, often described as painfully addicting, soothing, smooth, and so on.

I also asked a friend who’s a huge fan of Korean music, especially the hiphop and r&b scene to share her thoughts on the project. Here’s what she said:

"This whole project is empowering, in particular the tracks Show Me and EVITA! DeVita being a new artist, managed to impress me and many more listeners through this EP. As mentioned earlier, empowering lyrics with unique melodies and beats. Especially with the track EVITA! The fact that 1974 Live and EVITA! was referring to, two historically important women, is something that I love. This is one of my favorite EP:s of 2020 and DeVita is now included in my list of favorite artists." @Haonsmom

From what I’ve seen, only a few have been vocal about not really being too fond of the project. Some were left a bit disappointed, as they were expecting more hip-hop and R&B from an AOMG artist. The lack of “danceable” tracks was also a concern to some. Despite these criticisms, one thing was always mentioned; the girl has a beautiful voice and is obviously talented.

After listening to this EP, I hear a lot of potential. Being an EP with just five tracks, it definitely avoids overstaying its welcome. It’s brief enough to allow a listen through the entire project, no matter what you’re doing. My favorite tracks would have to be Show Me and EVITA!, but I found the whole project to be enjoyable. This EP is sprinkled with lovely vocal performances and simple but captivating production. I do still stand by my opinion that Movies would have fit better later in the tracklist if you’re chasing that mainstream ear.

I think the way EVITA! kicks you in the face, demanding attention, would’ve been a better fit as the opening track. In contrast to the other tracks, the energy level is unique, making the placement feel odd as the rest of the tracks have a chill vibe. All in all, this project gave me a taste of the “crème” but left me with a curious yearning for what this chef will whip up for dessert.

Bright future ahead

The addition of more female artists to the AOMG roster was much needed. Hoody was the first and only female member for about four years. This was the case up until late 2019, where she was then joined by sogumm, who had just won AOMG’s audition program called SignHere. Now funnily enough after DeVita, Lee Hi actually did end up officially signing with AOMG on July 22, last year.

Based on what I’ve heard during Devita’s Kollaboration days, she has improved immensely. This topped with her leaving the impression of someone passionate about their craft, bodes well for what's to come. She seems to be someone who'll constantly evolve.

Following an artist, at the early stages of their career, is something that I always find exciting. With such a lovely debut, I cannot wait to see what the future has in store for DeVita.

To view the content of this article in video format simply play the video embedded below.

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Credits:

The first image in article: Original photo, pre-edit from @jinveun

Gif from the Sugar Puff Daehee MV: @moxiepoints

[tmbgareok]

FLOOD TOUR UPDATE Same band, different year!

Now sold out: Minneapolis St. Paul Chicago Boston NYC Asbury Park Philly Baltimore  DC St. Louis Kansas City Burlington Northampton Buffalo Pittsburgh Cleveland Seattle Portland OR Denver Boulder Ft Collins  

And here are direct links to all the available shows:

Ithaca https://bit.ly/3g6xHNy San Diego https://bit.ly/2TtwCaK Los Angeles https://livemu.sc/3ccV46G Oakland https://bit.ly/3g8gjYy Vancouver https://bit.ly/3ibd4Cv Salt Lake City https://livemu.sc/2SPNNTR Lincoln NE https://bit.ly/3yXbjP4 Tulsa https://bit.ly/34KmoW1 Dallas https://livemu.sc/3yWFg1I Houston https://livemu.sc/3uOVeaR Austin https://bit.ly/3vKOsEl Portsmouth NH https://bit.ly/3wTjF8Q Portland ME https://bit.ly/3yXbt98 MassMOCA https://bit.ly/3ihypKr

We are confident all these rescheduled dates are 100% solid + safe. Fair warning regarding these previously SOLD OUT Flood shows: it seems the scalpers couldn't wait for these rescheduled show, so we have recently seen a couple of waves of large bunches of tickets getting returned. (Fine by us-we'd rather folks get them at face value) Even so most of these shows look to sell out sooner than later-even though they are still a ways away. Avoid disappointment, and reserve your spot now.

We were in the midst of booking many more shows across the world, then something happened and we haven't really been able to bring it up again since. But maybe that will change. Watch this space.

photo: Jon Uleis

[hockeyshmockey]

Kevin Hayes *Day 4 of the 12 days of Christmas*

I am a whore for kevin hayes, I am an ever bigger whore for family man kevin hayes so here we are

****

It was a well known fact that the Hayes family loved the holidays with a capital L. Kevin had always loved when the holiday season was sprung upon Boston. He and his family took full advantage of the cold weather to skate outside, walk around and see the light shows in the city, eat amazing food and just enjoy time with the family.

After you met Kevin and later got married, the holiday season became even more important to the two of you. Kevin had always dreamed of having his own family and creating traditions together. He loved his family more than words could say, but that first Christmas after Layla was born, you saw the ultimate joy that time of year brought him.

When Layla was born, you and Kevin had a list of rules for the holiday season. You had both decided that you both and Layla would always spend the holiday in your own home unless there were extenuating circumstances. It was something your father had insisted on as you grew up, always having Santa come in your own house, and something you thought was important to continue on with your own family.

So you, Kevin and Layla spent the holiday in your house outside of Philly, entertaining any of your family and friends that wanted to join. Second, you both would take the time leading up to the holidays to grab Layla and head out to take her picture with Santa. This was something Kevin had brought up. He had loved going to see Santa as a kid, and always remembered his parents hauling him and Jimmy into the city to go get their picture with Santa. He wanted to have these memories for you both and Layla to look back on down the road.

The last rule was mostly for you. You and Layla would always wait for Kevin to be home to decorate your tree. Kevin had a job where he had to spend time away from home more than he could ever want. With that being said, it was very important for the both of you that Kevin felt like he was able to celebrate these small holiday milestones with his girls. So you would wait until Kevin had no games or was on a home stretch, travel to pick out the perfect tree, and then deck it out with all of the ornaments.

This year, you had gotten lucky where Kevin had an off day on a Friday, you were able to get the day off from work, and you took Layla to the King of Prussia mall. You had an appointment this year, unlike the last. Kevin had been confused at the need of an appointment but had nodded when you mentioned how busy it was the year before and you wanted to be able to get in and out efficiently.

What Kevin didn't know was you had plans. You had called the company and explained your situation, hoping to have their assistance in surprising your husband. They luckily enough had said yes. So as you pulled into the parking lot at the mall you could feel the nerves bubbling in your stomach but smiled for your husband and little girl as you walked into the mall together.

You all had arrived early for your appointment and stood in line patiently. Layla was being an angel, simply babbling to her dad as he held her on his hip. You had to hold back your hormonal tears at how much you loved the two of them. Kevin was such an amazing father and it never failed to move you at how wonderful he was with your little girl.

Kevin never noticed that no one got into line behind you both. Part of the plan was for Layla to be the last little one to see Santa, to give some semblance of privacy. You and Kevin greeted the lady checking people in, giving her Layla's name and chatting with her for a moment. As Kevin walked forwards the woman nodded and winked at you as you handed her a piece of paper.

Not long after, it was Layla's turn. You and Kevin gently ushered her to go with the 'elf' who was going to lead her to perch on Santa's lap.

"Well hello little lady," the man said as Layla peered up at him with wide eyes. "Would you like to come sit up here?" After looking back at her parents and seeing their encouraging smiles, she trotted up to the man in red and let him lift her onto his lap.

"Now, have you been a good girl this year?" He peered down at the little blonde with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Yes," she giggled with her little lisp as her cheeks turned rosy.

"Well, I suppose that means you need to tell me what you want for Christmas!" He grinned at the little girl, leaning his ear down so she could whisper in his ear.

"Ho, ho, ho," he chuckled, glancing up at you and Kevin who still hadn't noticed the photographer videoing his little girl instead of the normal photos. "Well, this year you have been so good, I think we can make that happen. In fact, I think my elf has something for you!"

Kevin glanced to you in confusion as the elf walked over to the Santa with a piece of cardstock. You slid your hand into his as you both focused back on the scene in front of you. Layla looked at the piece of paper, and though she couldn't read it, her mama had told her the secret about it so she grinned.

"Why don't you show your mom and dad what wish you made that is coming true this year?" The man gently nudged Layla to face you both, you holding your breath as she flipped the paper around. You felt Kevin cock his head as he saw the words.

Your little girl was giggling on Santa's lap with a sign that said "I get to be a big sister next year!" You knew the camera had turned to you and Kevin as you waited for his reaction. You peeked at his face and were not disappointed at the beaming smile on his face as he turned to you.

"Another baby?" he croaked, cupping your face.

"Another one," you confirmed, laughing as he lifted you up and spun you around. The both of you turned towards the scurry of little feet, Kevin kneeling down to catch the projectile that was your little girl.

"A sister daddy?" Layla asked Kevin innocently as he pulled you into his embrace.

"I don't know baby, I think it could be a brother," you winked at Kevin, tears slipping from your eyes at the love shining in his gaze as he watched his little family.

(Little did the two of you know, Brady and Tucker Hayes would be born in the middle of their dads Stanley Cup final game that year, and get to have their birth announcements sent out with photos of them in the Stanley Cup)

[divine17]

↳ Going to Live Aid with Billy Hargrove | MASTERLIST

Fandom: Stranger Things

Request: —

Count: 35

A/N: This is just a cute lil concept a friend and I came up with after realizing that ST3 ends right before Live Aid :)

After the Mindflayer is defeated and Hawkins is safe again (for now), you can tell that the stress and trauma is really taking it’s toll on your boyfriend of almost a year, Billy

He’s distant, more than usual, and his mind is clouded with the memories and thoughts of that night in the mall and how lucky he is to be alive and breathing and how grateful he is that you’re safe and sound too

And he’d started hanging out at your place a lot more often, just like the old times, trying to cling to the last bit of normalcy the two of you have together

He needs out of Hawkins, and it’s blaringly obvious that he just needs some time away from everything

So in mid-July, you tell him to pack a bag and grab his car keys because the two of you are going on a little roadtrip

He would need a little reassurance and maybe a tiny bit of convincing (and that’s probably due to the fact that you refuse to tell him exactly where you’re going), but he trusts you more than anyone else he’s ever known, so he’s down

And truth be told, he just can’t seem to tell you no when you’re so excited and have that shy little smile and your soft, rosy cheeks

It melts his cold little heart in the best way

Before all of the Mindflayer stuff happened, he’d had his eye on a music festival type of thing over in Philly called Live Aid

A couple bands he liked were performing, and he really wanted to go, but never would’ve gone by himself

So you’d taken it upon yourself to purchase a pair of tickets at the very last minute and pocket some of your savings from work, and then you were ready to go

Well, after convincing your parents that you’d be staying with the Harrington’s for a couple days since it’s summertime, they were rather fond of Steve and he didn’t care much about covering for you (although he didn’t like Billy, he was glad to finally see you happy)

The six hour drive to Philadelphia went by so fast that the two of you barely even notice

Billy drives, his hand secure on your thigh while you read the directions that you’d written out the night before, a map in your lap just in case

At first, he puts a Motley Crue tape in while he practically begs to have a hint as to where you’re leading him to, but you don’t budge

But when that tape ends and he pops in a Pretenders one, you can’t stop the grin forming on your lips and you have to tell him that he’d be seeing them later that day

His face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning, his cheeks turning a warm pink as he tries not to laugh

You’re amazing, and he can’t figure out what he did before he moved to Hawkins and met you

Or what he did to deserve you, honestly, you’re an absolute angel and he’s... He’s Billy Hargrove

When the two of you finally get to the venue, he’s eager and giddy with excitement

You wander around the stadium aimlessly for a while before deciding to get in the crowd

He’s tall and broad, and is able to push through the crowd and get closer to the front with ease

The two of you have an almost perfect view of the stage as Simple Minds come on, followed by the Pretenders and Santana and Ashford & Simpson

Madonna is next, and you’re not at all surprised to see him bopping to her music, even though it’s not his usual thing at all and you weren’t sure he’d ever even heard a Madonna song until then

But it’s nice to see him letting go for a while, just being himself and in his element

The two of you stay there for hours, listening to Tom Petty and Neil Young and Eric Clapton and everyone else in between

Finally, the two of you were beyond exhausted and start to leave after Led Zepplin finishes their set

You were gonna leave like an hour before them, but then he learned that they were playing and got so riled up that he was practically begging you to stay

When you started to get tired, he simply hoisted you over his shoulders with your legs around his neck and held your hands securely in his, holding you up over the crowd

The two of you were way too tired to drive back that night, so you decide to drive around and find a motel to stay in the for rest of the night and drive back in the morning

It ends up being more like the next afternoon after the two of you decide to mess around in Philly for a little while

That six hour drive back home goes by pretty quickly, too, and somehow you’re both kind of disappointed that it does

When you arrive back in Hawkins, neither of you really want to go back to your respective houses, and it’s not technically time for you to pretend to come home from Steve’s...

