#westbound records

[musicollage]

Funkadelic – Free Your Mind And Your... 1970 : Westbound.

[burlveneer-music]

Assemblage - the arrangement of "Satisfaction" I've wanted all my life! Never mind that it's actually been around for most of my life, but I'm just hearing it now thanks to a reissue of their only album "Album" (1971)

[soulmusicsongs]

Living For The City - Ceasar Frazier (75, 1975)

[mymelodic-chapel]

Funkadelic- Maggot Brain (Funk Rock, Psychedelic Soul, Psychedelic Rock) Released: July 12, 1971 [Westbound Records] Producer(s): George Clinton

[burying-brightness]

please, take me home i know where this all goes just for the record let it show just for the record that we have not lost we've got so far to go in this endeavor so don't let go not now or never

[ginandoldlace]

Cunard’s RMS Umbria of 1885. Along with her sister ship the RMS Etruria, the Umbria would be the last Cunarder fitted with auxiliary sails. She would also be a Blue Riband record holder, setting a Westbound record of 19.22 knots over the course of six days.

[recvordshqs]

* westbound records informa.

el fallecimiento de don crowlley mejor conocido como 'el rey midas de la música' ha sacudido la escena musical de los angeles dejándonos con más preguntas que respuestas, el trono se encuentra vacío y músicos que han firmado su alma, perdón es decir, contrato con la disquera de crowlley se preguntan si siguiente verdugo mejorará o empeorará la situación en la que se encuentran, mientras aquellos músicos que solamente contaban con promesa verbal entran en pánico, ¿será que boleto dorado al estrellato se ha ahogado junto a su mesías? muchas interrogantes y pocas respuestas, los músicos de westbound están a un pelo de entrar en una crisis, y por supuesto, nosotres, sus groupies del cotilleo, estaremos aquí para informarles de todo, no les pierdan la pista, porque la bomba está a punto de explotar.

main oficialmente abierto.

[recvordsvin]

# 01: introducción y vínculos.

¡Bienvenides a RECVORDSHQ! Por acá les dejamos lo que consideraremos la primer actividad a realizar dentro del grupal, el primer paso a realizar dentro de WESTBOUND RECORDS; ¡Vínculos, introducciones y formación de bandas! Este en realidad es un paso bastante sencillo y bastante divertido que nos ayudará en un par de cosas:

Conocer un poquito más a los personajes que van a acompañarnos a lo largo del recorrido.

Pautar el inicio de todes dentro del cambio que se viene en la disquera gracias al fallecimiento de Don Crowlley.

Comenzar a darle forma a lo que se realizará durante el primer capítulo de la trama del grupal.

Recuerda dejar por aquí en los comentarios si es que tu(s) personaje(s) está(n) interesado(s) en formar parte de una banda o de una colaboración, esto para no forzar a nadie a estar en una dinámica que no considera que se llevaría bien con lo que pensaste. Recuerda también que tras realizar el post, etiqueta este mismo como #WESTINTRO, nosotros nos encargaremos de dar reblog a todas las publicaciones, además de dejar los accesos sencillos para que todes estén enterados de lo que sucede. También te dejamos por acá los tres enlaces a revisar.

INTRODUCCIONES / VÍNCULOS. / BANDAS.

[gisachi]

Twenty Words: Shinichi/Ran

Drawing inspiration from prompt challenges. Twenty prompts, twenty sentences of twenty words each. Fluff and angst. Pairing, ShinRan.

Dominant - “What do you mean? We’re not competing,” Shinichi laughs, licking his lips, “We’re in love, ‘course I’ll let you lead.”

Wartime - He reaches for her hand despite every resisting muscle under the armor — after all, how dare he aid the enemy?

Sleep - The tranquilizing dart is ready behind his back, then she says, “Don’t you dare, Shinichi… let me finish for once.”

Pattern - Whenever he returns, she doesn’t say ‘You’re back’ — for a tiresome pattern of two years, he never is, never was.

Discipline - “On your knees, Shinichi,” Ran glares and Shinichi bites back a menacing smirk, taking that as reward more than punishment.

