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bountyofbeads · 5 years ago

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https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/08/14/magazine/music-black-culture-appropriation.html

I'd encourage all of you to read -- actually read -- the reported essays in the #1619project. If these ideas or facts are new to you, if they upset you or make you uncomfortable, if they challenge your idea of America, ask yourself: why?

For centuries, black music, forged in bondage, has been the sound of complete artistic freedom. No wonder everybody is always stealing it.

By Wesley Morris | August 14, 2019 | New York Times | Posted August 18, 2019 7:52 PM ET |

I’ve got a friend who’s an incurable Pandora guy, and one Saturday while we were making dinner, he found a station called Yacht Rock. “A tongue-in-cheek name for the breezy sounds of late ’70s/early ’80s soft rock” is Pandora’s definition, accompanied by an exhortation to “put on your Dockers, pull up a deck chair and relax.” With a single exception, the passengers aboard the yacht were all dudes. With two exceptions, they were all white. But as the hours passed and dozens of songs accrued, the sound gravitated toward a familiar quality that I couldn’t give language to but could practically taste: an earnest Christian yearning that would reach, for a moment, into Baptist rawness, into a known warmth. I had to laugh — not because as a category Yacht Rock is absurd, but because what I tasted in that absurdity was black.

I started putting each track under investigation. Which artists would saunter up to the racial border? And which could do their sauntering without violating it? I could hear degrees of blackness in the choir-loft certitude of Doobie Brothers-era Michael McDonald on “What a Fool Believes”; in the rubber-band soul of Steely Dan’s “Do It Again”; in the malt-liquor misery of Ace’s “How Long” and the toy-boat wistfulness of Little River Band’s “Reminiscing.”

Then Kenny Loggins’s “This Is It”arrived and took things far beyond the line. “This Is It” was a hit in 1979 and has the requisite smoothness to keep the yacht rocking. But Loggins delivers the lyrics in a desperate stage whisper, like someone determined to make the kind of love that doesn’t wake the baby. What bowls you over is the intensity of his yearning — teary in the verses, snarling during the chorus. He sounds as if he’s baring it all yet begging to wring himself out even more.

Playing black-music detective that day, I laughed out of bafflement and embarrassment and exhilaration. It’s the conflation of pride and chagrin I’ve always felt anytime a white person inhabits blackness with gusto. It’s: You have to hand it to her. It’s: Go, white boy. Go, white boy. Go. But it’s also: Here we go again. The problem is rich. If blackness can draw all of this ornate literariness out of Steely Dan and all this psychotic origami out of Eminem; if it can make Teena Marie sing everything — “Square Biz,” “Revolution,”“Portuguese Love,” “Lovergirl” — like she knows her way around a pack of Newports; if it can turn the chorus of Carly Simon’s “You Belong to Me” into a gospel hymn; if it can animate the swagger in the sardonic vulnerabilities of Amy Winehouse; if it can surface as unexpectedly as it does in the angelic angst of a singer as seemingly green as Ben Platt; if it’s the reason Nu Shooz’s “I Can’t Wait”remains the whitest jam at the blackest parties, then it’s proof of how deeply it matters to the music of being alive in America, alive to America.

It’s proof, too, that American music has been fated to thrive in an elaborate tangle almost from the beginning. Americans have made a political investment in a myth of racial separateness, the idea that art forms can be either “white” or “black” in character when aspects of many are at least both. The purity that separation struggles to maintain? This country’s music is an advertisement for 400 years of the opposite: centuries of “amalgamation” and “miscegenation” as they long ago called it, of all manner of interracial collaboration conducted with dismaying ranges of consent.

“White,” “Western,” “classical” music is the overarching basis for lots of American pop songs. Chromatic-chord harmony, clean timbre of voice and instrument: These are the ingredients for some of the hugely singable harmonies of the Beatles, the Eagles, Simon and Fleetwood Mac, something choral, “pure,” largely ungrained. Black music is a completely different story. It brims with call and response, layers of syncopation and this rougher element called “noise,” unique sounds that arise from the particular hue and timbre of an instrument — Little Richard’s woos and knuckled keyboard zooms. The dusky heat of Miles Davis’s trumpeting. Patti LaBelle’s emotional police siren. DMX’s scorched-earth bark. The visceral stank of Etta James, Aretha Franklin, live-in-concert Whitney Houston and Prince on electric guitar.

But there’s something even more fundamental, too. My friend Delvyn Case, a musician who teaches at Wheaton College, explained in an email that improvisation is one of the most crucial elements in what we think of as black music: “The raising of individual creativity/expression to the highest place within the aesthetic world of a song.” Without improvisation, a listener is seduced into the composition of the song itself and not the distorting or deviating elements that noise creates. Particular to black American music is the architecture to create a means by which singers and musicians can be completely free, free in the only way that would have been possible on a plantation: through art, through music — music no one “composed” (because enslaved people were denied literacy), music born of feeling, of play, of exhaustion, of hope.

What you’re hearing in black music is a miracle of sound, an experience that can really happen only once — not just melisma, glissandi, the rasp of a sax, breakbeats or sampling but the mood or inspiration from which those moments arise. The attempt to rerecord it seems, if you think about it, like a fool’s errand. You’re not capturing the arrangement of notes, per se. You’re catching the spirit.

And the spirit travels from host to host, racially indiscriminate about where it settles, selective only about who can withstand being possessed by it. The rockin’ backwoods blues so bewitched Elvis Presley that he believed he’d been called by blackness. Chuck Berry sculpted rock ’n’ roll with uproarious guitar riffs and lascivious winks at whiteness. Mick Jagger and Robert Plant and Steve Winwood and Janis Joplin and the Beatles jumped, jived and wailed the black blues. Tina Turner wrested it all back, tripling the octane in some of their songs. Since the 1830s, the historian Ann Douglas writes in “Terrible Honesty,” her history of popular culture in the 1920s, “American entertainment, whatever the state of American society, has always been integrated, if only by theft and parody.” What we’ve been dealing with ever since is more than a catchall word like “appropriation” can approximate. The truth is more bounteous and more spiritual than that, more confused. That confusion is the DNA of the American sound.

It’s in the wink-wink costume funk of Beck’s “Midnite Vultures” from 1999, an album whose kicky nonsense deprecations circle back to the popular culture of 150 years earlier. It’s in the dead-serious, nostalgic dance-floor schmaltz of Bruno Mars. It’s in what we once called “blue-eyed soul,” a term I’ve never known what to do with, because its most convincing practitioners — the Bee-Gees, Michael McDonald, Hall & Oates, Simply Red, George Michael, Taylor Dayne, Lisa Stansfield, Adele — never winked at black people, so black people rarely batted an eyelash. Flaws and all, these are homeowners as opposed to renters. No matter what, though, a kind of gentrification tends to set in, underscoring that black people have often been rendered unnecessary to attempt blackness. Take Billboard’s Top 10 songs of 2013: It’s mostly nonblack artists strongly identified with black music, for real and for kicks: Robin Thicke, Miley Cyrus, Justin Timberlake, Macklemore and Ryan Lewis, the dude who made “The Harlem Shake.”

Sometimes all the inexorable mixing leaves me longing for something with roots that no one can rip all the way out. This is to say that when we’re talking about black music, we’re talking about horns, drums, keyboards and guitars doing the unthinkable together. We’re also talking about what the borrowers and collaborators don’t want to or can’t lift — centuries of weight, of atrocity we’ve never sufficiently worked through, the blackness you know is beyond theft because it’s too real, too rich, too heavy to steal.

Blackness was on the move before my ancestors were legally free to be. It was on the move before my ancestors even knew what they had. It was on the move because white people were moving it. And the white person most frequently identified as its prime mover is Thomas Dartmouth Rice, a New Yorker who performed as T.D. Rice and, in acclaim, was lusted after as “Daddy” Rice, “the negro par excellence.” Rice was a minstrel, which by the 1830s, when his stardom was at its most refulgent, meant he painted his face with burned cork to approximate those of the enslaved black people he was imitating.

In 1830, Rice was a nobody actor in his early 20s, touring with a theater company in Cincinnati (or Louisville; historians don’t know for sure), when, the story goes, he saw a decrepit, possibly disfigured old black man singing while grooming a horse on the property of a white man whose last name was Crow. On went the light bulb. Rice took in the tune and the movements but failed, it seems, to take down the old man’s name. So in his song based on the horse groomer, he renamed him: “Weel about and turn about jus so/Ebery time I weel about, I jump Jim Crow.” And just like that, Rice had invented the fellow who would become the mascot for two centuries of legalized racism.

That night, Rice made himself up to look like the old black man — or something like him, because Rice’s get-up most likely concocted skin blacker than any actual black person’s and a gibberish dialect meant to imply black speech. Rice had turned the old man’s melody and hobbled movements into a song-and-dance routine that no white audience had ever experienced before. What they saw caused a permanent sensation. He reportedly won 20 encores.

Rice repeated the act again, night after night, for audiences so profoundly rocked that he was frequently mobbed duringperformances. Across the Ohio River, not an arduous distance from all that adulation, was Boone County, Ky., whose population would have been largely enslaved Africans. As they were being worked, sometimes to death, white people, desperate with anticipation, were paying to see them depicted at play.