So the two of you go to a small local park, simply enjoying each other’s presence and going through the Polaroid photos you’d remembered to take at the concert for him

Billy is in a certain mood, one that you felt was rare these days; He was calm, and happy, almost serene, and it was the best feeling in the world for you both

[smokeycemetery]

JA ONE XTC

JA • • •

KEVIN HELDMAN lives in New York. This is his first piece for "Rolling Stone." (ROLLING STONE,FEB 9,1995)

THE FIRST TIME I meet JA, he skates up to me wearing Rollerblades, his cap played backward, on a street corner in Manhattan at around midnight. He's white, 24 years old, with a short, muscular build and a blond crew cut. He has been writing graffiti off and on in New York for almost 10 years and is the founder of a loosely affiliated crew called XTC. His hands, arms, legs and scalp show a variety of scars from nightsticks, razor wire, fists and sharp, jagged things he has climbed up, on or over. He has been beaten by the police -- a "wood shampoo," he calls it -- has been shot at, has fallen off a highway sign into moving traffic, has run naked through train yards tagging, has been chased down highways by rival writers wielding golf clubs and has risked his life innumerable times writing graffiti -- bombing, getting up.

JA lives alone in a one-bedroom apartment. There's graffiti on a wall-length mirror, a weight bench, a Lava lamp to bug out on, cans of paint stacked in the corner, a large Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA) sticker on the side of the refrigerator. The buzzer to his apartment lists a false name; his phone number is unlisted to avoid law-enforcement representatives as well as conflicts with other writers. While JA and one of his writing partners, JD, and I are discussing their apprehension about this story, JD, offering up a maxim from the graffiti life, tells me matter-of-factly, "You wouldn't fuck us over, we know where you live."

At JA's apartment we look through photos. There are hundreds of pictures of writers inside out-of-service subway cars that they've just covered completely with their tags, pictures of writers wearing orange safety vests -- to impersonate transit workers -- and walking subway tracks, pictures of detectives and transit workers inspecting graffiti that JA and crew put up the previous night, pictures of stylized JA 'throw-ups' large, bubble-lettered logos written 15 feet up and 50 times across a highway retaining wall. Picture after picture of JA's on trains, JA's on trucks, on store gates, bridges, rooftops, billboards -- all labeled, claimed and recorded on film.

JA comes from a well-to-do family; his parents are divorced; his father holds a high-profile position in the entertainment industry. JA is aware that in some people's minds this last fact calls into question his street legitimacy, and he has put a great deal of effort into resisting the correlation between privileged and soft. He estimates he has been arrested 15 times for various crimes. He doesn't have a job, and it's unclear how he supports himself. Every time we've been together, he's been high or going to get high. Once he called me from Rikers Island prison, where he was serving a couple of months for disorderly conduct and a probation violation. He said some of the inmates saw him tagging in a notebook and asked him to do tattoos for them.

It sounds right. Wherever he is, JA dominates his surroundings. With his crew, he picks the spots to hit, the stores to rack from; he controls the mission. He gives directions in the car, plans the activities, sets the mood. And he takes everything a step further than the people he's with. He climbs higher, stays awake longer, sucks deepest on the blunt, writes the most graffiti. And though he's respected by other writers for testing the limits -- he has been described to me by other writers as a king and, by way of compliment, as "the sickest guy I ever met" -- that same recklessness sometimes alienates him from the majority who don't have such a huge appetite for chaos, adrenaline, self-destruction.

When I ask a city detective who specializes in combating graffiti if there are any particularly well-known writers, he immediately mentions JA and adds with a bit of pride in his voice, "We know each other." He calls JA the "biggest graffiti writer of all time" (though the detective would prefer that I didn't mention that, because it'll only encourage JA). "He's probably got the most throw-ups in the city, in the country, in the world," the detective says. "If the average big-time graffiti vandal has 10,000 tags, JA's got 100,000. He's probably done -- in New York City alone -- at least $5 million worth of damage."

AT ABOUT 3 A.M., JA AND TWO OTHER WRITERS go out to hit a billboard off the West Side Highway in Harlem. Tonight there are SET, a 21-year-old white writer from Queens, N.Y., and JD, a black Latino writer the same age, also from Queens. They load their backpacks with racked cans of Rustoleum, fat cap nozzles, heavy 2-foot industrial bolt cutters and surgical gloves. We pile into a car and start driving, Schooly D blasting on the radio. First a stop at a deli where JA and SET go in and steal beer. Then we drive around Harlem trying a number of different dope spots, keeping an eye out for "berries" -- police cars. JA tosses a finished 40-ounce out the window in a high arc, and it smashes on the street.

At different points, JA gets out of the car and casually walks the streets and into buildings, looking for dealers. A good part of the graffiti life involves walking anywhere in the city, at any time, and not being afraid -- or being afraid and doing it anyway.

We arrive at a spot where JA has tagged the dealer's name on a wall in his territory. The three writers buy a vial of crack and a vial of angel dust and combine them ("spacebase") in a hollowed-out Phillies blunt. JD tells me that "certain drugs will enhance your bombing," citing dust for courage and strength ("bionics"). They've also bombed on mescaline, Valium, marijuana, crack and malt liquor. SET tells a story of climbing highway poles with a spray can at 6 a.m., "all Xanaxed out."

While JD is preparing the blunt, JA walks across the street with a spray can and throws up all three of their tags in 4-foot-high bubbled, connected letters. In the corner, he writes my name.

We then drive to a waterfront area at the edge of the city -- a deserted site with warehouses, railroad tracks and patches of urban wilderness dotted with high-rise billboards. All three writers are now high, and we sit on a curb outside the car smoking cigarettes. From a distance we can see a group of men milling around a parked car near a loading dock that we have to pass. This provokes 30 minutes of obsessive speculation, a stoned stakeout with play by play:

"Dude, they're writers," says SET. "Let's go down and check them out," says JD. "Wait, let's see what they write," says JA. "Yo -- they're going into the trunk," says SET. "Cans, dude, they're going for their cans. Dude, they're writers. "There could be beef, possible beef," says JA. "Can we confirm cans, do we see cans?" SET wants to know. Yes, they do have cans," SET answers for himself. "There are cans. They are writers." It turns out that the men are thieves, part of a group robbing a nearby truck. In a few moments guards appear with flashlights and at least one drawn gun. The thieves scatter as guard dogs fan out around the area, barking crazily.

We wait this out a bit until JA announces, "It's on." Hood pulled up on his head, he leads us creeping through the woods (which for JA has become the cinematic jungles of Nam). It's stop and go, JA crawling on his stomach, unnecessarily close to one of the guards who's searching nearby. We pass through graffiti-covered tunnels (with the requisite cinematic drip drip), over crumbling stairs overgrown with weeds and brush, along dark, heavily littered trails used by crackheads.

We get near the billboard, and JA uses the bolt cutters to cut holes in two chain-link fences. We crawl through and walk along the railroad tracks until we get to the base of the sign. JA, with his backpack on, climbs about 40 feet on a thin piece of metal pipe attached to the main pillar. JD, after a few failed attempts, follows with the bolt cutters shoved down his pants and passes them to JA. Hanging in midair, his legs wrapped around a small piece of ladder, JA cuts the padlock and opens up the hatch to the catwalk. He then lowers his arm to JD, who is wrapped around the pole just below him, struggling. "J, give me your hand, "I'll pull you up," JA tells him. JD hesitates. He is reluctant to let go and continues treadmilling on the pole, trying to make it up. JD, give me your hand." JD doesn't want to refuse, but he's uncomfortable entrusting his life to JA. He won't let go of the pole. JA says it again, firmly, calmly, utterly confident: "J give me your hand." JD's arm reaches up, and JA pulls JD up onto the catwalk. Next, SET, the frailest of the three, follows unsteadily. They've called down and offered to put up his tag, but he insists on going up. "Dude, fuck that, I'm down," he says. I look away while he makes his way up, sure that he's going to fall (he almost does twice). The three have developed a set pattern for dividing the labor when they're "blowing up," one writer outlining, another working behind him, filling in. For 40 minutes I watch them working furiously, throwing shadows as they cover ads for Parliament and Amtrak with large multicolored throw-ups SET and JD bickering about space, JA scolding them, tossing down empty cans.

They risk their lives again climbing down. Parts of their faces are covered in paint, and their eyes beam as all three stare at the billboard, asking, "Isn't it beautiful?' And there is something intoxicating about seeing such an inaccessible, clean object gotten to and made gaudy. We get in the car and drive the West Side Highway northbound and then southbound so they can critique their work. "Damn, I should've used the white," JD says.

The next day both billboards are newly re-covered, all the graffiti gone. JA tells me the three went back earlier to get pictures and made small talk with the workers who were cleaning it off.

GRAFFITI HAS BEEN THROUGH A NUMBER OF incarnations since it surfaced in New York in the early 70s with a Greek teen-ager named Taki 183. It developed from the straightforward writing of a name to highly stylized, seemingly illegible tags (a kind of penmanship slang) to wild-style throw-ups and elaborate (master) "pieces" and character art. There has been racist graffiti political writing, drug advertising, gang graffiti. There is an art-graf scene from which Keith Haring, Jean-Michel Basquiac, LEE, Futura 2000, Lady Pink and others emerged; aerosol advertising; techno graffiti written into computer programs; anti-billboard graffiti; stickers; and stencil writing. There are art students doing street work in San Francisco ("nonpermissional public art"); mural work in underground tunnels in New York; gallery shows from Colorado to New Jersey; all-day Graffiti-a-Thons; and there are graffiti artists lecturing art classes at universities. Graffiti has become part of urban culture, hip-hop culture and commercial culture, has spread to the suburbs and can be found in the backwoods of California's national forests. There are graffiti magazines, graffiti stores, commissioned walls, walls of fame and a video series available (Out to bomb) documenting writers going out on graffiti missions, complete with soundtrack. Graffiti was celebrated as a metaphor in the 70s (Norman Mailer's "The Faith of Graffiti"); it went Hollywood in the '80s (Beat Street, Turk 182!, Wild Style); and in the '90s it has been increasingly used to memorialize the inner-city dead.

But as much as graffiti has found acceptance, it has been vilified a hundred times more. Writers are now being charged with felonies and given lengthy jail terms -- a 15-year-old in California was recently sentenced to eight years in a juvenile detention center. Writers have been given up to 1000 hours of community service and forced to undergo years of psychological counseling; their parents have been hit with civil suits. In California a graffiti writer's driver's license can be revoked for a year; high-school diplomas and transcripts can also be withheld until parents make restitution. In some cities property owners who fail to remove graffiti from their property are subject to fines and possible jail time. Last spring in St. Louis, Cincinnati, San Antonio and Sacramento, Calif., politicians proposed legislation to cane graffiti writers (four to 10 hits with a wooden paddle, administered by parents or by a bailiff in a public courtroom). Across the nation, legislation has been passed making it illegal to sell spray paint and wide-tipped markers to anyone under 18, and often the materials must be kept locked up in the stores. Several cities have tried to ban the sales altogether, license sellers of spray paint and require customers to give their name and address when purchasing paint. In New York some hardware-store owners will give a surveillance photo of anyone buying a large quantity of spray cans to the police. In Chicago people have been charged with possession of paint. In San Jose, Calif., undercover police officers ran a sting operation -- posing as filmmakers working on a graffiti documentary -- and arrested 31 writers.

