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.

Wednesday, August 15

SONG OF THE DAY: Murder She Wrote


Back when Richmond was not gentrified so badly, and VCU cut off at Broad and Belvidere almost entirely except for that one office where you went to pick up your refund check if you were broke ass first generation college student from shitty southside VA, and you could walk down Broad, or ride your bike if you had one that wasn’t stolen yet, or you were the thief, which meant you had a bike, and go to bright ass Willie’s downtown, to check out whatever new singles were out. Warm days meant the boom of Jeeps, this was prime Jeep boom baptistry days, and thus that was the beauty of dancehall during this era, because it was reggae but cross-pollinated with that boom bap, and a Jeep would roll by just absolutely rattling windows, and the air would be humid but it was still chill out and lots of foot traffic and though the murder rate was crazy high back then, you knew where that was likely to happen and where not, and the rare outbursts beyond murderous norms tended to happen long after Willie’s was closed, usually when Ivory’s was letting out, or at the neighborhood smack and/or crack den, but you learned to be aware of do’s and don’ts and operate accordingly.
Whenever some of these classic riddims hit, my adrenaline and memory serotonins start flowing, and it’s impossible not to want to just turn that shit up until the side view mirrors fall off your old ass Civic with the clutch about to go out and you’re not sure how you’re gonna afford to fix it when that happens so you’re gonna be another one of those dudes with a brokedown Honda Civic out front of the rental you living in, with the missing sideview mirrors because you turned the bass up too high. But fuck it man, you only got one life. Can’t be sitting around worrying about when your clutch gonna go out. Gotta keep moving.

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