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Other performers came and conquered, particularly the Virginia Minstrels, who exploded in 1843, burned brightly then burned out after only months. In their wake, P.T. Barnum made a habit of booking other troupes for his American Museum; when he was short on performers, he blacked up himself. By the 1840s, minstrel acts were taking over concert halls, doing wildly clamored-for residencies in Boston, New York and Philadelphia.

A blackface minstrel would sing, dance, play music, give speeches and cut up for white audiences, almost exclusively in the North, at least initially. Blackface was used for mock operas and political monologues (they called them stump speeches), skits, gender parodies and dances. Before the minstrel show gave it a reliable home, blackface was the entertainment between acts of conventional plays. Its stars were the Elvis, the Beatles, the ’NSync of the 19th century. The performers were beloved and so, especially, were their songs.

During minstrelsy’s heyday, white songwriters like Stephen Foster wrote the tunes that minstrels sang, tunes we continue to sing. Edwin Pearce Christy’s group the Christy Minstrels formed a band — banjo, fiddle, bone castanets, tambourine — that would lay the groundwork for American popular music, from bluegrass to Motown. Some of these instruments had come from Africa; on a plantation, the banjo’s body would have been a desiccated gourd. In “Doo-Dah!” his book on Foster’s work and life, Ken Emerson writes that the fiddle and banjo were paired for the melody, while the bones “chattered” and the tambourine “thumped and jingled a beat that is still heard ’round the world.”

But the sounds made with these instruments could be only imagined as black, because the first wave of minstrels were Northerners who’d never been meaningfully South. They played Irish melodies and used Western choral harmonies, not the proto-gospel call-and-response music that would make life on a plantation that much more bearable. Black artists were on the scene, like the pioneer bandleader Frank Johnsonand the borderline-mythical Old Corn Meal, who started as a street vendor and wound up the first black man to perform, as himself, on a white New Orleans stage. His stuff was copied by George Nichols, who took up blackface after a start in plain-old clowning. Yet as often as not, blackface minstrelsy tethered black people and black life to white musical structures, like the polka, which was having a moment in 1848. The mixing was already well underway: Europe plus slavery plus the circus, times harmony, comedy and drama, equals Americana.

And the muses for so many of the songs were enslaved Americans, people the songwriters had never met, whose enslavement they rarely opposed and instead sentimentalized. Foster’s minstrel-show staple “Old Uncle Ned,” for instance, warmly if disrespectfully eulogizes the enslaved the way you might a salaried worker or an uncle:

Den lay down de shubble and de hoe,

Hang up de fiddle and de bow:

No more hard work for poor Old Ned —

He’s gone whar de good Niggas go,

No more hard work for poor Old Ned —

He’s gone whar de good Niggas go.

Such an affectionate showcase for poor old (enslaved, soon-to-be-dead) Uncle Ned was as essential as “air,” in the white critic Bayard Taylor’s 1850 assessment; songs like this were the “true expressions of the more popular side of the national character,” a force that follows “the American in all its emigrations, colonizations and conquests, as certainly as the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving Day.” He’s not wrong. Minstrelsy’s peak stretched from the 1840s to the 1870s, years when the country was as its most violently and legislatively ambivalent about slavery and Negroes; years that included the Civil War and Reconstruction, the ferocious rhetorical ascent of Frederick Douglass, John Brown’s botched instigation of a black insurrection at Harpers Ferry and the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.

Minstrelsy’s ascent also coincided with the publication, in 1852, of “Uncle Tom's Cabin,” a polarizing landmark that minstrels adapted for the stage, arguing for and, in simply remaining faithful to Harriet Beecher Stowe’s novel, against slavery. These adaptations, known as U.T.C.s, took over the art form until the end of the Civil War. Perhaps minstrelsy’s popularity could be (generously) read as the urge to escape a reckoning. But a good time predicated upon the presentation of other humans as stupid, docile, dangerous with lust and enamored of their bondage? It was an escape into slavery’s fun house.

What blackface minstrelsy gave the country during this period was an entertainment of skill, ribaldry and polemics. But it also lent racism a stage upon which existential fear could become jubilation, contempt could become fantasy. Paradoxically, its dehumanizing bent let white audiences feel more human. They could experience loathing as desire, contempt as adoration, repulsion as lust. They could weep for overworked Uncle Ned as surely as they could ignore his lashed back or his body as it swung from a tree.

But where did this leave a black performer? If blackface was the country’s cultural juggernaut, who would pay Negroes money to perform as themselves? When they were hired, it was only in a pinch. Once, P.T. Barnum needed a replacement for John Diamond, his star white minstrel. In a New York City dance hall, Barnum found a boy, who, it was reported at the time, could outdo Diamond (and Diamond was good). The boy, of course, was genuinely black. And his being actually black would have rendered him an outrageous blight on a white consumer’s narrow presumptions. As Thomas Low Nichols would write in his 1864 compendium, “Forty Years of American Life,” “There was not an audience in America that would not have resented, in a very energetic fashion, the insult of being asked to look at the dancing of a real negro.” So Barnum “greased the little ‘nigger’s’ face and rubbed it over with a new blacking of burned cork, painted his thick lips vermilion, put on a woolly wig over his tight curled locks and brought him out as ‘the champion nigger-dancer of the world.’ ” This child might have been William Henry Lane, whose stage name was Juba. And, as Juba, Lane was persuasive enough that Barnum could pass him off as a white person in blackface. He ceased being a real black boy in order to become Barnum’s minstrel Pinocchio.

After the Civil War, black performers had taken up minstrelsy, too, corking themselves, for both white and black audiences — with a straight face or a wink, depending on who was looking. Black troupes invented important new dances with blue-ribbon names (the buck-and-wing, the Virginia essence, the stop-time). But these were unhappy innovations. Custom obligated black performers to fulfill an audience’s expectations, expectations that white performers had established. A black minstrel was impersonating the impersonation of himself. Think, for a moment, about the talent required to pull that off. According to Henry T. Sampson’s book, “Blacks in Blackface,” there were no sets or effects, so the black blackface minstrel show was “a developer of ability because the artist was placed on his own.” How’s that for being twice as good? Yet that no-frills excellence could curdle into an entirely other, utterly degrading double consciousness, one that predates, predicts and probably informs W.E.B. DuBois’s more self-consciously dignified rendering.

American popular culture was doomed to cycles not only of questioned ownership, challenged authenticity, dubious propriety and legitimate cultural self-preservation but also to the prison of black respectability, which, with brutal irony, could itself entail a kind of appropriation. It meant comportment in a manner that seemed less black and more white. It meant the appearance of refinement and polish. It meant the cognitive dissonance of, say, Nat King Cole’s being very black and sounding — to white America, anyway, with his frictionless baritone and diction as crisp as a hospital corner — suitably white. He was perfect for radio, yet when he got a TV show of his own, it was abruptly canceled, his brown skin being too much for even the black and white of a 1955 television set. There was, perhaps, not a white audience in America, particularly in the South, that would not have resented, in a very energetic fashion, the insult of being asked to look at the majestic singing of a real Negro.

The modern conundrum of the black performer’s seeming respectable, among black people, began, in part, as a problem of white blackface minstrels’ disrespectful blackness. Frederick Douglass wrote that they were “the filthy scum of white society.” It’s that scum that’s given us pause over everybody from Bert Williams and Bill “Bojangles” Robinson to Flavor Flav and Kanye West. Is their blackness an act? Is the act under white control? Just this year, Harold E. Doley Jr., an affluent black Republican in his 70s, was quoted in The Times lamenting West and his alignment with Donald Trump as a “bad and embarrassing minstrel show” that “served to only drive black people away from the G.O.P.”

But it’s from that scum that a robust, post-minstrel black American theater sprung as a new, black audience hungered for actual, uncorked black people. Without that scum, I’m not sure we get an event as shatteringly epochal as the reign of Motown Records. Motown was a full-scale integration of Western, classical orchestral ideas (strings, horns, woodwinds) with the instincts of both the black church (rhythm sections, gospel harmonies, hand claps) and juke joint Saturday nights (rhythm sections, guitars, vigor). Pure yet “noisy.” Black men in Armani. Black women in ball gowns. Stables of black writers, producers and musicians. Backup singers solving social equations with geometric choreography. And just in time for the hegemony of the American teenager.

Even now it feels like an assault on the music made a hundred years before it. Motown specialized in love songs. But its stars, those songs and their performance of them were declarations of war on the insults of the past and present. The scratchy piccolo at the start of a Four Tops hitwas, in its way, a raised fist. Respectability wasn’t a problem with Motown; respectability was its point. How radically optimistic a feat of antiminstrelsy, for it’s as glamorous a blackness as this country has ever mass-produced and devoured.

The proliferation of black music across the planet — the proliferation, in so many senses, of being black — constitutes a magnificent joke on American racism. It also confirms the attraction that someone like Rice had to that black man grooming the horse. But something about that desire warps and perverts its source, lampoons and cheapens it even in adoration. Loving black culture has never meant loving black people, too. Loving black culture risks loving the life out of it.