Outcome - The worst combo - murder case during a long-awaited anniversary date - leaves him with the worst outcome: Ran’s week-long silent treatment.

Champion - Shinichi champions himself as a smart man, but Ran somehow manages to dumb him down everytime she smiles like that.

Waste - “It’s not wasted time if spent with people you love…” Shinichi glances at Ran, ears red, his words fading shyly.

Hidden - ‘Wait for me’ — hidden in Shinichi’s study, she reminisces the ten-year-old plea, forlorn smile confirming her final answer to Araide.

Award - To Shinichi, it isn’t the trophy that matters most, but Ran’s grin of victory from the bleachers everytime he scores. 

Book - Shinichi can read Ran like an open book - god he wished he couldn’t - because he’s down to the last page.

VCR - Ran smiles, a wistful one, before playing the cassette, a ‘96 news recording, “See, that’s your dad right there, Sakura-chan.”

Mob - She goes past the mob into the source of commotion, stunning Shinichi and the knife-wielding culprit with a roundhouse kick.

Speech - A declaration of love, a fearless kiss – Shinichi’s always one for dramatic flair, and tonight, he jumps off a cliff.

Sinner - Maybe he shouldn’t stay here, wrapped in the arms of an Angel, for sinners like him don’t deserve hundredth chances.

Immortality - Count Shinichi clutches at the faded photograph, and weeps – to live another century without this woman is his death sentence.

Girlfriend - “What if I stop calling you my girlfriend…” before Ran can react, Shinichi’s on one knee, a ring in hand.

Shaking - Ran thought nothing could scare him, until a shaking hand grips hers after the dentist chirps, “This won’t hurt, Kudou-kun!”

Westbound - Of the many times they’ve visited Osaka, they arrive with hands entwined this time, and Heiji and Kazuha are thrilled.

Holiday - May 4th isn’t a holiday, but she leaves work early anyway; otherwise, nobody will light the candles on his grave.

[recvordsact]

# capítulo primero:

el nuevo orden.

Dos semanas han pasado desde la tragedia que sacudió a Westbound Records, el fallecimiento de Don Crowley ha sacudido los cimientos de una discografía que siempre se auto-convenció de que dictadura era imprescindible, que buenas ideas jamás estarían en otra cabeza que no fuese la de su líder; Pensamiento casi sectario se ha derrumbado por completo y es, finalmente el día, en el que, tras dos semanas, incontables homenajes y un ostentoso funeral hay claridad en mentes de ejecutivos acerca de los pasos a tomar a partir de ahora. Todo comenzó con una llamada, bandas, solistas y colaboradores han sido reunidos con el pretexto de acompañarse y abrazarse en tiempos tan difícil, en demostrar que la familia que se forma en Westbound es familia que se debe apreciar, lamentablemente todavía hay quienes quisieran aferrarse a liderazgo fantasmal de Crowlley; Recepcionista ha corrido el rumor de que reunión entre ejecutivos y músicos será para medir las lealtades, la disposición a qué tanto se está dispuesto a olvida a infame 'D.C', hay un nuevo jefe al mando y con él llegarán una serie de normativas que resquebrajan el futuro que esperaban muchos tras firma de contratos eternos, de lo que antes parecía promesa y más bien se ha vuelto sentencia, el rey Midas de la música se ha ido y con él también la manera en la que se ha establecido todo hasta el momento. Hay sentimientos encontrados con respecto a lo que se puede esperar en el momento que poco a poco las reuniones a puerta cerrada se van desarrollando, algunos están esperanzados, muchos han rogado por cambios dentro de su música, en su imagen, otros tantos se encuentran escandalizados, ¿Cómo es que sitio privilegiado va a terminarse por petición de alguien a quien no se ha llegado a conocer? Incertidumbre está ganando la partida y solamente hay una pregunta en el aire. ¿Estás listx para conocer al nuevo midas?

# algunas aclaraciones ooc.

¡Bienvenides al capítulo primero y a la apertura oficial del rol en RECVORDSHQ! Estamos muy emocionades de tenerles por acá.

Debido a que es la primer actividad, se realizará por medio de starters.