Hidden cameras, motion detectors, laser removal, specially developed chemical coatings, night goggles, razor wire, guard dogs, a National Graffiti Information Network, graffiti hot lines, bounties paid to informers -- one estimate is that it costs $4 billion a year nationally to clean graffiti -- all in an effort to stop those who "visually laugh in the face of communities," as a Wall Street Journal editorial raged.

The popular perception is that since the late 1980s when New York's Metropolitan Transit Authority adopted a zero tolerance toward subway graffiti (the MTA either cleaned or destroyed more than 6,000 graffiti-covered subway cars, immediately pulling a train out of service if any graffiti appeared on it), graffiti culture had died in the place of its birth. According to many graffiti writers, however, the MTA, in its attempt to kill graffiti, only succeeded in bringing it out of the tunnels and train yards and making it angry. Or as Jeff Ferrell, a criminologist who has chronicled the Denver graffiti scene, theorizes, the authorities' crackdown moved graffiti writing from subculture to counterculture. The work on the trains no longer ran, so writers started hitting the streets. Out in the open they had to work faster and more often. The artistry started to matter less and less. Throw-ups, small cryptic tags done in marker and even the straightforward writing of a name became the dominant imagery. What mattered was quantity ("making noise"), whether the writer had heart, was true to the game, was "real." And the graffiti world started to attract more and more people who weren't looking for an alternative art canvas but simply wanted to be connected to an outlaw community, to a venerable street tradition that allowed the opportunity to advertise their defiance. "It's that I'm doing it that I get my rush, not by everyone seeing it," says JA. "Yeah, that's nice, but if that's all that's gonna motivate you to do it, you're gonna stop writing. That's what happened to a lot of writers." JD tells me: "We're just putting it in their faces; it's like 'Yo, you gotta put up with it.'"

Newspapers have now settled on the term "graffiti vandal" rather than "artist" or "writer." Graffiti writers casually refer to their work as doing destruction." In recent years graffiti has become more and more about beefs and wars, about "fucking up the MTA," "fucking up the city."

Writers started taking a jock attitude toward getting up frequently and tagging in hard-to-reach places, adopting a machismo toward going over other writers' work and defending their own ("If you can write, you can fight"). Whereas graffiti writing was once considered an alternative to the street, now it imports drugs, violence, weapons and theft from that world -- the romance of the criminal deviant rather than the artistic deviant. In New York today, one police source estimates there are approximately 100,000 people involved in a variety of types of graffiti writing. The police have caught writers as young as 8 and as old as 42. And there's a small group of hard-core writers who are getting older who either wrote when graffiti was in its prime or long for the days when it was, those who write out of compulsion, for each other and for the authorities who try to combat graffiti, writers who haven't found anything in their lives substantial or hype enough to replace graffiti writing.

The writers in their 20s come mostly from working-class families and have limited prospects and ambitions for the future. SET works in a drugstore and has taken lithium and Prozac for occasional depression; JD dropped out of high school and is unemployed, last working as a messenger, where he met JA. They spend their nights driving 80 miles an hour down city highways, balancing 40-ounce bottles of Old English 800 between their legs, smoking blunts and crack-laced cigarettes called coolies, always playing with the radio. They reminisce endlessly about the past, when graf was real, when graf ran on the trains, and they swap stories about who's doing what on the scene. The talk is a combo platter of Spicoli, homeboy, New Age jock and eighth grade: The dude is a fuckin' total turd. . . . I definitely would've gotten waxed. . . . It's like some bogus job. . . . I'm amped, I'm Audi, you buggin . . . You gotta be there fully, go all out, focus. . . . Dudes have bitten off SET, he's got toys jockin' him. . . .

They carry beepers, sometimes guns, go upstate or to Long Island to "prey on the hicks" and to rack cans of spray paint. They talk about upcoming court cases and probation, about quitting, getting their lives together, even as they plan new spots to hit, practice their style by writing on the walls of their apartments, on boxes of food, on any stray piece of paper (younger writers practice on school notebooks that teachers have been known to confiscate and turn over to the police). They call graffiti a "social tool" and "some kind of ill form of communication," refer to every writer no matter his age as "kid." Talk in the graffiti life vacillates between banality and mythology, much like the activity itself: hours of drudgery, hanging out, waiting, interrupted by brief episodes of exhilaration. JD, echoing a common refrain, says, "Graffiti writers are like bitches: a lot of lying, a lot of talking, a lot of gossip." They don't like tagging with girls ("cuties," or if they use drugs, "zooties") around because all they say is (in a whiny voice), You're crazy. . . . Write my name."

WHEN JA TALKS ABOUT GRAFFITI, HE'S reluctant to offer up any of the media-ready cliches about the culture (and he knows most of them). He's more inclined to say, "Fuck the graffiti world," and scoff at graf shops, videos, conventions and 'zines. But he can be sentimental about how he began -- riding the No. 1, 2 and 3 trains when he was young, bugging out on the graffiti-covered cars, asking himself, "How did they do that? Who are they?" And he'll respectfully invoke the names of long-gone writers he admired when he was just starting out: SKEME, ZEPHYR, REVOLT, MIN.

JA, typical of the new school, primarily bombs, covering wide areas with throw-ups. He treats graffiti less as an art form than as an athletic competition, concentrating on getting his tag in difficult-to-reach places, focusing on quantity and working in defiance of an aesthetic that demands that public property be kept clean. (Writers almost exclusively hit public or commercial property.)

And when JA is not being cynical, he can talk for hours about the technique, the plotting, the logistics of the game like "motion bombing" by clockwork a carefully scoped subway train that he knows has to stop for a set time, at a set place, when it gets a certain signal in the tunnels. He says, "To me, the challenge that graffiti poses, there's something very invigorating and freeing about it, something almost spiritual. There's a kind of euphoria, more than any kind of drug or sex can give you, give me . . . for real."

JA says he wants to quit, and he talks about doing it as if he were in a 12-step program. "How a person in recovery takes it one day a time, that's how I gotta take it," he says. You get burnt out. There's pretty much nothing more the city can throw at me; it's all been done." But then he'll hear about a yard full of clean sanitation trucks, the upcoming Puerto Rican Day Parade (a reason to bomb Fifth Avenue) or a billboard in an isolated area; or it'll be 3 a.m., he'll be stoned, driving around or sitting in the living room, playing NBA Jam, and someone will say it: "Yo, I got a couple of cans in the trunk. . . ." REAS, an old-school writer of 12 years who, after a struggle and a number of relapses, eventually quit the life, says, "Graffiti can become like a hole you're stuck in; it can just keep on going and going, there's always another spot to write on."

SAST is in his late 20s and calls himself semiretired after 13 years in the graf scene. He still carries around a marker with him wherever he goes and cops little STONE tags (when he's high, he writes, STONED). He's driving JA and me around the city one night, showing me different objects they've tagged, returning again and again to drug spots to buy dust and crack, smoking, with the radio blasting; he's telling war stories about JA jumping onto moving trains, JA hanging off the outside of a speeding four-wheel drive. SAST is driving at top speed, cutting in between cars, tailgating, swerving. A number of times as we're racing down the highway, I ask him if he could slow down. He smiles, asks if I'm scared, tells me not to worry, that he's a more cautious driver when he's dusted. At one point on the FDR, a car cuts in front of us. JA decides to have some fun.

"Yo, he burnt you, SAST," JA says. We start to pick up speed. Yo, SAST, he dissed you, he cold dissed you, SAST." SAST is buying it, the look on his face becoming more determined as we go 70, 80, 90 miles an hour, hugging the divider, flying between cars. I turn to JA, who's in the back seat, and I try to get him to stop. JA ignores me, sitting back perfectly relaxed, smiling, urging SAST to go faster and faster, getting off, my fear adding to his rush.

At around 4 a.m., SAST drops us off on the middle of the Manhattan Bridge and leaves. JA wants to show me a throw-up he did the week before. We climb over the divider from the roadway to the subway tracks. JA explains that we have to cross the north and the southbound tracks to get to the outer part of the bridge. In between there are a number of large gaps and two electrified third rails, and we're 135 feet above the East River. As we're standing on the tracks, we hear the sound of an oncoming train. JA tells me to hide, to crouch down in the V where two diagonal braces meet just beside the tracks.

I climb into position, holding on to the metal beams, head down, looking at the water as the train slams by the side of my body. This happens twice more. Eventually, I cross over to the outer edge of the bridge, which is under construction, and JA points out his tag about 40 feet above on what looks like a crow's-nest on a support pillar. After a few moments of admiring the view, stepping carefully around the many opportunities to fall, JA hands me his cigarettes and keys. He starts crawling up one of the braces on the side of the bridge, disappears within the structure for a moment, emerges and makes his way to an electrical box on a pillar. Then he snakes his way up the piping and grabs on to a curved support. Using only his hands he starts to shimmy up; at one point he's hanging almost completely upside down. If he falls now, he'll land backward onto one of the tiers and drop into the river below. He continues to pull himself up, the old paint breaking off in his hands, and finally he flips his body over a railing to get to the spot where he tagged. He doesn't have a can or a marker with him, and at this point graffiti seems incidental. He comes down and tells me that when he did the original tag he was with two writers; one he half carried up, the other stopped at a certain point and later told JA that watching him do that tag made him appreciate life, being alive.

We walk for 10 minutes along a narrow, grooved catwalk on the side of the tracks; a thin wire cable prevents a fall into the river. A few times, looking down through the grooves, I have to stop, force myself to take the next step straight ahead, shake off the vertigo. JA is practically jogging ahead of me. We exit the bridge into Chinatown as the sun comes up and go to eat breakfast. JA tells me he's a vegetarian.

IF YOU TALK TO SERIOUS GRAFFITI writers, most of them will echo the same themes; they decry the commercialization of graf, condemn the toys and poseurs and alternately hate and feel attached to the authorities who try to stop them. They say with equal parts bravado and self-deprecation that a graffiti writer is a bum, a criminal, a vandal, slick, sick, obsessed, sneaky, street-smart, living on edges figurative and literal. They show and catalog cuts and scars on their bodies from razor wire, pieces of metal, knives, box cutters. I once casually asked a writer named GHOST if he knew another writer whose work I had seen in a graf'zine. "Yeah, I know him, he stabbed me," GHOST replies matter-of-factly. "We've still got beef." SET tells me he was caught by two DTs (detectives) who assaulted him, took his cans of paint and sprayed his body and face. JA tells similar stories of police beatings for his making officers run after him, of cops making him empty his spray cans on his sneakers or on the back of a fellow writer's jacket. JD has had 48 stitches in his back and 18 in his head over "graffiti-related beef." JA's best friend and writing partner, SANE SMITH, a legendary all-city writer who was sued by the city and the MTA for graffiti, was found dead, floating in Jamaica Bay. There's endless speculation in the grafworld as to whether he was pushed, fell or jumped off a bridge. SANE is so respected, there are some writers today who spend time in public libraries reading and rereading the newspaper microfilm about his death, his arrests, his career. According to JA, after SANE's death, his brother, SMiTH, also a respected graffiti artist, found a piece of paper on which SANE had written his and JA's tag and off to the side, FLYING HIGH THE XTC WAY. It now hangs on JA's apartment wall.

One morning, JA and I jump off the end of a subway platform and head into the tunnels. He shows me hidden rooms, emergency hatches that open to the sidewalk, where to stand when the trains come by. He tells me about the time SANE lay face down in a shallow drainage ditch on the tracks as an express train ran inches above him. JA says anytime he was being chased by the police he would run into a nearby subway station, jump off the platform and run into the tunnels. The police would never follow. KET, a veteran graffiti writer, tells me how in the tunnels he would accidentally step on homeless people sleeping. They'd see him tagging and would occasionally ask that he "throw them up," write their names on the wall. He usually would. Walking in the darkness between the electrified rails as trains race by, JA tells me the story of two writers he had beef with who came into the tunnels to cross out his tags. Where the cross-outs stop is where they were killed by an approaching train.