And yet doesn’t that attraction make sense? This is the music of a people who have survived, who not only won't stop but also can’t be stopped. Music by a people whose major innovations — jazz, funk, hip-hop — have been about progress, about the future, about getting as far away from nostalgia as time will allow, music that’s thought deeply about the allure of outer space and robotics, music whose promise and possibility, whose rawness, humor and carnality call out to everybody — to other black people, to kids in working class England and middle-class Indonesia. If freedom's ringing, who on Earth wouldn't also want to rock the bell?

In 1845, J.K. Kennard, a critic for the newspaper The Knickerbocker, hyperventilated about the blackening of America. Except he was talking about blackface minstrels doing the blackening. Nonetheless, Kennard could see things for what they were:

“Who are our true rulers? The negro poets, to be sure! Do they not set the fashion, and give laws to the public taste? Let one of them, in the swamps of Carolina, compose a new song, and it no sooner reaches the ear of a white amateur, than it is written down, amended, (that is, almost spoilt,) printed, and then put upon a course of rapid dissemination, to cease only with the utmost bounds of Anglo-Saxondom, perhaps of the world.”

What a panicked clairvoyant! The fear of black culture — or “black culture” — was more than a fear of black people themselves. It was an anxiety over white obsolescence. Kennard’s anxiety over black influence sounds as ambivalent as Lorde’s, when, all the way from her native New Zealand, she tsk-ed rap culture’s extravagance on “Royals,”her hit from 2013, while recognizing, both in the song’s hip-hop production and its appetite for a particular sort of blackness, that maybe she’s too far gone:

Every song’s like gold teeth, Grey Goose, trippin’ in the bathroom

Bloodstains, ball gowns, trashin’ the hotel room

We don’t care, we’re driving Cadillacs in our dreams

But everybody’s like Cristal, Maybach, diamonds on your timepiece

Jet planes, islands, tigers on a gold leash

We don’t care, we aren’t caught up in your love affair

Beneath Kennard’s warnings must have lurked an awareness that his white brethren had already fallen under this spell of blackness, that nothing would stop its spread to teenage girls in 21st-century Auckland, that the men who “infest our promenades and our concert halls like a colony of beetles” (as a contemporary of Kennard’s put it) weren’t black people at all but white people just like him — beetles and, eventually, Beatles. Our first most original art form arose from our original sin, and some white people have always been worried that the primacy of black music would be a kind of karmic punishment for that sin. The work has been to free this country from paranoia’s bondage, to truly embrace the amplitude of integration. I don’t know how we’re doing.

Last spring, “Old Town Road,” a silly, drowsy ditty by the Atlanta songwriter Lil Nas X, was essentially banished from country radio. Lil Nas sounds black, as does the trap beat he’s droning over. But there’s definitely a twang to him that goes with the opening bars of faint banjo and Lil Nas’s lil’ cowboy fantasy. The song snowballed into a phenomenon. All kinds of people — cops, soldiers, dozens of dapper black promgoers — posted dances to it on YouTube and TikTok. Then a crazy thing happened. It charted — not just on Billboard’s Hot 100 singles chart, either. In April, it showed up on both its Hot R&B/Hip-Hop Songs chart and its Hot Country Songs chart. A first. And, for now at least, a last.

The gatekeepers of country radio refused to play the song; they didn’t explain why. Then, Billboard determined that the song failed to “embrace enough elements of today’s country music to chart in its current version.” This doesn’t warrant translation, but let’s be thorough, anyway: The song is too black for certain white people.

But by that point it had already captured the nation’s imagination and tapped into the confused thrill of integrated culture. A black kid hadn’t really merged white music with black, he’d just taken up the American birthright of cultural synthesis. The mixing feels historical. Here, for instance, in the song’s sample of a Nine Inch Nails track is a banjo, the musical spine of the minstrel era. Perhaps Lil Nas was too American. Other country artists of the genre seemed to sense this. White singers recorded pretty tributes in support, and one, Billy Ray Cyrus, performed his on a remix with Lil Nas X himself.

The newer version lays Cyrus’s casual grit alongside Lil Nas’s lackadaisical wonder. It’s been No.1 on Billboard’s all-genre Hot 100 singles chart since April, setting a record. And the bottomless glee over the whole thing makes me laugh, too — not in a surprised, yacht-rock way but as proof of what a fine mess this place is. One person's sign of progress remains another’s symbol of encroachment. Screw the history. Get off my land.

Four hundred years ago, more than 20 kidnapped Africans arrived in Virginia. They were put to work and put through hell. Twenty became millions, and some of those people found — somehow — deliverance in the power of music. Lil Nas X has descended from those millions and appears to be a believer in deliverance. The verses of his song flirt with Western kitsch, what young black internetters branded, with adorable idiosyncrasy and a deep sense of history, the “yee-haw agenda.” But once the song reaches its chorus (“I’m gonna take my horse to the Old Town Road, and ride til I can’t no more”), I don’t hear a kid in an outfit. I hear a cry of ancestry. He’s a westward-bound refugee; he’s an Exoduster. And Cyrus is down for the ride. Musically, they both know: This land is their land.

Wesley Morris is a staff writer for the magazine, a critic at large for The New York Times and a co-host of the podcast “Still Processing.” He was awarded the 2012 Pulitzer Prize for criticism.

Source photograph of Beyoncé: Kevin Mazur/Getty Images; Holiday: Paul Hoeffler/Redferns, via Getty Images; Turner: Gai Terrell/Redferns, via Getty Images; Richards: Chris Walter/WireImage, via Getty Images; Lamar: Bennett Raglin/Getty Images

#archives #music #must reads #african american history #american history #history #arts and entertainment #entertainment #entertainers #news #latest news #trending news #hip hop news source #1619 #1619project

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shesinspain-blog · 6 years ago

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The things you think are useless, I can't understand

Well, HI! It’s been a while! It’s now A U G U S T and my last post was in May. So I guess that means we have a lot of catching up to do!

Before I left for Barcelona, I was vulnerable with my friends, often bursting out with “what if I don’t make friends! How long will it take to settle in!” Everyone rooting for me was incredibly optimistic. “Kayla, you’ll make friends in like three days!” One wise colleague paused and said, “probably three weeks, then you’ll have it.” They were all right and wrong. Yes I did make friends really fast, and find a job and apartment within the first month. But if I were answering myself now, I would tell Young Kayla that it takes almost a year. I’m in month eleven now.

My life here now includes

finding my favorite brand of coffee at the grocery store

an entire saturday home, cooking, baking and reading my book

a favorite movie theater where I watched Jurassic World 2

a restaurant that says “welcome back” when I come in

feeling relaxed when I buy produce at the market in Spanish, instead of the horrible sick-stomach nervousness I had when I started

I had a fantastic hike in June, around the base of Montserrat with a wild apricot tree on the path. I had two bad excursions afterward - one where my logistics were perfectly planned but I misunderstood the kayak rental rules; and another cut short for safety concerns. I have a favorite thrift store chain with specific favorite locations. I sassed a moto driver at a crosswalk. I can usually identify if a text is Spanish or Catalan.

It’s more good than bad. But it’s also been a testament of how settled I am into the city that I have complaints and critiques. It’s really rewarding to see who I am when I am unabashed of my license to live here.

Living here has made me feel more confidence in myself and my choices. When I landed, I had so much trepidation about the “American Stereotype” I was either confirming or creating. I don’t care now; I’m just me. Sometimes this means I don’t know enough Spanish to order medicine at the pharmacy, and sometimes it means I talk too loud. But I don’t hate my accent, my culture or my home the way I used to. There are so many fluid aspects of identity. Being American doesn’t define me, and my international friends see the multitudes I see in them, too.

As for Barcelona, I like to oscillate. I leave my house, direct tourists to the Picasso museum (in Italian!) and see a Cathedral that has been standing for nearly 800 years, adjacent to ancient Roman aqueducts. I have a coffee in my happy quiet place, then hear French, German, Dutch and Polish conversations spattered around me. I go have my lunch on the beach, sunbathing and binging my new favorite podcast.

In the same breath, I’m cursing Barcelona: for the 27th rendition of Despacito I’ve heard today, for the psychotic crying seagulls, for the siesta hours that close my supermarket from 2-4:30 daily. As we all know, I have never been known for planning and saving, so teaching has taken its $ummer toll on me. If only holiday was not mandatory! Now over halfway through, I’ve accepted my living circumstances for what they are. I just really did not put enough thought into saving for these monthS off lol.

In spite of these woes - especially money and otherwise that I’d have in ANY city - I am the happiest I’ve ever been. Not just when I’m crying seeing the Chainsmokers at sunrise (LOL WHO CRIES AT THAT). Sitting speechless and listening to music with friends. Having breakfast in bed (with a movie) on a Sunday morning. Being here has given me so much resolution in being who I am - because no one cares. No one cares if you have a start up, or pink hair, or clothes from Louis Vuitton. No one cares who your parents are, what you studied at school or how old you are. Without this pressure, your friendships and relationships are able to be defined by so many other relevant factors. We are more alike than we are different. It is still so magical to be surprised by the facts I never knew, the stories I never heard, that were waiting behind my Hollywood education of worldly matters.