Recuerden responder al menos dos starters antes de abrir uno propio, si se cuenta con más de un personaje, recuerden abrir con uno y responder con otro.

En el momento en el que consideren que tienen un número de notas significativas pueden remover su starter del blog sin problema alguno.

No hay un código de vestimenta, esto debido a que el desarrollo será dentro de la disquera, sin embargo, pueden subir sus outfits con el tag #westfits.

Recuerden que no se permite la selectividad, el rol burbuja o el godmodding.

A lo largo de esta actividad se estarán haciendo públicos los promts, así como la información que se creó para las bandas que previamente se formaron en la actividad previa al rol.

La actividad comenzará el 23/02 y se lanzará el plot drop el 27/02, la fecha de finalización dependerá del movimiento del dash y de sus narrativas.

¡cualquier sugerencia o duda estamos disponibles en el main o en discord!

[scotianostra]

On September 26th 1934 the Liner Queen Mary launched at John Brown’s shipyard, Clydebank.

The construction of still the unnamed Cunard Queen Mary ship began in December 1930 (the ship’s keel was laid down on 31 January 1931) in the yard of “John Brown & Co” at Clydebank. The launch was scheduled for May 1932, but the work on the ship was suspended in December 1931 due to the world economic depression. A loan of 9.5 million pounds from the Government was granted to the Cunard Line with enough money to complete the Queen Mary ship and to build a second liner – the Queen Elizabeth.

As a direct result of this most advantageous deal, the Cunard Line merged with its main rival White Star on 10th May 1934 into Cunard White Star Ltd. The Queen Mary construction resumed in April 1934, the liner was completed by August and launched on 26th September at a total cost of 3.5 million pounds sterling.

The work was completed in March 1936. The Queen Mary ship sailed out for preliminary trials and after being painted in Southampton, the liner was handed over to Cunard White Star Line on 11th May 1936. RMS Queen Mary ship first sailing was on 14th May with its Transatlantic itinerary being Southampton-Cherbourg-New York. By May 1937 the liner had carried a total of almost 57,000 passengers.

The main speed-rival of the QM ship was SS Normandie – a liner built in France and operated by the French Compagnie Generale Transatlantique line. The Queen Mary took the Blue Riband (the prestigious award given to a ship with the speed record for a transatlantic crossing) from the French liner SS Normandie in August 1938, with record speeds for both west- and eastbound crossings of the Atlantic Ocean – the average speeds was, respectively, 30,63 kn (35m25 mph, 56,7 km/h) and 30,14 kn (34,68 mph, 55,82 km/h).

In 1937, the Normandie liner was refitted with new propellers, enabling her to take the Blue Riband, but in 1938 the Queen Mary ship reclaim the honour for best speeds in both directions – westbound 30,99 kn (35,66 mph, 57.39 km/h) and eastbound 31,69 kn (36,47 mph, 58.69 km/h). This record was beaten by the SS United Sates liner in 1952.

The last commercial sailing of the ship Queen Mary was on 30 August 1939 departing from Southampton and then berthed at New York until the end of 1939. With the outbreak of the Second World War, she was converted into a troopship and ferried Allied soldiers for the duration of the war.

Following the war, Queen Mary was refitted for passenger service and along with Queen Elizabeth commenced the two-ship transatlantic passenger service for which the two ships were initially built. The two ships dominated the transatlantic passenger transportation market until the dawn of the jet age in the late 1950s. By the mid-1960s, Queen Mary was ageing and, though still among the most popular transatlantic liners, was operating at a loss.

After several years of decreased profits for Cunard Line, Queen Mary was officially retired from service in 1967. She left Southampton for the last time on 31 October 1967 and sailed to the port of Long Beach, California, United States, where she remains permanently moored. Much of the machinery, including one of the two engine rooms, three of the four propellers, and all of the boilers, were removed. The ship serves as a tourist attraction featuring restaurants, a museum and a hotel. The ship is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. The National Trust for Historic Preservation has accepted the Queen Mary as part of the Historic Hotels of America.