The last time I go out with JA, SET and JD, they pick me up at around 2 am. We drive down to the Lower East Side to hit a yard where about 60 trucks and vans are parked next to one another. Every vehicle is already covered with throw-ups and tags, but the three start to write anyway, JA in a near frenzy. They're running in between the rows, crawling under trucks, jumping from roof to roof, wedged down in between the trailers, engulfed in nauseating clouds of paint fumes (the writers sometimes blow multicolored mucous out of their noses), going over some writers' tags, respecting others, JA throwing up SANE's name, searching for any little piece of clean space to write on. JA, who had once again been talking about retirement, is now hungry to write and wants to hit another spot. But JD doesn't have any paint, SET needs gas money for his car, and they have to drive upstate the next morning to appear in court for a paint-theft charge.

During the ride back uptown the car is mostly quiet, the mood depressed. And even when the three were in the truck yard, even when JA was at his most intense, it seemed closer to work, routine, habit. There are moments like this when they seem genuinely worn out by the constant stress, the danger, the legal problems, the drugging, the fighting, the obligation to always hit another spot. And it's usually when the day is starting.

About a week later I get a call from another writer whom JA had told I was writing an article on graffiti. He tells me he has never been king, never gone all city, but now he is making a comeback, coming out of retirement with a new tag. He says he could do it easily today because there is no real competition. He says he was thinking about trying to make some money off of graffiti -- galleries. canvases, whatever . . . to get paid.

"I gotta do something," the writer says. "I can't rap, I can't dance, I got this silly little job." We talk more, and he tells me he appreciates that I'm writing about writers, trying to get inside the head of a vandal, telling the real deal. He also tells me that graffiti is dying, that the city is buffing it, that new writers are all toys and are letting it die, but it's still worth it to write.

I ask why, and then comes the inevitable justification that every writer has to believe and take pleasure in, the idea that order will always have to play catch-up with them. "It takes me seconds to do a quick throw-up; it takes them like 10 minutes to clean it," he says. "Who's coming out on top?"

[onestowatch]

Ant Clemons Is Just Getting Started [Q&A]

Photo By: Dominique Ross

Ant Clemons is ready for the spotlight. The LA-based singer/songwriter has been a budding songwriter in the LA scene for a few years now. He’s secured placements with Luke James, Kali Uchis, and Noah Cyrus to name a few. His biggest break was when he appeared on “All Mine,” track three on Kanye West’s 2018 project, Ye. Since then, Clemons has been nominated for multiple Grammys, collaborated with Pharrell and The Neptunes, performed with Kanye West at Coachella, and much more. But where did his story start?

Ant Clemons grew up in Willingboro, New Jersey. Willingboro is a small town about thirty minutes outside of Philadelphia. The oldest of three children, Ant described his childhood as a creatively expressive environment. Besides singing in his church choir, and his budding career as a Michael Jackson impersonator, young Ant would perform with his sisters at family events. “We wanted to be the Jackson Five so bad, but my parents only had three kids.” The creative gene came from his parents. His father had a famous falsetto and his mother was a trained dancer. Music was always played in their household. “I equate my childhood to The Cosby Show. We had some great times. I remember having amazing times at Christmas. Music was always on in the house. Someone was always singing or trying to sing.”

Clemons’ seemingly perfect childhood definitely had its share of trials and tribulations. Around 2009, his parents got divorced and he ended up moving with his mom to a small town called Pennsauken, right outside of Philadelphia. In the wake of the divorce, Clemons began taking his singing and songwriting more seriously. Shortly after moving to Pennsauken, he met Frankie Hill, Julian Tabb, Michael Stargel, Ross Richards, and Theo Robinson. Like Clemons, they were also into making music. Shortly after, they formed a group called The Committee. “To this day, they’re some of my best friends. We were all working on music 24/7. So, it was a great way to transition into my new surroundings and distract me from some of the things I was going through.”

Being a part of The Committee helped Clemons sharpen his writing and singing skills. To make money, Clemons started waiting tables at a Red Lobster in his town. As his ambitions grew, he wanted to get closer to the music industry and make his career as a songwriter a reality. For a lot of people, the first step in that journey is tasking a trip to Los Angeles. Describing his first impression of LA, Clemons says “I only stayed for like a week and a half, but I knew from the time I walked out of LAX that this is where I needed to be. It’s nice all the time. Everybody was always smiling. This is the best place in the world. Like, I have to be here”

Lucky for him, his bosses at Red Lobster were extremely supportive of his dream. “They knew that music was my number one priority. So, when opportunities popped up in LA, they were more than supportive. They wiped tell me “go out there for as long as you need. Your job is here for you when you come back.” His family was also a major source of support for him. “Having supportive parents was everything. At the time, I was living with my mom. So, she was the main push, but both of them are just hella supportive of anything my sisters and I ever wanted to do. I know that not everybody grows up with that kind of support. But I had amazing parents that set an amazing foundation for me to just be whoever I wanted to be. None of my successes is possible without them.”

In 2017, Clemons made the full time move to LA. When he first got to LA, he was sleeping on couches and floors. Triangle Park, an LA-based music production crew, let him crash with them. But there was one caveat - He had to write one song per day. Reminiscing on that time, Clemons said “I just knew God wouldn't place me anywhere that I wouldn’t be able to succeed. I had a motivation get off the floor, so I was working really hard. Back when I lived near Philly, it was normal to make seven or eight songs a day. When I came out to LA, I saw that people were working at a different pace, so I put my head down and kept going. I learned that what I thought was normal was going to be the thing that set me apart from everybody else.

Things started moving for Clemons in Los Angeles when he met fellow Willingboro native, Ryan Toby. Ryan Toby was part of the early 2000s R&B/Hip-Hop group, City High. Bonding over music and their hometown connection, they started making music together. This relationship led to Clemons working with Luke James which is how he landed his first placement as a songwriter on “Drip.” Around this time, he was also introduced to the Producer Bongo By The Way. When they first got in the studio together, they made eleven songs and they were locked in ever since. Bongo would go on to introduce Clemons to Jeremih which was the catalyst for Clemons’ big break.

When Kanye West was recording Ye in Wyoming, he asked Jeremih to come to Wyoming and work on music for the album. One of the ideas he played for Kanye was an idea that he made with Ant Clemons. This idea turned into “All Mine.” It was at this point that Clemons’ life would change.

Being featured on a song with Kanye West can instantly change your life and bring you a massive amount of attention. Describing that time of transition, Clemons says, “Ye’s album dropped in June and by September, I was with him 24/7. We went from Chicago to SNL in New York, back to Chicago, and then to Uganda. It was all happening so fast. It was crazy.”

Entering the orbit of a revered musician like Kanye West could be very unnerving, but Clemons said being around West was quite the opposite. “The crazy part of working on music with Ye was that he was just a big fan of whatever I was doing. He would say ‘Bro, I want you to just be you. Keep being you. Do whatever makes you, you. Just keep doing you.’”

Fast forward to Coachella 2019. Kanye West has invited Clemons to perform a song, “Water”, made earlier that week, for an Easter edition of Sunday Service. Describing that moment, Clemons said, “For me, it was like when the Jackson 5 performed with Diana Ross for the first time on the Ed Sullivan Show. It was amazing. I'm performing at Coachella for the first time by praising the Lord with one of my favorite artists of all time. God is too good”

“Water” would go on to appear on West’s gospel album, Jesus Is King, later that year. In recent years, West has shifted his musical focus to Gospel with the release of Jesus Is King and the upcoming Jesus Is Born. Knowing that Clemons is a man of faith, I asked him how his faith has helped him navigate the treacherous nature of the music industry. He said, “God’s timing is always immaculate, and I learned not to question what happens. If you have a strong relationship with God, he will lead you through any situation”

A lot of artists would be happy living in the light of Kanye West. But Clemons has way more to do. Speaking on his transition from songwriter to a solo act, Clemons said, “I wanted my first official release to be something undeniable. I wanted something that showcased my songwriting abilities but was also relatable. I think “Four Letter Word” is such an amazing song. I want my music to be played now and ten years from now. Not only is it an ode to a relationship I was in but it’s about my relationship with God. I was happy to talk about it in a cooler way with up-tempo and contemporary sounds and being able to work with Timbaland on the song was a dream come true. My goal for the project was to tell my story and approach it like the artists I was inspired by.”

His debut EP, HAPPY 2 BE HERE has something for everybody. “I wanted to tell my story. I wanted to take the listener on a journey with cool concepts. I wanted to talk about love. I wanted to have something people could dance to. I wanted to tell stories. Most importantly, I just wanted to create songs people could listen to every day.”

I would say Clemons has achieved his goal. Look out for more music and collaborations from Clemons. Stream HAPPY 2 BE HERE below.

[franciscretarola]

South Philly: A Love Story

(Photos by Francis Cretarola) The names of some (but not all) of the people in this otherwise truthful account have been changed to protect the guilty and the innocent, as well as my own ass.

As Cathy and I rounded the corner on Morris and turned onto our block of 13th (the “Miracle” stretch that, from the day after Thanksgiving through New Year’s, becomes a tourist destination that can be seen from space), I noticed the ambulance parked midway up the street. And my heart sank. They’d already loaded in whomever it was they came for, but I saw that it was stopped pretty much in front of Joey’s house. Joey is what I call an “original,” one of the people who were here when we first arrived more than twenty-three years ago, the mostly Italian-American neighbors who’d created this neighborhood and for generations defined it. Most of my block is still comprised of originals and their spawn, but it would be accurate to say that their impact on the character of the neighborhood is growing ever more muted.

I’d not seen Joey much recently. Just the odd sighting of him doing his constitutional walk around the block, moving a lot slower than he once did, and seeming a bit preoccupied. When we first arrived in the neighborhood Joey was already in his sixties, but a force of nature. Just over five feet tall, thin but solidly built, looking exactly like men of that age I’ve seen all over southern Italy, Joey’s physical stature belied the massive impact of his personality. He was generous, quick to offer a hand, free with his opinions. We never dove into politics, but we might not have been on the same page. At block parties he danced (to doo-wop, the “Grease” soundtrack, dance hits from the ‘70’s), in Cathy’s words, “as if no one was watching,” his arms punching the air in front of him, his legs pistons that fired in place. In these moments his face always revealed angelic contentment. Joey was a hell of a lot more comfortable in his own skin than I’ll ever be. His voice, again out of proportion to his diminutive size, boomed. From the inside of our house, I always knew when he was on the street.

His voice boomed in disconcerting ways when he harangued my brother and me for our ineptitude at bocce. Though completely inexperienced, we’d joined the street’s team playing in a league at the Guerin Rec Center (sponsored by a chiropractor, our team was called The Backbreakers). One of the teams we played was made up some of the guys from Danny and the Juniors. When they’d win, they’d sometimes break into a verse of “At the Hop.” It chapped our asses. It was meant to chap our asses. Breaking balls in South Philly is an honored and cherished tradition.

It was before one of these games that I learned something else about Joey. We were huddled outside, waiting for the doors to open and whining about the winter cold when he, out of nowhere and offhandedly, told us a story that stopped our bitching in its tracks:

“When I was in the army in Korea, it was so fucking cold our rifles froze. Couldn’t load ‘em. Couldn’t shoot ‘em. We had to piss on the works to get them working again.”  

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that an old guy from South Philly had dealt with stuff that would’ve put me in a fetal position. These are tough people. And this was a good reminder.

Cathy and I arrived in this neighborhood in 1996. Coming here changed everything for us. Without exaggeration, I can say that had we never settled here I’d never have become proficient in Italian, we’d never have lived in Abruzzo, and certainly never opened Le Virtú (our neighborhood trattoria dedicated to the cuisine of Abruzzo). We owe South Philly everything. And we’ve seen and been a major part of the changes to the neighborhood and East Passyunk Avenue, changes that have been breathlessly celebrated and discussed in local media. The demise of old South Philly has been frequently, enthusiastically, and prematurely reported in stories that have ranged from sensitive, thoughtful treatments to obnoxious, oblivious hit pieces. It’d be disingenuous for us to say we’re not happy about some of the changes. But it’s equally true that we miss a lot of what’s been lost, have mixed feelings about what’s filled the void (including our own roles in that), and would miss what’s left were it to vanish. When old South Philly goes, the country will have lost one its last original and truly great places. Were it to go during our lifetimes, we’d probably pull up stakes. There’d be no “here” here. We came to South Philly because of what it was, not what we thought it could become.        