My perspective on where my life is going and my values has shifted so much. The title of this post is from Steely Dan’s Reelin’ in the Years, which I didn’t even know I liked until I heard it again this week. The song captures a lot of how I’ve been feeling lately. The expected trajectory of my life was so wrong. Using my hard-earned degree to move abroad and teach isn’t useless at all. I can’t imagine my life without this move. There is so much joy, peace and understanding - especially within myself - that I wouldn’t have known if I moved forward in Ohio.

Mid-June, I decided to take a month off all social media. I did it for a multitude of reasons, but mostly to be more present and mind my *own* business for a while. The beginning was so hard. I was embarrassed by how challenging it was to not check my accounts, or all the times my thumb swiped for my social apps. Now I’d say I’m still pretty quiet and I feel so much better because of it. I saw a friend recently for drinks, and she told me about her mom’s visit to Barcelona, showing me photos on her phone that I hadn't yet seen on instagram. It was old-fashioned and exciting.

Other things -

MADDY VISITED omg my bestie was here for a full week and we did stupid stuff like watch Queer Eye and really cool stuff like barbeques and the Magic Fountain. It was surreal to have her here and do a crossover episode of my two separate lives. We had a freakin’ blast.

I’m getting more and more obsessed with re-entering the kitchen, especially to do pastry??? IDK we’ll see but it’s fun to be excited about something, no matter where it may lead

Books I’ve scarfed down this summer: Brain on Fire, The Underground Railroad, No One Belongs Here More than You, Before the Fall, Like Water for Chocolate, and my current is The Invisible Bridge (NO SPOILEES PLEASE)

I taught some classes for my friend Kelsey and it showed me that I do NOT like teaching in classrooms hahaha I made a 7 year old cry (yikes) but we all really loved playing Ghost in the Graveyard! I learned a lot being there. Sometimes I am good at things, but I don’t know how good I am until I fail in another setting or circumstance. So in a roundabout way it made me become a better teacher for my online angels in China.

My friend Natalie gave me her bike-share pass for a week. For those of you moving to Barcelona, GET VIU BICING! It’s 45 Euro for a full year - unthinkably cheap - and the bikes are so convenient. It made me feel super local and happy to bike everywhere. I really loved it.

Since teaching hours are slow right now, I’m trying to make the most of my time. This includes beach runs, reading, sketching / painting in the city, meeting friends, baking, and even updating my portfolio. I’m looking forward to a chill August ahead of me and more fun in the endless sun.

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junker-town · 6 years ago

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The unwritten rules of leaving a baseball game early

Let’s talk about the unwritten rules of being a baseball fan. They’re incredibly important. Wait, no, they’re silly. Incredibly silly. OK, both

The unwritten rules of being a fan start with the presumption that you care about what other people think. There are no actual penalties, no baseballs to be thrown at your butt. If you want to wear a glove and don’t mind if other people think you look like a weenie, go for it. If you want to keep the foul ball that landed in your adult hands, by all means.

And if you want to leave a baseball game early, just go.

Baseball games are long! Occasionally, they’re boring. You might have to be up early for work. Maybe the DC Metro is shutting down before the game is over. Maybe it’s cold or humid or maybe your seats are awful. People make fun of Dodger fans for arriving late and leaving early, but those are the people who have never sat in post-Dodger traffic for two hours after sitting in traffic to get there. Make fun of them when they leave early despite having some sort of ultra-necessary futuristic super-tunnel under the city to whisk their cars away, one by one, but not now. It really does suck getting out of there.

So we’re done in a couple paragraphs. If you don’t like the movie, walk out. If a video game starts to annoy you, turn it off. And, by all means, if the men in pajamas are swinging the cylindrical stick in a way that bores you, get the hell out of there.

However, I regret to inform you that there are always howevers.

Rule #1: If you have seats behind the plate or dugout, watch the whole game, c’mon, this isn’t even up for debate

There is absolutely nothing worse than seeing a collared, tieless goon behind the plate, chatting it up for the first six innings, and then disappearing in the seventh. Someone showing up and taking a scarce resource because they have connections, then leaving because they didn’t actually care about it, is a little too on the nose for me. I use baseball as a way to escape this hellworld, not as a way to remember why everything is awful.

If you are privileged enough to enjoy front-row seats, you stay. I don’t care if it’s Twins-Diamondbacks, Steely Dan, or Garfield: The Musical! It’s a mix of polite and self-aware to stick around, but it’s also something of an offering to the front-seat gods, a pinch of salt thrown over your shoulder, lest you find yourself in between jobs and hanging out in the parking lot for the World Series.

Rule #2: If you have kids with you, do what’s best for them

Some kids can hang until midnight. Some kids start expelling cotton candy through their pores and mumbling Latin by the sixth inning. Different families have different needs. Godspeed.

Rule #3: If you do not have a specific reason to leave, six runs is the magic deficit

Cold is a reason. Tired is a reason. Bored is a reason! They’re not always great reasons (pack more clothes, get more sleep, and screw around on your phone like the rest of us), but I won’t pretend that you’re going on fan probation for leaving early for any of these. Sometimes you think you’re in the mood for a baseball game, you get there, and it turns out you’re really not. I do this with pastries at the coffee shop all the time.

But if you’re leaving specifically because your preferred team is getting blown out, there is at least some decorum to follow.

One-run deficit Unacceptable.

Two-run deficit C’mon, you know this is possible, you don’t need me to explain this.

Three-run deficit You’re two bloops and a blast away, sit back down.

Four-run deficit Literally one swing away, where are you going?

Five-run deficit You see, baseball is the sport without a clock, and that is a part of its enduring beauty. One thing people forget is [talks in monotone for 37 minutes without taking a breath].

Six-run deficit Yeah, you’re good. Six runs down in the bottom of the ninth is when the win probability dips below one percent. Go get some rest.

Rule #4: You may leave without guilt after the 14th inning or 12 a.m., whichever comes first

This is assuming that you don’t need to be up for work at an ungodly hour, in which case you’re still covered by the intro. If you have to be up early, just go.

This is also assuming that it isn’t a Friday night with a clear schedule on Saturday. In that case, stay until the 37th inning and smear nacho cheese across your bare chest during an out-of-body experience. You have no excuse.

If we’re talking a normal work night (and you’re not an hour or more from the ballpark), midnight is a fine time to push yourself away from the table and say, “That’s enough innings for me, thanks. Boy, am I stuffed!” This is true even if it’s a great game, although most 15-inning games don’t qualify as “great” until something happens at the end.

Just know that you’re bound by Rule 5. You’ve been drafted by it, if you will.

Rule #5: Leave whenever you want ... but agree to be eternally devastated if something awesome happens

There were Dodgers fans who left before Max Muncy’s home run, and I’m sure they had a reason. The unwritten rule, though, is that they still need to be incredibly upset by this. For a brief moment, it felt like the Dodgers were going to win the World Series, were going to storm back and win four straight, just like the 1996 Yankees, and everybody floated out of that ballpark on a zephyr of hopes and optimism.

It was one of the purest baseball moments imaginable, and there were people who missed it because they didn’t have the stamina. That’s fine, but they need to be filled with regret for the rest of their lives.

A formative experience for me was my parents leaving this game in the seventh inning. It was 1984, and the Giants were awful. To give you a taste of the general malaise, just 7,000 people were at a Saturday game. The Astros took the lead in the seventh inning, and my dad said, screw it, I got stuff to do. When Joel Youngblood hit the walk-off homer in the bottom of the ninth, we were listening to it on the radio, and I remember where we were, crossing the train tracks near Broadway Avenue.

I remember this because my mom looked at my dad with a stare of withering hatred and resentment that chills my soul to this day. She still talks about it, and I’ll tell you something else: My parents have season tickets, and they almost NEVER leave early now. They’ll text me from their seats at the end of an 8-0 loss to the Padres on a Tuesday night, and they’re there almost entirely because of what Joel Youngblood did to them in 1984.

This is the compact you make as a sports fan. Leave early if you feel like it. Just agree to wonder what-if for the rest of your life when you do it. Anything else is explicitly against the unwritten fan rules.

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vmfx · 4 years ago

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SALVAGE AND RECOVERY.

I met Syke when he signed on with me in food service during last decade’s economic recovery. He needed something and now, since he couldn’t build pools in the winter, and his wife was about to cut the cord if he didn’t bring anything home for her and their three daughters. But Syke had some news for me: he just salvaged a vinyl collection from a client that was thrown out in the sidewalk. She did what we call “the unthinkable”. How could anyone do that? Simple. Those are the same people who throw away their kid’s comic books and baseball cards because they don’t know or care for the value of anything in their lives. She didn’t even try to pawn her goods to eBay or a local record store and get any amount of money from some skivy, pot-smoking, potential Jerry Garcia-slash-Bruce Villanche cross-breed. No. She just put them out on the side of the road and told them to fend for themselves. A real winner. My friend took more-than-full advantage of someone else’s mistake. And rightfully so.