RMS Queen Mary remains in Long Beach but recently it has been reported it is in need of significant repairs according to assessments and photos in 2019 and 2020. An estimated $289 million in repairs are needed after years of decline and the most recent operator going bankrupt.But even to “retire and recycle” the liner could cost up to $190m. One of the suggestions are to dismantle and sink the liner, although no long term plans have been finalised as yet.

The Queen Mary is due to open again to visitors next month, let’s hope someone can come up with a rescue plan to save her.

It has been mooted that it could return to the Clyde but the eyewatering amount of money it would take surely rules this out.

[raisindave]

[Chapter 8] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Content Warning: Graphic descriptions of violence and death.

Neurons fire like sparklers on the Fourth of July, making your mind imagine jumping shadows in the void darkness surrounding you. Just stay on your stomach; no one will see you without you seeing them from a mile away. Ghost’s hawk eyes will keep you safe, just like Soap assured you. Expectant, teasing anxiety tightens your throat, like the feeling that you’re being watched. Except in this case, you are the one doing the watching. A single crackling branch in the distance behind you makes you whirl around in panic, wild eyes flashing in anticipation. 

“Don’t go out in the woods much, I take it.” Ghost’s voice cuts the silence, additionally startling your heightened nerves. 

“Don’t worry, corporal, I’ve got eyes on the back of my head,” he huffed back, matching your agitated tone, “and the side.”

You swallowed the urge to bite back some nasty quip about his ego, once again fighting the bile in favour of not getting a dishonourable discharge. Maybe he was right, though; after all, there wasn’t even any indication that there was any other living creature at least a few square miles. Save for the dear from earlier and your ghoulish company. Most likely, it was nothing, but the slim chance of a counter-ambush still stuck in your mind like a thorn. Turning back around to rest your torso on your now rock-hard pillow of snow, a quick flick of your radio's on and off button hailed the others for an update. 

“Alfa team, this is Bravo 7-1, still no eyes.” Soap’s voice cut into the microphone.

“Solid copy, standing by.” You respond. 

Minutes melted by. Agonizing silence. By this time, the meeting time given by the radio had long passed, and the shame and horror manifesting inside you made you mortified that you may have made some grave error. No, trust in your skills. This wasn’t some translation error; you knew what you heard and had recordings to back it up. The message padding, the Chinese informant, and Smokey, it all hiked on your nerves, refusing to settle like a pill caught in a dry throat. One thing was for sure: something was wrong. 

More tentative check-ups on the lookout on the road, each response diligent and practiced, but that didn’t dissuade the elephant in the room: The convoy wasn’t here, and we’d been sitting there for at least an hour. Ghost would never show it, even if his patience were wearing thin, but the off-radio dialogue between your comrades must be starting to point towards you. Every agonizing minute became an excruciating hour, and rubbing the cold from your thighs started having less of an effect. All the calories burned from your body fighting to keep up with agonizing cold made the empty pit in your stomach more poignant, though a steady, nauseous sensation kept the worst of the pain at bay. 

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Price finally spoke up through the radio, speaking what was on the top of everyone’s mind, “We’re sitting ducks out here. Gold Eagle Actual, what’s the status.”

Price’s radio to Graves implied an eagerness to wrap up the mission to come home, deeming the outing a lost cause. He’s probably aching to get back to bed, though you doubt he’d ever admit that. A glance at Ghost’s wristwatch next to you said the time was 03:54. Unwelcome sweat began to bead along your hairline as your neck muscles started to ache from strain.

“Just a little longer,” you croaked into the microphone, desperately hanging on to any semblance of hope, “-Sir”

“Little Miss, I don’t believe you have the authority t-” Grave’s voice was cut off suddenly. 

“Headlights, nine o’clock.” Soap’s radio crackled alive, 

Just like that, joy followed by relief, then gnawing dread sang through your mind, and your partner beside you shifted his posture. 

“Two vehicles- Three. I repeat, three vehicles westbound, coming ahead. 30 seconds out.” 

“Don’t miss, MacTavish,” Gaz chortled over the mic.

“I don’t miss,” he retorted. 