Rowhome life is familiar to me. I was born and raised up the Schuylkill in Reading, PA, in a blue-collar, predominantly Polish and Slavic neighborhood on the city’s southeast side. My mom’s parents, who also lived in our neighborhood, were “shitkickers” from rural North Carolina who’d moved to Reading for jobs in the textile mills. My dad was Italian-American. When I was a boy his father, from Abruzzo, lived in the house with us. Six of us - including my brother and one of my sisters - lived in a rowhome that would fit inside the one Cathy and I now occupy alone on 13th Street. Reading’s Italian section was gone by the time I was born, but my dad’s friends from that old neighborhood, a tightly knit group of half a dozen guys - partners since grade school in activities both benevolent and (mildly) nefarious - were more a part of our lives than blood relatives. We referred to them as “uncles.” From my grandfather, I got stories about the old country and about being an Italian immigrant when nobody here wanted Italians (he arrived in 1909, one of over 183,000 paesani to make the voyage that year). He explained why he changed his name (from Alfonso Cretarola to Francis Cratil) to avoid prejudice, warned about the KKK who hated Catholics and immigrants like him, spoke reverently of FDR, and taught me and my father before me to root for the underdog. From my dad’s friends I learned a lot, too: how to argue passionately without forgetting you loved the person you were arguing with; how to instantly forgive and when to hold a grudge; how to relentlessly and inventively break balls (the pedestrian insult can boomerang, resulting in a loss of status); numerous mannerisms and off-color Italian expressions and hand gestures; that morality ran deeper than legality; and - above all else - how to show up when a friend was in need.

They had a pinochle game that rotated from house to house. Games would often go on into the early morning. These were raucous, intensely competitive affairs, and master classes in Italian-American culture: music (Sinatra, Prima, and Martin); language (I heard “minchia” so often that I took to using it in conversations with school friends, not knowing it meant “cock,” often playing the role “fuck” does in English); casual volatility, sudden explosions of anger and joy; and food (platters of sausages, meatballs, provolone, capocollo, sopressata). Once, during a game at our house, the doorbell rang, and I went to answer. (I was in about 6th grade). I opened the door to a cop. He asked if the local district justice, one of my dad’s friends, was in the house. I led him to the game in the dining room. He approached the table, hand on his holster, and yelled that the game was busted. For a beat or two, the men at the table looked up at him in silence. Then the judge exploded with a “Vaffa…” and the room erupted in laughter. The cop sat down, had a bite to eat, and left after a few minutes. He’d just wanted to break balls.

So I felt prepared for South Philly. But it still surprised and (usually) delighted me.

We moved into our house in November of 1996. Coming from the paesano-deprived wastelands of Washington, DC, where we’d been living and working, the neighborhood was a paradise. Everywhere I turned were ingredients and foods that could then only be found in specialty stores in the District. There were six bread bakeries within a five-minute walk of my house - good bread, too - and three pasticcerias. There were three butchers inside that radius, including Sam Meloni’s a half a block away on Tasker. We had the Avenue Cheese Shop, Cellini’s, and Phil Mancuso’s as provisioners and, for rarer stuff, DiBruno’s and Claudio’s not too far away on 9th. The hoagie options were overwhelming. Fresh fish was a block away at Ippolito’s. And I’m just talking about the east side of Broad. Ritner Street west of Broad was, and remains, an oasis for anyone seeking Italian flavors. Dad’s Stuffings, Potito’s, and Cacia’s bakery (the tomato pie, but not just) are regional treasures. Cannuli’s Sausages is a full-service butcher shop, where they make a liver sausage taught to them years ago by women from Abruzzo. North of Ritner, on the 1500 block of South 15th, there’s Calabria Imports: sopressata sott’olio, provolone and pecorino cheeses, condiments from Calabria. I gained ten pounds the first few months in the house. And I didn’t care.

But South Philly’s more than a colorful, urban food court. There were/are rhythms, ways of being, and a specific sense of community. Oft-disparaged, stereotyped, and dismissed, the originals in the neighborhood made - and still make - it singular. They’ve provided some of my favorite memories.

My first night out drinking in the neighborhood, I went to La Caffe (now defunct, even the building’s gone) at 12th and Tasker. It was a typical, no-frills corner joint. There were three guys at the bar, all of whom gave me the side-eye as I bellied up. This was long before dedicated hipster ironists started mining the neighborhood for material. My hair was halfway to my ass then, and Italian American wouldn’t be the first, second, or third ethnicity you’d guess when taking in my mug. I wore a vintage Phillies jacket to at least establish some bona fides. I ordered a double Stoli. The guy closest to me gave in and asked what my story was, and a pleasant conversation ensued. We’d reached the point - which used to be a thing - of doing shots of anisette (a practice that, while amicable, often turned a pleasant night’s buzz into a pitiless banshee of a hangover), when the door opened, and a hulking guy, already in his cups, came in clutching a big paper bag under his arm like a football. He was warmly greeted, so, I construed, a regular. He set the grease-soaked bag on the bar, pulled it open and announced: “I got pork sandwiches for everybody!”.A round of roast pork with sharp provolone and broccoli rabe, Philly’s true classic sandwich (the cheesesteak is a pretender to the throne). Welcome to the neighborhood.

The days leading up to Thanksgiving, decorations start to go up: lights; inflatable Santas, snowmen, and Grinches; lights; wreaths; candy canes; nativities; Christmas balls; more lights; plastic holly; tinsel; real and fake evergreen trim; ribbon; additional lights; a giant Snoopy; some elves; and then, finally, the serious lights. This was all pretty much spontaneous, nothing like the organized/enforced effort that now creates the so-called “Miracle on 13th Street.” On Christmas Eve, we were more or less forced at the ends of loaded cannoli into the homes of neighbors to drink wine, anisette, sambuca, rum, and whiskey, and to make our own “plates” from vast spreads of Italian comfort foods. The warmth and good feeling were contagious. And the desire – a need, actually - to share, the humbling generosity, was something I’d only experience again when we began traveling in Abruzzo. My neighborhood in Reading had been close, but nothing like this. The New Year rang in with neighbors returning from dinners and parties in time to bang pots and pans in the middle of the block. The next day, houses up and down 13th and on the cross streets were open, offering neighbors and sometimes complete strangers hot drinks, food, and a bathroom as the Mummers strutted up Broad. It’s never been the same since they changed the parade route.

Our first spring in the house, I was in the kitchen making dinner - roast pork, spaghetti and meatballs - and looking longingly out the window. It was the first real beautiful day of the season. Clear blue skies, about 70 degrees, no humidity. I stepped out into our yard to soak it in. We’ve got the typical tiny South Philly concrete pad; nice for a garden if you’re game, maybe a fig tree (a few of our neighbors still have them). We’d yet to buy yard furniture, and I was regretting it. Cathy stepped out, and I mentioned that, but for the lack of a table and chairs, we could eat outside. “Next time,” she said, and we went back in. Minutes later we heard banging at the metal backyard gate. We opened it to find the old woman who lived in the house behind ours standing in the narrow alleyway. Born in the “Abruzzi” and always dressed in black, she stood less than five feet tall. In heavily accented English, she said “I give you table and two chairs.” She’d been pruning her rose bushes and heard us talking. She led Cathy through her yard and into her kitchen where she had a plain, white plastic table with matching chairs. We were speechless. ��I no use anymore. Take,” she said.  

The neighborhood landscape was a lot different then. Its mien, too. Before there was the East Passyunk “Singing Fountain” at the 11th Street triangle, the spot was occupied by an old gas station turned hoagie shop, Cipolloni’s Home Plate. Joe Cipolloni was a neighborhood kid who’d been a catcher in the Phillies’ farm system. We hit Joe’s for a medley of hoagies one of the first nights we crashed in the house. Franca Di Renzo’s venerable Tre Scalini was then across from the triangle on 11th. The Di Renzo family’s been serving food on the Avenue almost three decades now. Their departure (announced as I was writing this), is a dagger to the heart. Frankie’s Seafood Italiano (which memorably used the “Mambo Italiano” melody in its radio advertisements) was catty-corner from Franca on Tasker. On East Passyunk there was also Ozzie’s Trattoria and Rosalena’s; Mr. Martino’s Trattoria, Mamma Maria’s, and Marra’s  were  where they still are today. Walking into a joint meant being warmly greeted with a “Hon,” “Cuz,” or some other friendly moniker. Service was always personable, attentive, and familiar, like you were an old friend. For the life of me, I don’t know what the objection - frequently voiced in amateur and professional reviews - is to this style. Why come to one of the country’s most unique places and ask them to conform to your expectations, change character? Or mock them for who they are? You’re a guest in their neighborhood. Let them be who they are. Roll with it. How self-important, fragile, or far up your own lower digestive tract must you be to be traumatized or offended by “Hon” or the like? What kind of bloodless, sterile, frigid, suppressed, affection-deprived “family” environments produce such specimens? ‘Merigan!

Transactions at restaurants and stores in South Philly weren’t solely financial in nature. They involved human exchanges, real conversation beyond any purchase, interactions that formed some of the neighborhood’s connective tissue. I know that some of the new arrivals in the neighborhood regarded this as a time suck: “Why am I waiting behind this ambulatory fossil while she recounts, for the fifth time, her late husband’s illness, her son’s family’s impending and unapproved move to Jersey, and her plans for the Padre Pio festival? I just want to buy my damned provolone and go!” While an understandable complaint, it was also oblivious. These conversations created and maintained community. Walking into Sam Meloni’s butcher shop was, for me, as much for social reasons as it was to buy meat. The family shop had been at the corner of Iseminger and Tasker since 1938. Sam - in his late sixties and more alive than I’d ever been in my twenties - held court behind the counter, Jeff cap rakishly turned backwards, his expressive faccia usually wearing a wry smile. Entering the store meant immersion in the perpetual, playful, multi-subject argument between Sam and his nephew Bobby - a big, imposing, but sweet dude - and their straight-man assistant, both damn good butchers themselves. You were brought into the fray, asked to weigh in and choose sides, and then identified as an ally or unreasonable bastard. I would go in for some chicken cutlets and walk out nearly an hour later with the chicken, veal scallopini, chicken meatballs, and, most importantly, renewed faith in humanity. Sam’s family was from the town of Campli in Abruzzo’s Teramo province. My family’s also from Teramo. So, we talked a lot about the old country.  Once, during my first bought with Hodgkin’s lymphoma, I walked over to Sam’s for some cutlets and Italian water, the Lurisia stuff Cathy loved. He was alone in the shop that day. He knew what was going on – I’d had my involuntary “chemo haircut” (much of it had fallen out) and my skin had turned an alluring shade of gray. He rang me up then asked how I was getting home. I lived less than a block away.

“I’m walking, Sam.”

“No. No you ain’t,” he snapped.

He washed his hands, brushed himself off, grabbed my stuff, and locked up the shop. And he drove me home.

We were in Italy when Sam passed. It was an aggressive cancer. Friends of ours, who’d recently moved to the ‘hood and fallen in love with him and his place, went to the memorial. They said that there were photos of Sam from all through his life. A lot of shots from parties. One taken “down the shore” showed him carousing with his friends on the beach, their towels surrounded by “dead soldiers,” empty bottles of booze. Sam had fun. Our friends also mentioned the score of unescorted older women at the memorial. Sam had been a committed bachelor until the end. His nephew Bobby died, also of cancer, only a few months later. The shop closed.

