For Fun

Music moves, motivates, commiserates, soothes, slaps awake, lulls to sleep, and nourishes. and most of all, it’s infectious. So, occasionally, I’ll take a song that I’m enjoying in that moment and pair it with a short snapshot of the emotion it evokes.

And then I’ll send it to my friends with the hope of infecting them.

Dio - Holy Diver

This one starts with the sound of wind. The winds of change, man. It’s tracks like this that’ll make you cut the sleeves off your black t-shirts and paint a pentagram on your forehead. It’s incredible guitar solos like the one at 3:25 that will let you ignore the fact that the vocals sound vaguely like musical theater. You’ll wonder – how did a quaint little New England town like Portsmouth, NH produce this outrageous force from hell? That’s right, folks – Ronnie James Jr. is from my hometown. And while you were trying to reconcile the image of the devil’s instrument prancing by picturesque sunsets and cutesy tugboats, young Ronnie tore a fiery path across the country, most likely with 6 other horsemen, heralding a rock-sponsored apocalypse. While this face-melter doesn’t make much sense, it offers imagery ranging from tigers to masked parties to underwater spirits. Push ‘play’ with a question mark, hit ‘repeat’ with a smile.

Jungle - Busy Earnin’

It’s been a while. And while I’m sure no one’s bated breath or white knuckles were wasted over the last few months, I’m hoping that at least one of you thought – "did that eccentric self-styled arbiter of melodic relief pass away? Perhaps he was swallowed by the bitter greyness that descends on our cement-walled city this time of year.” No such luck, though - I’m alive and well. It’s February (the most depressing month) and I’m back. Today, we begin the long trek back from winter. Today, we’re pushing for spring. Today, the clouds take a back seat. Today, everyone smiles and no one talks. We can’t – we’re Busy Earnin’.

Bonnie Raitt - Love Letter

Today’s SOTD (Song Of The Day, for the uninitiated) should actually be labeled a SOTN. It’s a night time song – a blues song for a night out when you’re dragging your newly single friend to the bar. The bar’s a quiet dive. There’s a dance floor, but no one’s on it. Maybe it’s raining a bit outside. Regardless, you’re probably wearing cowboy boots. You head on over and put this song on while someone else grabs a pitcher. Dancing on the floor is easy. It’s simple. It’s sexy. But tonight, you don’t give a shit. Tonight, you might meet someone, or you might not. Tonight is the promise of the unknown. Tonight is just getting started.

Operator Please - Just a Song About Ping-Pong

Good Morning! How ‘bout we spike that coffee with methamphetamine? Everyone knows that the best morning is a cardio workout and if this doesn’t get your heart racing, you’re dead. It’s just a song – a song about Ping Pong. But – and here’s the catch – it’s a self-aware song. We haven’t seen music this meta since the protagonists of R Kelly’s Remix to Ignition listened to Remix To Ignition – a song that referenced itself as a remix of a song that had never been recorded.

Head spinning yet? Well the world of high-octane table sports waits for no man. So, put on your headband, prepare your eyes for some back-and-forth, take a selfie of yourself taking a selfie of yourself in a mirror and embrace recursiveness. Today’s SOTD is not for the faint-of-heart or those who get motion sickness.

Django Django - Default

Mount up, cowboys. There’s a scourge on the loose and every minute we spend around this here campfire is another minute of head-start we’re a-givin’ him. Earl! Put your harmonica away – we don’t have time for that right now. Rico! Strap your bedroll down tighter. Pokey! The damn steed’s have drunk enough. C’mon, boys – wipe the desert grime off your deputy badges and fill up your canteens. ’N I don’t wanna hear any griping. We’ve all got sweet little loved ones back at the ranch; we’re all dreamin’ of a better future for our children. ‘Cept for you, Pokey - you’re expendable. Now wrap your lassos around that thing that sticks out of the saddle and shake the snakes outta your boots – we’ve got some trackin’ to do. We – what’d ya say? Me? Well hell, I’m the near-sighted sheriff from the town that-a-way! Don’t ya recognize me, Pokey? Come here, Pokey – let me get a look at your face. Ain’t ya a – well, hell. You ain’t Pokey. Who in the Sam Hell are ya?

Digable Planets - Rebirth of Slick (Cool Like dat)

Some summer days are just about chillin’ in the park with your crew. And sure, these days it’s all about some outdated yard game, picnics on the grass, and handlebar mustaches. But that’s not the summer I’m talking about. This park is a concrete jungle and instead of lugging bocci on your fixie, you brought a joint and a skateboard. Everything smells like hot asphalt and bubble gum.

School doesn’t start for another 6 weeks and your folks left you $50 for pizza while they take a vacation to try to save their marriage for the next two days. They think your big brother is watching you, but he’s stayin’ at his girlfriend’s house and you don’t need supervision. You fly like that. You sweet like that. You DOPE like that.

Grab your flyest kicks and let’s kick, kick, coast. I’m out.

Seinabo Sey - Pistols At Dawn

The end of the week is the beginning of your movie. 

Throw your computer in a drawer. DO NOT bring it home. Do not say goodbyes. Opening credits are about establishing character and this half-walled dustbin of an open-plan office says nothing about yours.  

Flip your collar up, plug your headphones in, and walk out with purpose. You’re wearing leather this weekend. You’re riding motorcycles and sailing yachts and running through the woods and getting into a bar fight. Every last minute of this weekend will be Instagram gold. Get out there. Kill it. Pistols at Dawn. 

KRS One - MC’s Act Like They Don’t Know

A plethora of pundits pronounced Macklemore as the messiah of positive-message, politically-minded rap. But those turkeys are all gobble, no knowledge. Pre-Talib Kweli and Mos Def, pre-Tupac, while Public Enemy was bringing it in the 90s, there was The Teacher. KRS-One let us know what sound the police made. KRS-One introduced a whole generation to Malcolm X. KRS-One offered the substance to the boom-bap sound. KRS-One turned rap into philosophy and anger into activism. If you don’t know, you. must. learn. So, in honor of the Thanksgiving season, stuff yourself with Boogie Down Productions and give thanks.

Jimi Charles Moody - Blue Honey

Bittersweet company, indeed. This week's push-pull of temperature (from 20 to 54) has felt like a vindictive lover’s post break-up machinations. This city has sapped our energy, siphoned our happiness and – most of all - driven us to drink. It’s a sad but true fact that, as our not-so-fair city of broad shoulders decides what we’ll have to react to today – snow or sun, wind or rain – it has grown to own us. Chicago’s winter makes choices for us – how we travel, where we spend our time, who we socialize with… It is our master.

There is, however, some comfort for you seasonal booze-hounds: It’s time to switch from whiskey to gin because winter is nearing an end. The sun is rising, Warriors, and soon the city will fill with the joyful optimism that even Chicago winters can’t seem to kill. Make no mistake, we will take back ownership of this city. Preparations for battle have already begun. Chicagoans are cutting the plastic off of their windows. They’re dusting off frisbees, bicycles, and hibachi grills. And you will join them. You’ll smear your face with the war paint of sunscreen and join the throngs as they beat the battle call of flip flops on cement. You will eat outside at sidewalk cafés and smile condescendingly at the winter that passed and we all will remind this city that the river runs the direction we sent it. Summer is coming.