Most of her records were in excellent condition. She was into the hits, Seventies and Eighties pop, rock, adult contemporary, reggae, jazz, and even disco. They were kept in great care, too. We both assumed she purchased them, played them once or twice, and put them back on the shelf until forever. Syke already had a wealthier record collection than I had: 1,500 pieces and counting. Half in the backyard shed at a cemetery they lived on, and the other half in North Carolina at his old man’s house. My dad should know, too. He found three piles of throwaways and brought them back home. Collections of classic Sixties showtunes, vocalists, Woodstock rock, moldy basement records, children’s sing-a-longs, and even polka where I donated all of that to WUSB’s resident polka lady. (Note: my dad had a collection of records such as KISS, The Beatles, and The Rolling Stones a while ago but sold them like a schmuck some 25 years ago for a paltry $50. Had he knew I was into music as much as I was now he’d keep them for me.)

Over the past decade I have been the recipient of several other music collections. Twice I have inherited cassette-tape collections, one from my former car-insurance peddler and another from my brother as he “found” a stash of tapes in a junkyard. The result? Lots of The Cure, The Smiths, Siouxie Sioux, Depeche Mode, Judas Priest, and other lesser-known 80’s acts and one-hit wonders so low on the musical food chain that I’m too embarrassed to even mention. (Simply Red, Corey Hart, or Rick Astley, anyone?) A few years prior, a former dee-jay at our station had a huge giveaway of vintage and classic rock he was parting with, about 30 or so records I took of his. One of the most tolerant people I ever known. So tolerant that he cut ties with me for a very petty reason I can’t even remember. That’s how petty it was.

Syke couldn’t possibly want all these records, so he invited me over to take a look at his victory. I arrive at his house and there they were: five boxes totaling about ~600 records. All 12’s. No 7’s, 45’s, or cassettes. All of them were in their original sleeves and most of them seemed to be played only once. The rules were simple. I could take whatever I wanted but with one catch: he would have the final word and take what he liked that I picked out. It was his find after all. Only then I would do the same to him. Out of the 600 or so records, I took 10% of them. Not bad for a vicarious lucky day. I picked out whatever classic radio rock that interested me. Lou Reed, Peter Garbriel, INXS, Bob Seger, Steely Dan, Alan Parsons, and more. More finds included the finest in post-punk from The Buzzcocks’ Pete Shelley, Blondie, Phil Collins, and three from Squeeze. Syke’s client, who in the end took great care of her records, was also huge on disco. He insisted I take France Joli, Studio 54, and the Saturday Night Fever records. O.K….if you say so? Then the joker cards in the collection: a compilation of Johnny Carson’s best moments and a Maxell rock sampler. Yes, a cassette tape manufacturer that has its own vinyl record. Please figure that one out. Also, I managed to take all of the Disney Records from the salvage and recovery operation. Why? My ma’ used to listen to Disney when she was a child growing up in the 50’s, so not only there’d be something to remember ma’ by, but also have at least some sort of relic of pure innocence; once upon a time when life was simpler, less anxious, and more innocent.

Then he vicked all of The Kinks and The Clash records from my stack. Good move. This was akin to your opponent pulling out all of yr Aces and Kings from your deck of cards. What did he also end up keeping? All of the Beatles’ records, and…Michael Jackson’s Thriller album. Yes, you heard me. If any of you reading this just said “holy shit!”, then I would’ve heard you. From far away. It’s one of the very rare albums that went ten times Diamond, meaning, it has sold at least 100,000,000 copies. Do the math.

But after Syke was done picking and choosing from my stack I should say that I still came out a winner. For jazz, R&B, and soul I chose Minnie Riperton, Grover Washington Jr., Weather Report, Taj Mahal, The Temptations, Donald Byrd, and Stanley Clarke. I also walked away with Peter Gabriel’s ‘So’ album. My eyes almost set themselves on fire when I found it. I also managed to score Peter Tosh and Bob Seger as well. Syke’s response? “Fuck Bob Seger!” as he smiled. Classic.

I also had some records I looked to get rid of, so I had to reciprocate. Those records my ‘tolerant’ friend gave to me? Those I now gave to Syke. About 50 of those out. Jefferson Airplane, Chick Corea, Herb Alpert, and some novelty Rolling Stones. Looking back, I felt bitten giving away the -Stones records, but they’re so plentiful that I bought them all back this year. Record collectors have to support one another throughout our addictions. You know how it is.

One person’s trash is another person’s treasure, they say. Syke was lucky enough to be at the right place at the right time for him to win a free vinyl collection. He didn’t wait for someone to die for this to happen, and he didn’t inherit someone else’s collection out of the blue because they were moving or that they lost interest in their favorite records. This was a no-strings-attached find that any other Joe or Jane would have to make years of visits and paychecks to have the same caliber collection that my friend found in one shot, or how my brother or Dad would hand them over for me. After that night was over, Syke and I were both winners and more so him than I. He / she who dies with the most toys wins. They also say that, too.

Shortly after our generous trade-off, Syke did wrong to his wife again to the point where she felt he gave up on her and the kids. He wasn’t bringing money in to provide for the family. Instead, he was wasting his time on video games and later on moved to Brooklyn for a few months, leaving his wife and children with no heat or utilities. She did something also unthinkable that would make some collectors commit suicide: she sold everything he owned in the shed to a random guy for $30. Could you blame her? She had no choice. It was all supposed to be mine…if only I’d kept my mouth shut and not tell her I’d buy his records to give to him. Cover blown. For $30 I would’ve have my friend’s collection. All of it. But I’m a neutral party. I wanted to be the cooler between the two sides because I’m a natural-born diplomat. Putting your family behind is wrong, and I wouldn’t have anyone sell my possessions on me. I don’t excuse his actions at all, but you can’t sell someone’s life like that on the cheap either.

But there comes a happy ending. Syke took a step back, re-prioritized his life, and realized what was truly at stake. The entire family moved down south to the Carolinas where longer warmer weather allowed his swimming pool business to thrive and re-united his other collection his father helped keep for him. He’s happy, the kids are happy, everyone’s still together and better than ever. All the best to them. Only Syke could forgive and forget. He had to. For the kids.

#VMFX #writing #short stories #Long Island #personal #vinyl #music #friends

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officetime02-blog · 5 years ago

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Liz Barclay Knows Where to Find the Best Breakfast Sandwich in L.A. - Grub Street

If you’ve read about the joy of buttered kaiser rolls in the New York Times, or weed in America in Rolling Stone, you’ve seen Liz Barclay’s heavily saturated, un-glossy, and candid style of photography. She helped create the aesthetic of Complex’s First We Feast, but her subjects extend well beyond the dinner table. The Georgia native has done work for companies like Nike, and photographed figures like Travis Scott, Andre 3000, and Andre Leon Talley. She now splits her time between New York and Los Angeles, where she was after a stint in her hometown of Atlanta. Between gigs, she found time for fajitas in Georgia and stopped by her favorite East Coast-style deli in L.A. Read all about it in this week’s Grub Street Diet.

Friday, April 26 Hotlanta. I woke up remembering the sweet Georgia humidity that awaited me. Then I walked outside and the pollen in the air hit me like a heavy wool military blanket. Nonetheless, I was thankful for the time to spend in the city where I was born and raised, embracing its new era of expansion and creative boom since I left a decade ago.

Being home reminds me of the Southern essence within my soul and simple beauty of my upbringing. My taste was shaped by uncomplicated things: vegetables from my pepa’s garden, like tomatoes and Vidalia onions sprinkled with salt; Vienna sausages fresh out of the can; and peach cobbler.

Anyway, I got up and prepared the six-cup coffee maker with pre-ground coffee. It’s one of my favorite things. Believe me, I appreciate good coffee but I also love an easy batch brew situation just like I do a bodega coffee. Two cups later, I started my morning ritual — meditation, reading, and writing. Doing this everyday has been my lifesaver.

I grabbed a honeycrisp apple and almonds and then headed out to a hot power vinyasa class. After yoga, I stopped by Sevananda, a Rastafarian-owned and run health food store in the middle of the Little Five Points neighborhood. It was a staple long before vegan food and the vitamin lifestyle was ever a trend. The storefront is covered with hand-painted acrylic murals of vegetables, and inside it smells like patchouli and incense.

In the back, there’s a small food counter with housemade vegan and organic hot and cold items. I got a small plate of collard greens and sesame soba noodle salad, along with a spicy ginger beer and walked out through Little Five. Listened to Buju Banton during my stroll and cruised by Criminal Records, a long-standing record shop in Atlanta, before heading back.

I then met up with a sister, and we worked before hanging out at her apartment complex’s pool. There something about Atlanta and the suburbs that traditionally involves stereotypically large apartment complexes with a gym and every amenity possible that all seem to be almost empty during work hours. Coming from living in New York City for the last decade, where a trip to the pool meant spending at least $70 for a day pass, I’d say I was in heaven.