This was when your portable radio came into play. Once Soap gave the order, a listening device would be stuck to the undercarriage of one of the vehicles, a coin toss if it landed on the one hosting vital conversation. Rolling the dial under your finger, you sparked your end of the device alive. Waiting, frigid seconds ticked by as you heard Soap rustling into position through your mic, slow, practiced breathing as he stilled for action. Like a mountain lion stalking in the bush. A crunching sound and crisp rustles came from the device in your hands, then a delicate clunk. 

“Listening Device in place, coming to your position, Alfa Team, ” Soap’s voice triumphantly. 

“Solid copy, Bravo 7-1,” Price and Graves responded unanimously. 

Deep breaths of numbing cold tore down your throat as you steadied yourself against the headphones, squeezing your eyes shut to futility cut out all stimuli- not that it did anything in the surrounding darkness. A Cantonese voice is speaking through your headphones, relaying information to another. They were discussing the hangar and that they’d also need to collect the security tapes when they arrived. Shit, that’s important. 

“Two Cantonese-speaking males discussing coming to the hangar to collect security tapes.” You relayed into your shoulder radio.

Once again, you stilled yourself for more information, not bothering with any of the formalities of radio chatter, considering this situation was already exceptional by default. A Russian voice cuts in, asking for a translation from one of the Chinese members, responding in fractured Russian with a crude translation of the previous dialogue. 

“Russian male. At least three Tangos, stand by.”

Other than the minor conversation, there was almost no noise inside, save for an eerie Slavic folk tune singing about the grace of the motherland. Unsettling accordion notes screeching through a cheap radio. Then, you hear it. The unmistakable sound you recognized from earlier. The same clicking sounds you heard from Soap’s gun maintenance in the truck. 

“Armed. Repeat, Tangos are lethally equipped.”

You detect another shift in your comrade’s posture, like he’s giddy. Opening your eyes just in time to see the swinging headlights from the treeline turn into the open landing strip. Two thick black vans surrounding one flatbed cargo truck pulled in front of the domed hangar. Their engines rumbling audible from your elevation without the need for your radio. 

“Eyes on the target, Bravo 0-7, you seeing this?” The voice of Price made your eyes flicker to the northeast section of the compound where he, Gaz, and Soap now sat in wait. 

“In my sights,” Ghost uttered into the mic, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand. 

Another voice cut through the radio, making you clamp your gloved fingertips over your headphones. Ghost murmured something along the lines of ‘hold’ into the radio as you focused your attention intensely. 

"We’re early, cunt, I don’t like being early," A gruff Russian voice cut crackled through the listening device's speakers.

Early? The transmission said 02:35, it’s past 04:00. That doesn’t make any sense. 

“They’re early? Grant, I thought you said 02:35,” Price shot through the radio on your shoulder, you heard the barely audible sound of someone sighing in frustration behind him. 

“They did, I don’t understand,” the connection that Price, too, knows Russian churned in your stomach. It would’ve been nice to know that earlier. 

The two sturdy vans’ doors each popped open, each van carrying four armed soldiers, black body armour making them match their shadows from the floodlights. That’s a count of eight armed Tangos, information which Ghost radioed to the ground crew, with at least one more driving the flatbed. Each sported dark, ominous firearms glinting in the stark floodlight, distant chatter bouncing off the cliff face to reach your astute ears. Another chill crept over your brow as you watched Ghost’s index finger smoothly sweep across the side of his rifle, promising to shift to the trigger at a moment’s notice. Ready to paint the ground with pink mist, swift and lethal, edging toward that kill shot. 

One of the figures crouched, unclasping a lock from the hangar door and swinging it open with the sound of shambling sheet metal. The sharp, heavy clunk of industrial lights sparking to life revealed the interior of the hangar, cluttered with a handful of small boxes and a few desks in the far corner. More information was relayed through the radio, and hushed chirps were heard in reply through the speakers. They were talking about another group meeting up, waiting for ‘Púpsik’ to arrive. Púpsik, a feminine colloquialism for ‘cutie’... there’s another party coming, the feminine prefix implying a dear female figure… a... mother.

“More Tangos en route. It sounds like this is a tradeoff point.” Although the Russian language made you question if Price came to the same conclusion you did, sharing your familiarity with the tongue. 