Immersed in this Italian-American bubble, I felt waves of nostalgia, yearnings for the sense of belonging my dad and his friends clearly had in their boyhood enclave (as much as I loved it, I would never be from South Philly, and we’d been transplants to the Polish/Slavic quarter in Reading), and a desire to connect with my roots. Everywhere around me I’d see older, Italian-born guys – hair (or what was left of it) closely cropped; face shaved but casting a shadow by mid-afternoon; height a little over five feet; build thin to stocky, but solid; pants belted and hiked to the midsection; shirt tucked and buttoned to the neck; handkerchief in the back pocket; shoes plain, of leather; sartorial mien somber – who reminded me of my grandfather. These guys and their wives are usually quiet, reserved.  They keep to themselves, cook and eat at home. Which is maybe why the newcomers moving in and journalists perfunctorily writing about South Philly often don’t seem to notice them. A lot of them used to congregate at the now-defunct Caffe Italia west of Broad on Snyder. But they’re still around, hiding in plain sight. Many of them, I’d discover, were from villages near where Alfonso had been born. Listening to them speak a language familiar but, really, impenetrable to me became intolerable. I wanted to understand where all this stuff around me had come from, the place that’d shaped Alfonso and, to a lesser extent, my father and myself. So, with Cathy’s permission (she’s a mensch), I quit my job writing and copyediting for a publisher out of Maryland and made the first of my extended trips to Italy to study the language, first in Florence, but later and more intensely in Rome. My studies provided me the key to exploring and understanding Abruzzo - a wild, beautiful, mostly untraveled region, and the point of origin for many of South Philly’s denizens - and penetrating, just a little (the community can be justifiably suspicious and guarded), the native Italian component of my adopted neighborhood.

It wasn’t too long after our return from an extended stay, with our two Jack Russells, in Abruzzo that we met, befriended, and – in a move that determined our future road and made Le Virtú possible but which for a short while caused us crippling anxiety and provided a window to hell – started working with a chef from Napoli operating on the west side of Broad. This guy – let’s call him Gennaro – prepared the real-deal cucina napolitana. No compromises, nothing elaborate, just the genuine article. Working with him was our intro to the biz. Luciana, our opening chef at Le Virtú, was a frequent dining guest and then, after Gennaro ominously disappeared one weekend, his sometime substitute in the kitchen. Gennaro, who we discovered too late had a history with illicit substances and a taste for expensive wine that someone else had paid for (chefs, the little dears! It’s always the Aglianico, Amarone or Barolo, and never the Nero di Troia), gradually went off the rails, slipping into legitimate mental illness. When out of paranoia he asked a busboy to frisk a customer because the guy was speaking in Neapolitan dialect (your guess is as good as ours), we cut bait. My last sight of Gennaro was on my stoop around midnight, asking for the phone number of a former server, a young girl he’d become convinced was the Madonna (not the singer, but Christ’s mom, of immaculate conception fame). When I denied his request, he produced a knife, and I a baseball bat (what else is a vestibule for?). I was chasing him up the street, bat in hand, when I locked eyes with an incredulous cop in his cruiser (not the first time this had happened, by the way). I flagged down the cop and he took Gennaro away. The whole thing was our first restaurant “cash-ectomy,” but my brother and Cathy had developed a taste for the biz. So, we were in, just not with Gennaro.

But before it all turned to merda, Gennaro provided – and subsequently burned – bridges into South Philly’s discrete, native-born community. We frequented expatriate clubs, visited in homes, met, dined with, and came to know many of our Italian neighbors. Language was crucial to that. And it proved crucial to repairing the damage Gennaro’s erratic behavior was continuing to cause in the neighborhood after our breakup. As part of the reconciliation with the neighbors, we were invited for dinner at the home of a family from Basilicata, the soulful, beautiful, but economically and historically screwed region at the instep of The Boot (between Puglia to the east and Calabria and Campania to the west). The head of the household – let’s call him Domenico - had been a semi-regular at Gennaro’s place and had watched his gradual decline. It was Domenico who’d come to us with stories of Gennaro’s increasing madness and how it impacted the street as, in our absence, it all went off the rails. We did all we could to clean up the messes, settling Gennaro’s accounts with purveyors, apologizing to neighbors. In the meanwhile, Gennaro escaped, first to Jersey and the employ of a well-known, native-born restaurateur, and then permanently back to Napoli. Once returned home, his old habits and illnesses caught up with him. He didn’t make it. Domenico’s mother - short, whippet-thin, in her seventies, and a non-English speaker – cooked for us and his family. It ranks among the best and most authentic Italian dining experiences I’ve ever had in the US. The décor of the rowhome was completely old-world, the lighting soft, the house immaculate in the way only immigrant homes are, a purposeful demonstration of work ethic and pride. Nothing she made was remotely elaborate, just all beautifully done. Beyond the perfection of the homemade pasta, the simplicity and delicacy of the grilled and fried antipasti, the generous portions of wine and digestivi, I most remember the image of this woman, visible from our table, relentlessly at work for hours at the kitchen stove, a culinary machine. She produced course after course, never sat down with us, never stopped moving. It had to be nearly midnight when she reluctantly emerged from the kitchen to accept our thanks and unconditional surrender.

By the time we opened Le Virtú in October of 2007, the demographic changes already at work when we arrived had greatly accelerated. Fresh diasporas from Mexico, Vietnam, Cambodia, and elsewhere filled the gaps (and storefronts) left by Italian Americans. The sons and grandchildren of Italian immigrants often didn’t want to carry on family businesses or wanted to pursue a suburban style of life (that I’ll never understand, and the idea of which gives me the fantods). These new arrivals brought with them the energy and entrepreneurial impulse that generally attends immigrant waves. Family-oriented, hardworking, and driven to succeed, they’ve greatly benefited the neighborhood. From my vantage, they remind me of my grandfather and his peers. Others arriving were generally more affluent, white, and college educated. It was in the late 90’s that we began to see folks, obviously from outside the neighborhood, walking around and looking at houses. Browsers. Handwritten notes asking if we’d consider selling our home were shoved through our mail slot. It was hard to know how to feel about it. Priced out of more expensive areas or newly arrived in the city, these folks were attracted by the neighborhood’s amenities, housing stock, proximity to the subway, and convenience to Center City. Prices on our own block increased eight- to tenfold between 1996 and today, providing a windfall for some neighbors with an itch to leave but also pretty much making it certain that their children couldn’t buy in the vicinity if they wanted to stay.

By the mid- to late-aughts, swarms of hipsters, ironic deep divers, beer geeks, gourmands, and self-appointed food critics were descending on the neighborhood as the infrastructure to satisfy them all had developed. Bars began offering vast selections of national and local craft and Belgian beers. Even corner bars started carrying a few crafts and a couple of Chimays. The harbinger for all of this, however, was Ristorante Paradiso, the dream of Lynn Rinaldi, a proud product of the neighborhood. Paradiso departed from the familiar Italian-American narrative and bravely introduced Italian regional themes to East Passyunk. Heartened by Lynn’s success, we opened Le Virtú, digging deep into la cucina Abruzzese and proffering dishes that would have been familiar to the grandparents and great grandparents of our neighbors. And, of course, a diverse host of restaurants and other eateries – most of them astonishingly good – followed. It’s now possible to figuratively eat your way across much of the globe and never leave East Passyunk.

We’d imagined Le Virtú as a love letter to Abruzzo, where we’d lived after my first occurrence of Hodgkin’s and where we returned to annually and, perhaps naively, a gift of gratitude to the neighborhood. Our first menus, created by Luciana from Abruzzo, were straight out of tradition, without any “cheffy” interpretation. And still we’d have guests, some of them locals and neighbors, who were baffled by our fare. One guy, seated at the bar and looking over our offerings, his face a map of confusion, remarked: “Not for nothing, but is there anything Italian on this menu?” So, a little (hopefully unpedantic) explanation often proved necessary. Using ingredients from specific local farms, importing rare ingredients from Abruzzo (buying our saffron involved going to the village of Civitaretenga in Abruzzo and knocking on a farmer’s door; we filled suitcases with rare cheeses from organic farms in the region), and trying to proffer quality wines and digestives made our prices above what had been the neighborhood norm. Without doubt, we alienated some locals. And the people most familiar with our dishes, the native-born Italians living in the neighborhood, never went out to eat Italian. The idea of going out and paying for what you could make at home was, to them, obscene. Only ‘merigan did that. But we gradually found our clientele, or they found us. And watching, as has happened many times. family shedding nostalgic tears over a simple bowl of scrippelle ‘mbusse - pecorino-filled crepes in chicken broth – and remembering the grandmothers from Abruzzo, now most likely departed, who used to make it for special occasions…you can’t put a price on that.

The Italian South Philly that persists is deceptively large, especially if you’re just judging by a count of storefronts and businesses. Philly’s population of Italian Americans is still the second largest in the US, after New York’s, and a lot of that’s attributable to South Philly. Most blocks in the old enclave are still partly or majority Italian-American, even if some - not most, but a sizable number - of the newcomers tend to pretend the originals don’t exist. Or maybe just wish that they didn’t. This disrespect is often palpable and felt among the long-time residents. They talk about it. Early on during East Passyunk’s so-called “renaissance,” a new store owner catering to more recent neighborhood arrivals and visitors to the Avenue remarked to a journalist that his block had three Italian eateries but that there was no way that could last. He sounded hopeful. I can’t count the episodes in which, drinking or dining at a local joint or just walking along the street, I’ve heard visitors or newcomers condescendingly discussing the long-time residents, the Italian Americans, like Margaret Mead describing the subjects of some anthropological expedition. They say these things blithely, indifferent to or unaware of the fact that the locals hear them. A professor at a city university once asked me where I lived. When I responded, she grimaced then asked: “How do you like living down there with them?” Again, I don’t look Italian American. I informed her of my background and ended the conversation.        

I won’t whitewash any of my neighborhood’s shortcomings. Except maybe to say that they seem to be painfully evident everywhere in America. We’ve drawn the ire of some of South Philly’s less-accepting citizens for the causes we’ve supported at Le Virtú, the fundraisers for immigrants, refugees, and asylum seekers. But many, maybe even most of our strongest supporters have also been Italian American and folks from the neighborhood. They’ve shown up when we’ve asked for help. We’re indebted to them. But the easy stereotypes often used to describe Italian South Philly and Italian Americans in general are tired, lazy, and profoundly ironic. They also have a long history. Most Italian Americans can trace their provenance to somewhere in the former Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, the southern realm that lasted until most of the peninsula was unified at bayonet point in 1861. In Italy, southerners were often disparaged, labeled terroni for their connection to the earth and the dark color of their skin. Into the 1970’s, some landlords in northern cities openly refused to rent to southerners. Crackpot theories about their inferiority and tendency toward criminality began in northern Italy in the 19th century and followed them to the U.S. Nativist propaganda and even the editorial sections of papers as reputable as The New York Times attacked their character and lamented their arrival in America. During an earlier, xenophobic freakout in the 1920’s, we changed our immigration laws, in part, to stop the waves from southern Italy breaking on our shores. It’s painful to see how durable and apparently socially acceptable these stereotypes are. Just as it’s painful and shameful when some Italian Americans forget this story and mimic their ancestors’ tormentors.

What the future is for the Italian enclave in South Philly, I can’t say. I’m trying to enjoy as much of it that remains as I can, to savor it. The new immigrant communities, vibrant and essential to the neighborhood’s future as they may be, are understandably insular. And it’s unclear how committed the other newcomers are to the neighborhood, the young families, couples, and affluent professionals making their homes here. Will they stay or, as many do, move on when their kids reach school age? Some have had a real positive impact. Participation in school and neighborhood associations is important and has for sure contributed to the area’s betterment. But those types of organizations aren’t deeply organic. They can and do strengthen a community, but I don’t think that they often create the profound sense of belonging that palpably existed here when we arrived, and that persists among long-time residents. Many of the newcomers turn their eyes from and backs to the street. Their lives occur inside their homes, and they don’t actively participate in their block’s daily social exchanges and rhythms. Is this a suburban mode of being?  I wouldn’t know. Since we opened our restaurant, we are also guilty of often hiding behind our door, preoccupied and occasionally overwhelmed as we are (we’ve nobody but ourselves to blame for this; no one held a gun to our heads and forced us to open a restaurant). It seems clear to me and to Cathy that the originals provide much of the social glue that makes our part of South Philly an actual neighborhood. Their emotional attachment to the place, their pride, their events still inform the place’s identity. Without them, this is just an amorphous cluster of streets and homes, meaningless real estate designations. They provide much of the framework that whatever’s to come will be built on.