For dinner, we decided on Superica, a Mexican restaurant run by my good friend, the chef Ford Fry. You’re greeted with chips and salsa, and I went for a margarita and the fajitas, which come out as a sizzling platter with spring onion, chicken, mushrooms, and other vegetables. You also get fresh corn corn tortillas and rice and beans, the whole nine yards. We walked home, crickets sounding off in the background and light bustle providing an almost wild noise like soundscape against sweet Georgia evening air. Friday night in Atlanta is always booming.

Saturday, April 27 It was airport travel day. I’ve mastered the art of the airport hustle and always having snacks on deck. I grabbed a coffee at the local Octane Coffee and made sure to ask for — why of course — OAT milk.. It’s like the UGG boots of milks now: it’s a trend, and you love to hate it, but by surrendering to the stereotype, you opt for simple comfort and self-indulgence instead.

I made it through TSA no problem, and grabbed a toblerone bar to nibble on during my flight to L.A. Also had some trail mix, fruit, and my RX bar for my lunch. It’s my best plan of attack, versus grabbing a $12 turkey sandwich or packing a heavy-duty lunch in advance. Sometimes just keep it simple. I had the Clash queued up along with Hanif Abdurraqib’s recent book about A Tribe Called Quest, Go Ahead in the Rain. I switched between that and the Steely Dan biography I was still finishing.

Landed in L.A., and went straight for my house. I live at the base of Laurel Canyon: I’m a big Jim Morrison fan and ‘60s/70s rock, funk, and jazz advocate.

Dinner was with a music-industry friend at Pace, a beautiful gem of an Italian restaurant in the basement of the Laurel Canyon Country Store. It has an unapologetically whimsical hodgepodge of various decorations, including mosaics, acrylic paintings of Kurt Cobain, and butcher paper tablecloths with crayons for people of all ages to draw on. Also, they have the best rigatoni on the westside. We got that, the chopped vegetable salad, and the simple “peace pie” izza, the basic choice that in my opinion is also the most honest. The rigatoni came out served piping hot, tossed in a generous mound of sauce and bright red with pungent tomatoes and herbs and spices. But one of my favorite things here is the room temperature focaccia with tomato sauce that’s served immediately once you sit down. You’re taken care of and made comfortable, and connect with these small rituals.

Sunday, April 28 My day of rest. I had a couple cups of coffee and drove to the Larchmont Farmers Market while Los Angeles was waking up. I picked up Honey Pacifica creamed honey, avocados, hummus, bibb lettuce, cauliflower and fresh strawberries.Then I went back home and made a picnic lunch of fresh berries drizzled with honey, bibb lettuce with avocados, sea salt, walnuts, and a dressing of lemon, apple cider vinegar, and oil.

Later that afternoon, I drove up to Mulholland Drive and went to my favorite hike spot with a friend who lives up on the hill nearby. We spent an hour on the winding trails, surrounded by the wildflowers. I drove off, but before going down the hill read for a half hour with the windows down.

After a slow Yin class at Modo in the early evening, I made a run to Joan’s on Third in the valley for dinner. Picked up a filet of salmon, farro, and their Southwest salad — half the reason I order it is because of the cilantro dressing. The salad itself has fresh jicama, red bell peppers, and sliced avocado, waiting to be blessed with some of that damn cilantro dressing. I’m serious. Anyone who knows me, knows I’m all about condiments, sauces, dressings, mustards, dippable, spreadable, pourable. A condiment of any kind, enough said.

Oh, and not to forget the gummies they make at Joan’s. As a kid I never cared for gummies or sour patch kids — but as an adult? Different story.

Monday, April 29 After my morning ritual, I got up, took a quick SoulCycle class to get some cardio in, and then stopped by Erewhon — go figure — to get some Bulletproof Coffee and drop nearly a rack on the “green goddess ice cream.”

The green goddess, let me take a second here, is an insane $20 concoction that’s essentially a smoothie without the milk and instead spirulina-infused froy-yo. It’s an emerald green color with an almond butter base, E3Live algae, maca, lucuma, mesquite, chlorella, and topped with goji berries and bee pollen. It’s frozen and smooth and crunchy all in the same blissful bowl and comes in a quart container so it’s easily split between two sessions. It does not get more health-food-obsessed-LA than this.

To do some work, I went to Chateau Marmont and drank several cups of coffee and enjoyed the stillness in the lobby. It’s one of my favorite historic landmarks in L.A., with its old tapestries and trim kitchen and bathroom fixtures. Even the old window panes speak to me. The day time is one of my favorite times to be there. There are locals eating and having long coffee meetings, tourists occasionally wandering through, and guests coming downstairs, while Sunset Boulevard is, classic, packed with gridlock traffic.

After working on photos for clients, I had a late lunch meeting. We decided to stay at Chateau. I had the little gem salad, a take on the Niçoise salad, in a sense, with a lightly poached filet of salmon on a hearty portion of lettuce with new potatoes, olives, and haricots verts. It was simple and elegant.

I headed over to Culver City for another meeting near Nike at 4 P.M.; the area is booming with change and new places, including New York’s very own Roberta’s. Traffic was gridlock to and from Culver — these are the moments where you just have to accept the flow and indulge in podcasts, audiobooks, or driving playlists — but I was so excited because I was moving apartments to join my friends Christina and May in their house. I was very thankful to migrate over to the west side and be closer to the water.

After I relocated and unpacked my bags into my new room, I did some work, gave to toast to myself in the new space, and went for a walk to grab a poke bowl at Whole Foods. Just fresh tuna with brown rice, seaweed, fresh ginger, and a ginger hot tea. This was an easy day.

Tuesday, May 30 Preparing for a shoot today I got up early, journaled and meditated, and rode my bike to Intelligentsia for a cup of coffee to start the day.

After an early spin class, I went to Uncle Paulie’s Deli for this amazing breakfast sandwich that I live for. Any east coast migrant looking for familiarity will immediately fall in love with this place, and the presence of a New York style sandwich shop in L.A. Not only because it’s a legacy institution, but also because, in particular, this is the only one in L.A. (Aside from Bay Cities Italian Deli & Bakery, which has a sandwich counter.) But Uncle Paulie’s is different. Paulie is originally from Queens, and he and his partner brought their community and hip hop appreciation. You enter the door expecting to hear Nas or Mobb Deep. I immediately wanted mortadella.

There’s a cold case stocked with prepared goods, from caponata to salads to Zapps potato chips, and various lunch and breakfast sandwiches. I love the cacio e pepe breakfast sandwich, but I opted for the classic bacon, egg, and cheese this time. The bun is perfect, the scrambled eggs soft, and the bacon is cooked just right. This sandwich is sex.

You can sit outside and people watch as cars drive by, or read the paper, and this day brought me into a scene from the Sopranos. I was channeling my inner Adriana La Cerva — with my short tennis shorts and wispy baby hairs framing my face — curling up slightly from the humidity this morning. (Next question: where is my Christopher? That’s a story to be continued.)

Called it day, and moved on to other things before a 1 P.M. meeting at Atlantic in Studio City. I made a pit stop at HVW8 Gallery, to see Eric Elms’s latest show, and did a loop at Amoeba Records. I don’t have a vinyl collection myself but it’s one of my 2019 goals.

My meeting was at Joan’s On 3rd, but I was still full from breakfast when I got to Studio City so I just had an iced latte and fresh fruit. Kept it simple. I then killed time at the Sunset Tower’s lobby and drank tea while I finished editing photos, and when I got a little hungry again ordered the tuna tartare with avocado and a wonton crisp on top.

Went to Fat Dog off Fairfix for an early happy hour drink with a creative director who works at Atlantic records. My love in addition to food and wellness is music, so this meeting was special to me. Working with artists to create their world — that’s my ideal place to be. After, we went back to visit their inconspicuous spaceship-like headquarters off of Fairfax.

For dinner, I met a friend and went to Sushi Time. It’s one of my favorite no-frills sushi spots off of Santa Monica. The dining room is probably the size of my living room, at most, and seats about 30 people, max. But the rice is just right, and the nigiri perches just on top of it so that they both surrender to gravity in sync and become one delectable bite. The fresh salad comes with that traditional house ginger salad dressing I die for every time. Bright carrots and radishes and fire engine red tomatoes on top. It’s perfect with miso soup.

We got a bunch of rolls and a sampler platter selected by the chef: yellowtail, spicy tuna, and more I ate till I was pleasantly stuffed. I love spots like Sushi Time, because it’s real community, real family, real living, and real moments not adorned with the excess. No G-wagons being valeted in the parking lot, and no hierarchy. Everyone is here.

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Source: http://www.grubstreet.com/2019/05/liz-barclay-grub-street-diet.html

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bluesdoodles · 6 years ago

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For the second time in 2018, the UKBlues Federation are back at the wonderful deco venue, Worthing Pier’s Southern Pavilion. Earlier in the year for the inaugural UKBlues Awards sponsored by FORM Fit Out now back for the Fifth UKBlues Challenge. All Five Band Rose to The Challenge in Worthing – each of the challengers, Greg Coulson, Carl North & The Loney Hearts, Kyla Brox, Catfish and Tom C. Walker Band playing blues of many shades and tones that delighted the audience. Who though caught the Judge’s ears and are now excited knowing that in 2019 they will represent UK Blues at the 35th International Blues Challenge in Memphis in January 2019 & 9th European Blues Challenge in Ponta Delgada in the Azores in April 2019.