“Copy.” Price responded in turn. 

“This is Watcher; Any eyes on the cargo?” Laswell’s voice clambered through a staticky frequency. 

“Affirmative, Tango's transporting a shipping container from the truck into the hangar.” Price responded.

“Stand by for further instructions. Let’s wait and see who’s gonna show.” She posited. 

“Rog.” 

The sound of metal scraping and casual conversation echoed through the night. Although technically morning, there were still many hours before the sun would rise in this northern climate. One of them sparked up a cigarette, amber flashes illuminating his face before sucking back a long drag. You noted no flags on any of them, cracking icy binoculars to fit your eyes. Fingers numb to the cold made your movements clunky and uncoordinated, reminding yourself how long it had been since you moved your legs. Movement was key in this gnawing cold, though any sound could jeopardize your position, no matter how minor. It was a gamble that you just had to take. 

Watching the shadows waddle back and forth, securing the container, distant idle chatter from the vehicle-mounted listening device was nearly fruitless, save for a few key phrases. ‘Púpsik’ was three minutes out. The cold gnawing at your extremities was past the point of pain and beyond the pin-prickling sensation, finally settling into a void, empty numbness. This was the time to gather your breath because, at any moment, things could go sideways. There was more radio chatter. Gaz reported headlights behind the hangar. Here comes mama. 

Another round of headlights swung out, another group of three, and a similar flatbed truck, though their flatbed seemed extensively kitted out with plated siding and heavy-duty engines. More doors swung open, and a squad of seven similarly armoured soldiers marched to meet the existing ten, all sporting glinting firearms on their backs. 

“Seventeen tangos, eyes on cargo. Grant, what’s the status?” Price relayed from the shadowy vantage point just out of view of the enemy combatants. 

“They’re exchanging greetings… One is asking about the tool…, and another is saying it’s- it’ll do wonders to clear out their backyard. Uniforms… two thirty-five…” you transcribed from what you heard from the radio in your palm, “They’re exchanging the cargo.”

“It’s now or never,” Laswell breathed. 

“Time to bring home the milk boys, let’s make it home in time for breakfast,” Graves' smooth southern tone quipped back, seemingly in high spirits now that the agonizing wait was over. 

“Bravo 0-7, take down the squirters. Alfa team moving in.” Price’s radio clicked to a close, making your stomach knot. 

“Yes sir,” Ghost uttered. 

The slinking shadows skulked around the darkness, utterly invisible to the pack of soldiers just inches from them. In an instant, the sizzle of a smoke grenade sent a cloud of piercing white smoke into the hangar with a heavenly glow thanks to the stark overhead lights. Pop, pop, pop. Commotion, more pops. It’s horrifying not to be able to see who’s getting shot at, and you can only trust the physical exam evaluations you read only days ago on Laswell’s tablet. Frantic shouting in Russian and Cantonese reverberated across concrete and metal siding. A deafening blast in your right ear nearly made you nearly pass out in shock. Ghost had picked someone off. You couldn’t decide what was worse, watching uselessly through your binoculars to watch your teammates fall potentially or the unforgiving and hammering unknown. Bang. Another deafening blast as Ghost cocked the rifle in patient preparation for another kill shot. 

Utter chaos screamed through the radio that must have been flicked on by mistake in the scuffle. Noise and shouting tore across the wild terrain, collateral of the combat below. Ghost’s rifle had gone quiet now, his steady breathing slowing to an impossibly slow pace. Radio chatter was full of expletives and fruitless commands, agonized whelping silenced by another pop. The courage to pull the ice-cold binoculars to your eyes manifested, and you beheld bodies strewn across the snow, red splatter, and brain matter pooled on concrete and asphalt. Noting the singular bodies of combatants fleeing to the treeline, picked off by your ghostly associate. 

The pandemonium stilled, gradually unwinding, like the crescendo had passed, leaving dwindling silence. Spare for occasional pops reverberating across the cliff face. There was still commotion from within the compound, out of view of your sniper’s position. 

“Alfa team, what’s your status,” Ghost called through the radio.