And, again, the community is stronger than some reports might indicate. If you’re ever lucky enough to happen upon a serenade, you’ll see and feel how strong. Before a wedding, the bride’s street is blocked off, and her and the groom’s families, as well as neighbors, gather in front of the rowhome.  The groom “serenades” her from the street. There’s music, wine, food, laughter, an epic party. It’s something brought here from the old country. My brother Fred got to participate in one in Abruzzo, in the mountain village of Pacentro. He held the groom’s ladder as he climbed to knock on his bride’s window. Once arrived at the window, the groom, a musician of note but, by his own admission, not much of a singer, had to belt out an appropriate tune while all his friends and half the town looked on. His musician friends then joined in. They’re more to the letter of the law in Abruzzo. In South Philly there’s often a DJ instead. The couple in Pacentro, dear friends of ours who’ve hosted us in their own homes, reluctantly left Abruzzo after their marriage to realize their dreams. They now live happily in our South Philly neighborhood.

Oh, and by the way, Joey made it. He’s okay.

[typingtess]

Tiptoeing through the guest cast of "The Patton Project"

The Patton Project was the organization behind the takeover of the Air Force bases in "The Silo".

Max Martini as NCIS Agent Arlo Turk Back from "Asesinos" week before last.

Esaí Morales as NCIS Deputy Director Louis Ochoa Back from "One of Us" last week.

T.J. Ramini as Tobin Shaked Ramini is back from "Home is Where the Heart Is" as former Mossad officer Tobin Shaked.

Ready for action.

Michael Cram as Retired Army Colonel Trevor Lawford Played Kevin "Wordy" Wordsworth in Flashpoint and Mark Novak in The Girlfriend Experience.

Was ATF Agent Earl Kitt in the NCIS "Loose Cannons" episode in season 13.

Cram has been a working actor for 25-years, playing in 1990's series like The X-Files, Millennium, Viper and La Femme Nikita; 2000's series like Queer as Folk, Stargate: Atlantis and Nikita; Lost Girl Rookie Blue, Covert Affairs, Bones and Arrow in this decade.

Laura Coover as Ally Appeared in episodes of The Playboy Club, Boss, Mike & Molly, How to Get Away with Murder, Agent Carter, Castle and Lucifer.

Kate Lacey-Kiley as Medical Examiner Amy Shuler Played the non-Rose ME in "Vengeance" and "Out of the Past".

Mary-Bonner Baker as Amanda Kelby Played Gwendolyn in The Agency and guest starred in episodes of Criminal Minds, Vegas, Dexter, Scorpion and Colony.  Plays a lot of medical professionals.

Joni Bovill as TSA Agent Plays Ida in Bosch.  Appeared in episodes of The Young and the Restless, How I Met Your Mother, Cold Case, The Bridge, How to Get Away with Murder, Survivor's Remorse, State of Affairs, Shameless and 9-1-1.

Today in having your photo taken with LL Cool J.

Dalila Ali Rajah as Bored TSA Agent Guest star roles include ER, Angel, Eleventh Hour, Grey's Anatomy, Hart of Dixie, New Girl, The Young and the Restless, How to Get Away with Murder, American Crime Story, Scandal, Criminal Minds and Scorpion.

Played Mary Falcon in the "Philly" episode of NCIS in season 14.

Requisite script/table read photo.

Janet Song as Female TSA Agent Appeared in episodes of Gilmore Girls, Frasier, Angel, Boston Public, Threat Matrix, The Practice, Line of Fire, House, The Cleaner, Parks & Recreation, The Officer Castle, The Defenders, Castle, Suburgatory, Shameless, The Fosters, Modern Family, Grey's Anatomy, How to Get Away with Murder and Criminal Minds.

Written by: Frank Military   No surprise here since Military's "The Silo" introduced The Patton Project.  Frank Military wrote/co-wrote “Little Angels”, “Deliverance”, “Lockup”, “The Job”, “Greed”, “Betrayal”, “Crimeleon”, “Vengeance”, “Out of the Past” Part One, “Rude Awakenings” Part Two, “Descent”, “Ascension”, “Allegiance”, “Spoils of War” (which he directed), “Black Budget”, SEAL Hunter”, “Rage” (which he directed), “Unspoken”, “Unlocked Mind”, “Revenge Deferred”, “The Seventh Child”, “Crazy Train”, “Uncaged” (which he directed), “The Silo”, “Monster”, "Line in the Sand” (which he directed) and "To Live and Die in Mexico" (which he directed).

Directed by: Ruba Nadda Nadda directed "Under Siege", "Golden Days" and "All is Bright".

[jamestang215]

Like I mentioned before. I’m still struggling to find my first real date or first girlfriend due to my fear and anxiety. I may be a 31-year-old virgin, but you have NO idea how many girls I came across who has bad intentions towards me. How many of them have hurt my feelings back then. I don’t want to get into details. But for instance, some of these girls have a boyfriend, but they want to pursue someone like me. Some of them are actually married. Some of them are dating someone, but wants to have more options. And of course, rejections. Like really? But like my old friend once told me, “James, I’m surprised that nobody has got your V-card yet 😄!” -------------- The Golden Samurai (JAMES TANG) -------------- Instagram: @JamesTang267 Twitter: @JamesTang215 • • #JamesTang #tangmusicunlimited #美國仔 #phillyasianmodel #phillymalemodel #phillychinesemodel #philadelphiaasianartist #巨蟹王子♋ #asianmanbun #AmericanbornChinese #phillyasianartist #phillyphotomeet #31yearoldvirgin #phillyphotomeetup #phillymodel #philadelphiamodel #phillyphotography #phillysamurai #cherryboy #phillycreate #phillycreates #theamericansamurai #straightedgesamurai #virginboy #themysticartistsandoutcasts #處男王子 #princeofseduction #phillyasianstylist #mysticartist #phillymodelsearch #phillyasianrockstar #phillysingle #asianmalerockstar #philadelphiamodels #phillymodels #phillyvirgin #straightedgeartist #virgin31 #cherry31 #thirtyplusone #nycmodelsearch #nycphotography #goldensamurai #thegoldensamurai #newyorkphotography #railpark #phillymodelingmeetup #phillymeetupevent

You know, Angel and John, they are like my good brothers. They have known me since high school. I forgot which one of them said this to me: “James, when you have a crush on someone, I can easily tell.” Well, I do know for sure I’m a bad liar. But I never thought I wasn't good at hiding my expression either 😄. -------------- The Golden Samurai (JAMES TANG) -------------- Instagram: @JamesTang267 Twitter: @JamesTang215 • • #JamesTang #tangmusicunlimited #美國仔 #phillyasianmodel #phillymalemodel #phillychinesemodel #philadelphiaasianartist #巨蟹王子♋ #asianmanbun #AmericanbornChinese #phillyasianartist #phillyphotomeet #31yearoldvirgin #phillyphotomeetup #phillymodel #philadelphiamodel #phillyphotography #phillysamurai #cherryboy #phillycreate #phillycreates #theamericansamurai #straightedgesamurai #virginboy #themysticartistsandoutcasts #處男王子 #princeofseduction #phillyasianstylist #mysticartist #phillymodelsearch #phillyasianrockstar #phillysingle #asianmalerockstar #philadelphiamodels #phillymodels #phillyvirgin #straightedgeartist #virgin31 #cherry31 #thirtyplusone #nycmodelsearch #nycphotography #goldensamurai #thegoldensamurai #newyorkphotography #railpark #phillymodelingmeetup #phillymeetupevent

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[mylifeinsound]

Slow Magic's Mesmerizing Journey at Warehouse on Watts

Slow Magic‘s recent performance at Warehouse on Watts was an otherworldly sonic journey that captivated the audience from start to finish. The night kicked off with mesmerising sets by Artemis Orion and Beacon Bloom, setting the stage for an ethereal evening of music. Artemis Orion‘s opening performance was a sensory delight, weaving ambient melodies and pulsating beats that gradually built an…

[40leslie]

Crime Without Punishment   Prime Day 2022 deals   CBS News App   Ukraine Crisis   COVID Pandemic   CBS News Live   Full Episodes   Essentials Shopping   Newsletters News US WORLD POLITICS ENTERTAINMENT HEALTH MONEYWATCH CBS VILLAGE TECHNOLOGY SCIENCE CRIME SPORTS ESSENTIALS Shows Live CBS NEWS LIVE CBS NEWS BALTIMORE CBS NEWS BAY AREA CBS NEWS BOSTON CBS NEWS CHICAGO CBS NEWS COLORADO CBS NEWS DFW CBS NEWS LOS ANGELES CBS NEWS MIAMI CBS NEWS MINNESOTA CBS NEWS NEW YORK CBS NEWS PHILLY CBS NEWS PITTSBURGH CBS NEWS SACRAMENTO CBS SPORTS HQ MIXIBLE Local More LATEST VIDEO PHOTOS PODCASTS IN DEPTH LOCAL GLOBAL THOUGHT LEADERS LOG IN NEWSLETTERS MOBILE RSS CBS STORE PARAMOUNT+ DAVOS 2022 Login U.S.  Sesame Place responds to allegation that character ignored two Black children BY CAITLIN O'KANE JULY 19, 2022 / 10:26 AM / CBS NEWS Sesame Place, the Philadelphia-area theme park based on the popular children's TV show "Sesame Street," has come under fire after a Black mother said her daughters were ignored by a performer dressed like a character.  Sesame Place has responded to the allegations, saying the "brand, park and employees stand for inclusivity and equality in all forms," and that they have contacted and apologized to the family.  "I'm going to keep posting this, because this had me hot," the children's mother wrote on Instagram, sharing a video showing a performer, dressed as the character Rosita, dismissing her two young daughters at the theme park. "We were on our way out of Sesame Place and the kids wanted to stop to see the characters. THIS DISGUSTING person blatantly told our kids NO then proceeded to hug the little white girl next to us!" View this post on Instagram A post shared by Jeezy (@__jodiii__) The video shows the performer waving at other children, but apparently saying "no" to the woman's two daughters. "Then when I went to complain about it, they looking at me like I'm crazy," the post continues. "I asked the lady who the character was and I wanted to see a supervisor and she told me SHE DIDNT KNOW !!" The woman said she would not visit Sesame Place again. The video rece https://www.instagram.com/p/CgNSy0HAJ7J/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[freelancertamal32]

Los Angeles Angels’ Chase Silseth pitches in opposition to the Oakland Athletics throughout his main league debut final Friday in Oakland. He will get his second begin this Friday in opposition to the identical Oakland group, this time in Anaheim, California. (AP Photo/Jed Jacobsohn) A have a look at what’s taking place across the majors on Friday: CHASE RESUMES: Farmington native Chase Silseth will get his second main league begin at residence for the Los Angeles Angels in opposition to Oakland. The 22-year-old Piedra Vista graduate — and the primary participant from the 2021 draft to achieve the majors — pitched six shutout innings final Friday, additionally in opposition to Oakland. He allowed two hits and putting out 4. CANADIAN CLUBBING: Reds star Joey Votto expects to come back off the COVID-19 listing this weekend, simply in time to play the Blue Jays in his hometown of Toronto. A six-time All-Star in 16 seasons, Votto hasn’t performed loads in entrance of the native followers — solely 9 video games at Rogers Centre, throughout which he’s hit three residence runs whereas going 8 for 33 (.242) with seven RBIs. Votto is off to a troublesome begin this season. He’s hitting a .122 with no residence runs and three RBIs in 22 video games, and struck out 29 occasions in 74 at-bats. He final performed for Cincinnati on May 1. Votto did a rehab task with Class A Dayton main as much as this weekend. YOU AGAIN? Bryce Harper battered away at Dodger Stadium final weekend, main the Phillies to 3 straight wins over Los Angeles. He homered in every sport, and went 8 for 12 with 4 doubles and eight RBIs. The solely factor that stopped Harper was a platelet-rich plasma injection in his proper elbow that prevented him from enjoying Sunday. The reigning NL MVP hasn’t been within the lineup since then due to the lingering results. He might return this weekend to face a well-known foe when the Dodgers go to Citizens Bank Park. AILING GUARDIANS: Cleveland star third baseman José Ramírez is having X-rays and different assessments on his proper shin after fouling a ball off himself. He might miss a sport or two. Ramírez was damage within the eighth inning of Thursday’s 4-2 loss to Cincinnati. Down within the grime for a number of minutes, he acquired up and singled for his thirty fourth RBI, then was pulled for a pinch-runner. CARPENTER FOR HIRE: In a mutual choice, three-time All-Star infielder Matt Carpenter, 36, has been launched by the Texas Rangers from their Triple-A group and turn into a free agent. Carpenter went to spring coaching on a minor league contract and accepted the task to Round Rock when he didn’t make Rangers’ opening day roster. He hit .275 with six homers and 19 RBIs in 21 Triple-A video games, however Texas didn’t have room for him within the majors.  