What every organiser wants to see is a queue forming before the doors are opened. Tonight was one of those occasions as the sun began to dip tonight’s audience were waiting on the Pier for the doors to open and the event to begin. The atmosphere built as the venue filled. There was a buzz of anticipation front of the stage and nervous excitement backstage as the bands waited for the thirty-minute set that would decide their destiny tonight. The challenge every year has a special feel. This is not a traditional battle of the bands. The panel of five invited Judges, Sarah Reeve – Sarah’s Sussex Blues; Joe Cushley, (Music Consultant Radio 2 Blues Show, Presenter of Balling The Jack etc..) Alan White, (Early Blues and former board member); Malcolm Mills, (Chairman Proper Records) & Eric Nyberg (founder UnTapped Blues & Brews Festival in Kennewick WA; USA).

With the judges listening with extra care the evening got underway as the first note filled the venue.

Greg Coulson

Greg was the consummate showman as he delivered thirty minutes of fun loving Rock n’ Roll coloured with shades of blues and deepest soul. He divides his time between, guitar, keys and vocal duties. Greg opened the evening with warmth, smiles and a beguiling energy. This is a band you want to dance to. Despite having to cope with gremlins in his amp his guitar gave the tracks a sting, the keys under his rapidly moving fingers and dramatic playing and his vocals that caressed the lyrics He delivered a set full of animation. With numbers from his current album including Stitch Me Up, and his tribute to Steely Dan’s Walter Becker, Someone Be There. Greg and his band stepped up to the challenge as they got the judges thinking and had the difficult to task of being the first band of the 2018 Challenge. He set the bar would it be overtaken. Now we had an engaged audience who realised the bands may only have thirty minutes but they would deliver excitement into every number they had chosen for this very special set.

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Carl North & The Loney Hearts

Carl and his band have had a whirlwind as only a fortnight before the challenge they filled the final set on tonight’s bill. They qualified to perform their 30-minute set, by winning a challenge on the Jessica Foxley Unsigned Stage at the Great British Rhythm and Blues Festival in Colne. This young six-piece band from Manchester were jubilant they had never played their music this far south. As they stepped on the stage the audience leaned forward as for the majority this was the first time of hearing this band live. The set was full of raw energy, and youthful joy as we heard the saxophone for the first and last time tonight. With five numbers to impress the judges, they set off with Offguard. They certainly were on fire as the two vocalists took vocal duties and came together for some tasteful harmonies. The band’s drummer was superb as were all the musicians on stage. With Hard Times, (Not Stephen Foster’s Hard Times) a contemporary number delivered with a swirl of passion and they were weaving into their interpretation of the blues some country vibes. They may have been the wildcard having not been nominated by the nomination panel. Proving once again the depth of talent that often gets overlooked so it is a big thanks to all at Jessica Foxley for sending Carl North & The Lonely Hearts down South so we could enjoy the music.

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Kyla Brox

The third band of the evening took the tempo down with a four-piece that delivers gospel-infused blues. Kyla leads from the front in a splash of red as her vocals filled the auditorium of this Art Deco venue. Everyone in the audience was hanging onto every glorious note. She wove soulfulness into the delivery, packed a punch with emotional dexterity. You are so mesmerised and enthralled by Kyla’s voice you can overlook the talent of the musicians that provide the blues-drenched bass guitar from Danny Blomeley, one of the unsung musicians in the U.K. Kyla’s set exuded class and the audience were appreciative once again of the music and left like after the first two bands wanting to hear more.

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Catfish

The fourth band and the rockiest tonight. Catfish delivered a set with a mix of new numbers including Ghosts from the anticipated upcoming album and the title track of the current album Broken Man. Catfish with guitarist Matthew Long and his father Paul on keys are renowned for long tracks at times whilst bounded by the blues and tip a hat at prog-rock. Many were intrigued by how they would cram their sound into a thirty-minute set. They did and the cheers for the local band were loud and warm. Many were disappointed that their personal favourite Let it Rain was dropped but that number is always long with its long guitar solos. We still had time to hear Matt’s guitar sing and his face make the varied gurning poses that characterises this young man who has a talent in making the guitar speak to you. Enough to attract the attention of the judges we will have to wait and see or was it one of the earlier bands? Or was the best yet to come with the final band?

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Tom C Walker

The long wait was over for Tom Walker and his band. At last they could take their place on the stage and play for the judges. Tom C Walker’s power is a double whammy with his stunning guitar playing and soulful vocals. Tom C Walker delivers soulful blues with a large helping of funk. It is a vibe that makes you smile and dance. Tonight, Tom and his band were tight, they were smoking and on form. The double guitars from Tom and Jack Cooper work exceptionally well together adding extra layers of tones and textures. The strong rhythms that hold the band together with imagination are Deano on Bass and Jack Bowles on Drums. The varied set was a delight and was a crowd pleasing collection. We all wanted to toast him when he finished his new number an ode to Tequila. Tom C. Walker is a young band that is growing in stature shaping the sounds to meet his and the expectations of the audience. This is another exciting set.

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What a way to close the night the bar was set very high by all five bands and we had been entertained by five bands that loved every second they were on stage.

While we waited for the results the discussion was intense everyone had a favourite. But all that matters is what the judges say as the points are tallied and the winner decided we were kept occupied with the draw for the raffle.

Raffle Prizes

Four lucky people held the winning numbers for the prizes – A sleek White replica Fender Telecaster, donated by FORM Fit Out – Original Painting from the wonderful brush of Steve Pablo Jones:- UKBlues Federation Bag full of delicious CD’s and fourth prize pair of tickets any gig at Blues at the Woodlands in Gillingham, Kent donated by Andy Davies, who runs the club.

Results Are In!

Kyla Brox and her Band are of to represent the UK in 2019 at the 35th International Blues Challenge in Memphis in January 2019 & 9th European Blues Challenge in Ponta Delgada in the Azores in April 2019.

Her stunning bright Red dress is outshone by the beaming smile as she gives a warm hug to Ashwyn Smyth the Chair of UKBlues Federation. She turns and the audience is bathed in the warmth of blues love that radiates from Kyla as she invites her band on stage.

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Is that it? With the certificate now handed over, and an engraved Trophy sponsored by Proper Music to follow? No of course not this is live music, this is the blues. Kyla Brox sings a winning number and then invites the other guitarists on stage for a guitar fuelled jam. The audience would have liked this to have gone on into the night but as every venue’s curfew rules and the music fell silent and we left to walk down the pier discussing the evening and the power of live music.

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Have been at the four Challenges that the UKBlues Federation has organised, this is the best challenge yet, organisation, bands and pure blues music family vibe as musicians joined the winning band to celebrate UKBlues with the UKBlues Federation.

For all blues fans here is a Heads Up – Date for your 2019 Blues Diary – the weekend of 26th, 27th & 28th April 2019 for a weekend of live music and celebrations with the 2nd UKBlues Awards on Saturday 28th April 2019 at The Guild Hall, Preston…

All Five Band Rose to The Challenge Worthing For the second time in 2018, the UKBlues Federation are back at the wonderful deco venue, …

#Carl North & The Lonely Hearts #Catfish #EUROPEAN BLUES CHALLENGE #Greg Coulson #International Blues Challenge #Kyla Brox #Tom C Walker #UKBlues Challenge 2018 #UKBlues Federation #Worthing Pier&039;s Southern Pavilion

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itsworn · 7 years ago

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48th Annual NSRA Nats

There’s no question of the popularity and the longevity over the past nearly 50 years that the National Street Rod Association has enjoyed with both its regional and national events. And to this long list of event accomplishments one cannot deny the historical significance the “Nats” has played in being the focal point of our hobby.

This year being the 48th annual was no different … wait, it was! There was no denying that the “feel” at this year’s NSRA Nationals held in Louisville at the Kentucky Exposition Center (fairgrounds) had a more vibrant feel. Sure there were the 10,133 entries, enough to make any hot rodder drool. And of the nearly 400 industry-related companies there was a staggering amount of interesting products to keep a hot rodder’s attention for hours on end. Another always-popular exhibit with both participants and spectators is the new product section. This year approximately 150 new products were on display.

Walking away with the honors in the five categories were the following companies. Cooling Components took home the Up to $200 honors for their solid state fan controller. Next up was Watson’s StreetWorks’ backup mirror with camera in the $201-$1,000 category. In the $1,001-$5,000 category it was the Dakota Digital 1940 Ford digital instrument cluster. In the top-dollar category, the $5,001 and up the award went to Brookville Roadster for the 1932 Ford Phaeton body. And the one category everyone should pay attention to is … Safety Related as it went to Watson’s StreetWorks for their backup mirror with camera.