Silence in response, but evident gunfire, said the status was still in question. Blistering anxiety and tension rippled through your body, meagerly quelled by a deep, steadying breath. More pops and unsettling crackles from your comrade's radios. You were sitting blind and useless, with comrades cornered inside the hangar. Ghost impatiently tapped the side of his rifle with his fingertip, steady breathing, exhaling in a sudden, quick breath. 

“We’re going down there.” Ghost’s gruff voice cut over the gunfire, lifting his radio from his shoulder to speak. “Actual, this is Bravo 0-7, moving in to support the Alfa team, over and out,” his dark eyes meeting yours expectantly, swinging his body above yours and clutching your back by your crossbody firearm harness. 

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Master List

[lboogie1906]

Denise LaSalle was born Ora Denise Allen (July 16, 1934 - January 8, 2018) on a plantation in Sidon, Mississippi. Her parents were Nathaniel A. Allen Sr. and Nancy Cooper. In 1947, her entire family moved to Belzoni, Mississippi. At the age of 13, she was a principal singer with an all-female gospel ensemble, the Sacred Five.

In 1962, she left Mississippi to join her oldest brother in Chicago. She continued to sing with the Sacred Five and signed a contract with Chess Records. She signed with Tarpon Records, where she released “A Love Reputation.” The song was a regional hit. She completed her GED.

She married Bill Jones (1969-74) another recording artist signed with the Crajon Records label. In 1971, her single, “Trapped by a Thing Called Love,” was released by Westbound Records. It peaked at #13 on the Billboard Hot 100 and #1 on the Billboard R&B chart with a million in sales, and she received the Recording Industry Association of America gold disc. The following year, the single “Now Run And Tell That” peaked at #46.

She married James Wolfe, Jr. (1976) a disc jockey, and moved from Chicago to Jackson, Tennessee. They had three children. She signed with ABC Records and, in 1977, released “Love Me Right,” which peaked at #10 on the R&B chart and reached #80 on the Pop Chart.

She signed with Malaco Records as a lyricist and composer. She wrote for Arzell “ZZ” Hill, a gospel and blues singer from Texas. She began recording with Malaco, producing ten records, including “Lady in the Street” (1983), “Right Place, Right Time” (1984), and “My Tu-Tu” (1985). She founded the National Association for the Preservation of the Blues to lobby for the genre of soul and blues to remain connected to the artists and give them a larger excellent voice in the industry. “Hittin’ Where It Hurts,” released in 1989, rose to #61 on Top R&B Albums. She was nominated for the W. C. Handy Soul/Blues Female Artist of the Year. She was inducted into the Rhythm and Blues Music Hall of Fame. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

[soulmusicsongs]

Mighty Mouse - Ceasar Frazier (75, 1975)

[mymelodic-chapel]

Funkadelic- Free Your Mind…And Your Ass Will Follow (Funk Rock, Acid Rock, Psychedelic Soul) Released: July 1970 [Westbound Records] Producer(s): George Clinton

[petewentzisblack1312]

i like catbite, we are the union, and jer! i dont listen to a lot of ska like i said but those are some bands ive listened to and enjoy :)

Z0MG i love JER!!! Kill Lincoln is also really good, you should check them out, i recently listened to their album You Were There! id also recommend Jeff Rosenstock's album Ska Dream

i also liked the Ska Against Racism compilation from bad time records; it has a song by JER and another by We Are The Union on there, and JER's song was one of my favorites on it. i also really loved the one by Kill Lincoln and the one by The Skints and the one by Westbound Train. great stuff! not all the songs are winners, i disliked one or two of them but its a great album overall with broad array of artists and musical styles

i discovered ska through the Digimon movie when i was 10 so its a very nostalgic genre for me ^_^ id love to hear your recs! been trying to branch out lol

it sounds like i should be getting recs from you! i follow bad time records (on jers recommendation, theyre very knowledgeable about ska, even just on a technical level) and i feel like thats a good place to start. i remember listening to some kill lincoln and jeff rosenstock and liking them both too!! like i said i dont follow ska super closely but i like most of what i hear :]