[uclaradio]

Red Baraat with The Higgs @ The Satellite (6/29/18) // Show Review

“The South Asian Red Wedding...Celebration is Coming.”

Article by Pam Gwen

Photos and video by Katy Carolyn Ramage

The Earth and The Moon are natural satellites that aren’t easy to miss. THE Satellite, however, is.

“Wait, wait, wait. Siri says we’ve passed it already.”

My best friends and I whip around Silver Lake Boulevard and finally spot the venue through the dim Marquee labeled, “FRI RED BARAAT & THE HIGGS”  The valet driver charges us $5 dollars. Parking, for a bargain? In Los Angeles?! Ahhh, it’s the simple luxuries in life.

I spot a “Dreams of LA: Food and Spirits” sign, but it is an artifact of the past, worn-down and unlit. Today, the Satellite hosts up-and-coming local bands, comedy nights, and eclectic DJ nights from Gay Asstrology (Cancers enter FREE all Cancer season long) to Dance Yourself Clean (EVERY Saturday).

I motion our UCLA Radio giveaway winners to will-call and congratulate them on scoring tickets. On the dance floor, a crowd is swaying in unison to the Orange County cerebral jam band, the Higgs. The 4-piece band: John Lovero on guitar and vocals, Garrett Morris on drums, David Barsky on bass and vocals, and Jesse August Jennings on synth, keyboard, and organ. Named after the Higgs-Boson particle as it unifies a variety of forces. Similarly, the Higgs fuse the forces of progressive and alternative rock, blues, and reggae in their electrifying songs.

Jennings of The Higgs

Jennings is in his own planet, defying gravity with his fingers as he masterfully glides over his set-up. An electric fan blows his hair in an upwards direction towards a retro fluorescent sign labeled “The Higgs” with an astronaut perched on it. The influences of the Grateful Dead, Phish, and Wilco seep through the oscillating sounds of the Satellite. The Higgs grin at each other and bask in the glory of their alluring set.

My friends and I go up the stairs to the second bar and immediately, five of us sardines in the photo booth. After roaring at the comically claustrophobic photos, I peer through the Satellite’s glass wall that reveals the dance floor. I notice the legends of Red Baraat finally piling on stage.

Red Baraat

Sunny Jain, the frontman of Red Baraat, was born of immigrant Punjabi parents. Jain grew up in Rochester, New York which established his framework for music. His mother played Bhajans (in Hindu this means “sharing”), known for their spiritual ideas and melodic ragas (melodic structures for improvisation in Indian music). Sunny’s father constantly banged his Indian banjo and harmonium to classic Bollywood music. His Jainism background was also combined with the Western influence of his sibling’s love for progressive-rock, pop, and hip-hop.

At age 4, Sunny began learning North Indian percussion and rhythm. Sunny played the Indian tabla, but at age 12 he began learning the vocabulary of jazz through idols like Max Roach and Philly Joe Jones. Growing up, Sunny's teachers encouraged him to drop his Punjabi background and focus on American music theory. Nonetheless, when he began to compose his own music, he knew he wanted to celebrate the inclusivity of his musical backgrounds.

In 2005, Sunny brought his culturally encompassing music to the surface at his own….wedding. He melded North Indian rhythm Bhangra with jazz, rock, hip-hop, and funk along with 30 of his talented musician friends. They performed for Sunny’s baraat. In India and Pakistan, a baraat is a massive marching procession of the groom’s wedding party before they reach the wedding venue. It is a joyous celebration of brass music, singing, stomping, and hand-clapping that can last for 5 hours.

In 2010, Sunny wanted to spread South Asian wedding celebrations to the masses and thus, Red Baraat was born (his mustache, however, was born in 2012). The band name came to fruition because to Sunny, red is a symbol of love, energy, and revolution. They have inspired conservative elderly in walkers in Pennsylvania to get up and dance. Furthermore, they have split their audiences in halves for epic dance battles. The band has cited inspirations from Primus, Miles Davis, Flying Lotus, Gogol Bordello, and Gurdas Maan. NPR has asked Red Baraat to perform for their Tiny Desk Concert series twice and has dubbed them “the best party band in years.” Red Baraat has performed for Obama at the White House, Bonnaroo, the Paraolympics in London, globalFEST, and an exorbitant amount of South Asian weddings.

At the Satellite, Red Baraat begins with chaal rhythm in “Punjabi Wedding Song (Balle Balle)” off of Chaal Baby. The band’s sonic palate is bewitching. The 50-pound gold sousaphone Kenneth Bentley is breathing life and bass into is enchanting. The gigantic sousaphone looks as if it could be its own satellite, its vibrations orbiting the atmosphere of the stage. Unlike Desiigner in his song Panda, Sunny is yelling his version of “rrrrRRAAA” that I find loveable. Full of passion, Sunny freely parades on the stage with a dhol strapped on his shoulder, decorated by white rope and a plethora of black tassels. I have never been privy to a dhol and my initiation to it is mind-blowing. On the double-headed drum, Sunny crafts a tight stampeding pulsation with two uniquely curved sticks.

On June 29th, Red Baraat released their latest album, Sound the People, influenced by the South Asian diaspora. Recorded at Studio G in Brooklyn, New York, the album is Red Baraat’s battle cry -- written weeks after Trump’s inauguration. The patient percussion of “Ghadar Machao” produces goosebumps on my arms. Derived from Arabic, Ghadar means “revolution.” I feel as if I’m at a protest, ready and determined to line-up and congregate. My arms vigorously fist pump to Sonny Singh’s beckoning voice as he sings in Punjabi, to English, and even in Spanish. Red Baraat’s candor on the political climate invigorates the crowd to joyously mourn and mindfully release anger. “Ghadar Machao” is a superb folk anthem of immigrant solidarity.

Tears flow down my cheek, but I wipe them away as the dynamic beginning of “Hey Jamalo” off of Sound the People begins. Its cadence is trance-inducing and forces every single person in the room to dance. Hips are surging, feet are stomping, arms are flailing, and there’s headbanging everywhere. The blending of Sonny Singh’s trumpet and Jonathon Haffner’s soprano saxophone is consuming alongside Chris Eddleton’s explosive drumming. The elements of North Indian Bhangra, New Orleans brass, and ska-punk in “Hey Jamalo” obliterates every box Sunny was advised to conform to as a young musician.

Rays of electric blue light gleams on Jonathan Goldberger during his psychedelic rock guitar shredding on “Moray Gari Suno” off of Sound the People. The track is an homage to 1960’s Chutney music from Trinidad with flavors of Indian and Caribbean music. The charismatic synergy and variety of Sunny, Sonny, Jonathan, Kenneth, Jonathon, and Chris’ personalities permeate the raw energy of Red Baraat. Their individual expertise as a cohesive unit cultivates the visceral sonic textures and booming improvisations of their stellar performance.

Red Baraat falls silent and Sunny invites two personalities from the crowd for a dance-battle on stage. The dancers in the center front shy away to the corners, but a courageous fan in a green shirt gets on stage. A minute or two passes and worry falls on Sunny’s face. In that sliver of a moment, I knew it was time for me to put down my notebook and jump into battle. My pulse raced as I stared into the many eyeballs shooting at me from down below.

I closed my eyes and breathed into the present moment, “It’s a Friday night with no homework, work, responsibilities, and worries. You’re on stage with Red Baraat. You. Got. This.” I opened my eyes to all my best friends, partner, and the crowd cheering me on. In a flash, the raucous of “Shruggy Ji” embroiders itself into my veins and overtakes the entirety of my ligaments. I stare into my opponent’s eyes and we both laugh. The members of Red Baraat are smiling and parading around the stage. Accompanied by their presence on stage, I feel as if I’m floating and in a utopian dimension of ecstasy and triumph.

Pam Gwen, a dancing queen, with Red Baraat

As I disembark on stage and reenergize, Red Baraat is instantly revitalized and to the next song. Sunny powerfully grabs the mic and announces, “Now this next track is Punjabi bluegrass. The original track is “Gora Mukra” meaning “fair-skinned face”, but we’ve inverted it to “Kala Mukra” meaning “dark-skinned face.” It is an act of defiance against glamorizations of white skin, subjecting women’s potential to only marriage, and a bunch of other shit like that. Let’s party.” “

Ingrained with a colonial mentality growing up, I was adamant about scrubbing my brown skin off with papaya soap to achieve the fair-skin my Filipino culture idolized. In the past year, I have found that locating myself in my Filipinx heritage has helped me formulate who I can become. “Kala Mukra” is my hymn of postcolonial consciousness. Within each measure, I feel an inner emotional and spiritual catharsis.

“Kala Mukra” features Ali Sethi and is murderous and frenetic. The track’s preamble is Sonny, Jonathon, and Kenneth’s feverish trumpets, the heartbeat is Chris and Sunny’s frantic percussion, and Jonathan’s spiraling Afro-Carribean groove riff is the comedown.

As I look around the variety of beautiful skin colors around me, I find healing. As the bridge of “Apna Punjab Hove” begins, my friend, who hasn’t been dancing much tonight, begins tearing up the dance floor. My friends and I know that he is a professional Indian wedding dancer and we go berserk -- we’ve never seen him dance in the flesh before. As we circle around him, a woman in a kurti and another in a blue pin-up dress begin doing classical Indian dance moves. To their left, two men pair up and do Bhangra, a Punjabi-style dance. From beginning to end, Red Baraat puts its crowd into a loving trance, lulling us into hedonistic dancing for what seems like an eternity. Their infectious and magnetizing energy is an experience in itself. A sense of world peace is exposure to Red Baraat’s revolutionary and humanitarian virtuosity.

[hummingzone]

Dumb Mets fan shines laser pointer directly in Max Muncy’s eyes (Video)

Dumb Mets fan shines laser pointer directly in Max Muncy’s eyes (Video)

PHILADELPHIA, PA – AUGUST 11: Max Muncy #13 of the Los Angeles Dodgers looks on against the Philadelphia Phillies at Citizens Bank Park on August 11, 2021 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The Dodgers defeated the Phillies 8-2. (Photo by Mitchell Leff/Getty Images) 3 bargain-bin free agents the Lakers can still sign to help LeBron by Baigen Seawell A fan at Citi Field shined a laser pointer in the…

[impulsetravels]

impulse travels radio show. 01 august 2018.

or » DOWNLOAD HERE «

photo: Fish Eye Marine Park, Guam. | by Yu-Chan Chen. licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License. Our 8/1 show features music from Matthew Law + Seven Davis Jr. (Philly + Houston + Los Angeles), Captain Planet (Los Angeles + BK), Sly5thAve + Patrick Bailey (Pflugerville + BK + Los Angeles), Blood Orange (London + NYC), Santigold (Philly), Peggy Gou (Berlin + Korea), For Peace Band (Guam), Louis Cole (Los Angeles), Maura Rosa (Tijuana), Te'amir (Los Angeles), Troubleman + Nina Miranda (UK + Brasilia), Machinedrum (BK), Nickodemus + Jahdan Blakkamore (BK), Maggie Rogers (Maryland), Flamingosis + Birocratic (NJ + BK) and more. » CHECK OUT THE PLAYLIST «