RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.

Monday, January 31

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown – January ’11 #13: “Shorty The Pimp” by Don Julian & The Larks

I am currently in oxycodone zony land, so it’s hard to know where to start with things. I take my painkillers, sleep for two hours or so after they hit, wake up in excruciating pain, shift around for two hours to try and find positions that are not frustrating to be in, flip through crappy TV channels, think about writing on my wife’s laptop since my laptop is too heavy to sit on my lap, but don’t feel like logging out her accounts on her laptop to log mine in because that’s frustrating, and usually about that time, I’ve ate enough time up to go ahead and take another pair of painkillers and go back to sleep for two hours. The only real excitement is this next time-round will be one of the two times each day that I also take stool softener pills. Hooray.
This is old obscure soul song that was on one of those Crypt Records compilations of fucked up old obscure songs. Crypt mostly got famous for their Back From The Grave collections of ’60 garage rock smarminess, which are righteously good and deserve the infamy. But they put out a bunch of wacky comps, including country and soul. The one I first heard this of off was Cryptman or Shaftman or something and had a white dude dressed up in blackface on the cover with a giant fake afro and he was supposed to be a Shaft character and they had all these corny ass skits scattered throughout the album. It kinda sucked. But there was a bonus 7-inch included which had this song, so I guess the fact they wasted all those grooves with corny ass skits forced them to include an extra 7-inch, which separated the Don Julian & The Larks song from the rest of the comp, which gave it physical separation to match how it was such a supremely great song.
Also, this song is obvious to Too Short fans as the source for his intro to the Shorty The Pimp album, which is probably one of Short’s better albums, as it has the great combination of common man’s social consciousness (as opposed to college-educated consciousness, which can be pretentious at times, but I guess everybody has college degrees now or at least inside the interwebs, so that’s probably as common as it gets) and goofy yet groovy (as in “groove” not as in “Wavy Gravy”, yet it’s probably hard to avoid that type of connotation of that word) simplistic pimp rhymes. Plus, perhaps the most immense beat to ride to ever, stretching for a full 8 minutes or so at the end of the second half, creatively entitled “Something To Ride To”, which was probably the last peaceful co-existing that occurred between Too Short and MC Pooh-Man.
Finally, even though I have that Crypt Records comp, I never ripped this through my MP3 turntable into robot candy because I hate having that thing set up by my computer as the kids might bump it while I’m ripping, or it gets too much feedback from sitting on the wooden desk, and even if I set it up on a towel, it still has some hollow sound to it; plus I use the USB turntable as part of my jerry-rigged recording system of half-wittedness out in the camper. So I actually got my robot version of this that plays inside my robot translation aural device of tiny sizes from a dude named C.T. and his wonderful Wigger Mortis blog. (It should be in the sidebar to the right.) He is a dude who apparently used to go to high school in the same neighborhood where me and the ol’ lady homebirthed our firstborn, and used to get the stupid zines I did way back when. It is also of note that he is bi-racial, because that particular neighborhood, before it was sullied by gentrification, was a strange place of nothing but white people, who hated black people, yet mimicked black culture. There was one dude who had rims with spacers on his car, but he’d get flats on his tiny ass tires and couldn’t fix it for a few weeks, so you’d see him on his rims sometimes, weasel faced girlfriend in the passenger seat (all wigger white girl chicks who hated blacks from that neighborhood looked like weasels, like Sondra Locke women but with hoop earrings), or he’d have a pair of regular rims mixed in on either the front or back side. And there was one dude who looked a lot like my man Boogie Brown, but more jailhousey, who I’d see walking around the hood or coming out of Fine Foods of Oregon Hill with a couple of forties, and he was one of those dudes that put off this aura of insane chillness. I am not sure if everyone is attuned to that, but I’ve noticed a couple of people like that where I live now, and that dude was like this back then, but it’s a guy who seems like he might be the most chill and party guy ever to hang around, but there’s that trigger of chaos that lurks that you can’t really tell how it gets knocked on, but the dude is probably capable of doing mean and nasty things you don’t want to have on the inside of your brain’s memory chips, so you might give the dude a cigarette or say “what’s up” in passing, but you’d never willingly cross through thresholds of buildings together to hang out.
So yeah, C.T. used to get the old Confederate Mack zines, and now he’s a wonderful young aspiring writer, pushing short stories and trying to wrap up a first draft of a novel, and on one hand I beam with personal pride that perhaps my fucked up writings over the years could have somehow helped steer someone towards being a fucked up writer, though I would imagine he was born that way regardless. And then on the other hand, I get all “Man fuck this, he’s almost done with a novel draft. I need to stop going to work for three weeks and finish a novel draft.” And then I stay home for three weeks from work, but my brain is draped up and dripped out from pharmaceuticals, and I can’t even sit a goddamned laptop on my lap comfortably. And I also remember that between nonsense gibberish for this blog, guard rail poetry, and this project I’m working on for an April launch, I’m still finger tapping about 10 to 30 thousand words of mind devilry a week. Yet for the most part, it all seems unintelligible in book format. Perhaps I am more of a doomed obsessive compulsive soul than actual writer. Or perhaps that’s not doomed at all. Who the fuck knows?
Well, it’s time for oxycodone dosing. Talk to you later.
STEAL “Shorty The Pimp”
Alabama rapper turns douchebag song into catchy ass banger!

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