The ratio of early-to-late cars seems to be getting closer and closer to 50 percent with still a nudge going to the pre-1949 crowd. One thing is for certain, plenty of Tri-Five Chevys are showing up, along with plenty of classic trucks in the 1947-1954 and 1967-1972 Chevy family of trucks. Lots of F-series Ford trucks throughout the ’50s and ’60s and plenty of fullsize ’60s cars and early ’70s are beginning to show up.

Another event in its second year at the Nats is the Streetkhana (or autocross for younger rodders), which is gaining popularity. There are categories for both pre-1949 and post-1948 cars and trucks, while the American Street Car Promotions handles the daily chores for the NSRA. The event was featured each day (Thursday through Saturday from 8 a.m. until 4:30 p.m.) and while there were probably 50-some cars in competition, the bleachers that were set up just for the event were full for many hours. Clearly this event proved to be very interesting to the event entrants and visiting spectators alike.

The Nats continued with many tried-and-true exhibits such as the Commercial Way sponsored by UPS, Mopar Country, the Michigan Hot Rod Association and rodders repair area (always popular and much needed), and the 29 Below by Vintage Air for the younger rodders to gain recognition. Another help to rodders is the Powermaster Performance starting and charging system test area. For the ninth year Powermaster has had on the grounds technicians who can help you double-check your charging system, pinpointing any problems and tips on how to cure them. A very worthwhile display to take advantage of if you are a participant who has driven your car and wants to get home with no “surprises.” This area has become so popular that it makes sense to ask for an appointment to ensure that you get in and out easily.

There was something new this year in the Industry Driven Display. This display is intended to recognize a prominent person or company from our industry. For this inaugural showing Lokar Performance Products were selected and aside from having their booth, which they always do, they managed to bring a number of their hot rods to be in the Industry Driven Display. We should add that each of the cars on display was driven. Yes, driven to the Nats.

Another display gaining in popularity is the HRIA Pinewood Challenge. Industry manufacturers and builders alike build their own creations. (And, we do mean their own creations … one-of-a-kind creations!) The cars race on Friday and Saturday with the cars then auctioned off during the HRIA Industry Awards Reception at the upcoming SEMA Show. All of the proceeds are directed to the SEMA Cares charities benefiting Child Help and Victory Junction facilities. (Last year $6,000 was raised.)

Builders Showcase was once again present, beginning in 2006, and filled with 36 of the latest in our industry’s builds. (There were 34 individual builders with two builders bringing two cars.) This year for the first time one builder will be selected to be recognized with a special award. The winning builder was selected by his peers (only caveat you cannot vote for your own car) and be given an award proclaiming him as the 2017 Builder of the Year. The winning builder was Andy Leach with Ted Hubbard’s Model A (2017 Detroit Pirelli Great 8 recipient and also STREET RODDER cover car for the Sep. ’17 issue).

More from the realm of Nats awards was the NSRA 2016-2017 Pros’ Pick of the Year Presented by Classic Instruments as it was presented to Larry and Robbie Griffey for their 1954 Corvette (this too was a 2017 Pirelli Great 8 recipient). Other award winners included two in the Ford Performance Best Ford in a Ford; this year one was presented for those on the outside (an entrant) and one given to an indoor car and truck (a display car or truck in a booth). The indoor recipient of the Best Ford in a Ford presented by Ford Performance went to Jeff Perkins with his 1960 Ford pickup powered by a 5.0L Coyote V-8 out of the Legens Hot Rod Shop, while the outdoor winner went to Phil Becker for his 1946 Ford woodie powered by a 4.6L Cobra V-8. Other big winners included the Painless Performance Products/STREET RODDER Top 100 and this year two sets were selected; 10 from the outside entries and 10 from the indoor display vehicles.

Indoor: Painless Performance Products Top 100 GM Computer Flashing

Did you know that Painless will re-flash your 1998 and newer computers at no charge? If you purchase a Painless harness for a GM 1999 and newer engine, go to the Painless website and fill out a re-flash form and send it and your computer in. A one-day turnaround is common.

Bruce Conwell | Wichita, KS | 1949 Cadillac

The team at Chris Carlson Hot Rods added a Roadster Shop chassis to the 1949 Caddy for great handling combination with a 525hp LS3 V-8 for power. Some of the body updates include a graduated 2-inch front to 5-inch rear chop, modified bumpers, 1956 Olds headlights, wheels from Circle Racing, and a deep coating of Marin Senour candy red.

Bill Rafter | Port Orange, FL | 1929 Ford

There’s nothing cooler than a Model A Tudor on Deuce ’rails dipped in a vat of classic blue vibe. Plenty of power comes from a 276ci Flathead V-8 mill wearing Offenhauser aluminum heads fed by a pair of Holley 94-series carbs. Rolling on a set of 1935 Ford wires topped with rubber from Coker power moves through a BorgWarner T5 trans to a 9-inch Ford rearend.

Robert Anderson | Savannah, GA | 1940 Ford

Legens Hot Rod Shop gave this hauler a new look, starting with a mild 1-1/2-inch chop, pie cutting the hood, shaving the door handles, and adding a custom grille and bumpers. Power comes from a Ford Performance Coyote V-8 while Vintage Air cools and Classic Instruments monitors vitals. Schott wheels with Pirelli rubber transfers power and PPG green pearl vibe brings it to life.

Jon Wright | Grafton, OH | 1936 Ford

Westergard-styled hot rods have a wicked look that’s unmistakable thanks to their classic lines. The restyled frontend features a custom grille, headlights, and bumper with plenty of flowing updates out back. Stance is from RideTech with power coming from a Ford 351ci V-8 and cool breezes from Vintage Air. Bathed in PPG black it has a look like no other.

Brad & Lori Woosley | Louisville, KY | 1934 Ford

Color, stance, and attitude are three of the elements that make you stop and pay attention to this sedan. A perfectly executed chop gives it the look while a coating of PPG gloss adds style. A Super Bell front axle with hairpins and Ford 9-inch rear with triangulated four-link ground the power coming from a 383ci Chevy V-8. Steelies from Wheel Vintiques and Coker rubber complete it.

Pat Reisinger | Evansville, IN | 1931 Ford

Fresh from the team at Reisinger Custom Rebuilding, the coupe features plenty of vintage style everywhere, from its front Kinmont-style brakes to a custom Deuce chassis with a dropped ’n’ drilled axle and Ford 9-inch rear. Power comes from an incredibly detailed 292ci supercharged Lincoln V-12 from H&H Flatheads while its vibrant Impact Blue color is from PPG.

Mickey & Vicki Smith | Little Rock, AR | 1940 Ford

Summertime cruises in a 1940 Ford drop-top with tunes flowing makes for a perfect day. This classic look comes from a combination of Axalta custom burgundy pearl accented by crème artillery wheels from The Wheel Smith and Goodyear rubber. A comfy beige leather interior combined with Vintage Air cools the passengers while plenty of power comes from a 383ci mill.

Brian Cruz | New Braunfels, TX | 1959 Chevy Corvette

Bringing a C1 Corvette to a whole new level, Cruzer’s Customs started by setting the body on a chassis from Roadster Shop for the ultimate in handling with Budnik wheels and Nitto tires linking it to the street. Immaculate Frost Blue Axalta gloss adds plenty of class while aggressive power comes from a 340hp LS3 V-8 topped with injection from Inglese.

Dan Duffy | Marietta, GA | 1955 Chevy

To add razor-sharp handling, Big Oak Garage fabricated a custom IFS chassis and set it rolling on Schott Accelerator wheels capped with Yokohama rubber. A coating of PPG Toreador Red keeps it vibrant while the interior features Classic Instruments to watch the vitals and Vintage Air for perfect temperature. A 376ci LS3 V-8 wears a Borla Induction injection for searing power.

Melissa Reisinger | Evansville, IN | 1931 Ford

For a perfect hop-up, drop a Model A roadster body on a set of Deuce ’rails packed with a hot Flathead V-8 wearing Navarro heads and dumping its spent gases through lake pipes. Bathed in PPG black and rolling on 1932 Ford wires the interior features leather seating and a banjo steering wheel. The E&J headlights are just the right element of nostalgia.

Outdoor: Painless Performance Products Top 100

Winter After the rod run season is over and the car is being stored for the winter, be sure the gasoline has a stabilizer added and the tank is full. An empty tank will rust above the fuel level line so the fuel helps keep Mr. Rust away.

Robert Hill | The Villages, FL | 1929 Ford Roadster

At first glance this 1929 Ford roadster appears simple but upon closer inspection you’ll find torsion bars hidden in the framerails and some extraordinary fabrication by Steve’s Auto Fabrication in Jamestown, IN. A stock 1953 Flathead provides power to the rear Rally America wires wheels wrapped with Coker Excelsior tires. Custom Mocha Tan paint on the gennie body keep things subtle while inside S&W gauges fill the Lobeck gauge cluster.

Rick Giordano | St. Peters, MO | 1950 Ford convertible

Things like nosing, decking, and shaving the door handles and frenching the headlights and taillights complete the exterior of this shoebox Ford. Under the hood a 350 Chevy provides power while Fatman Fabrications suspension and Billet Specialties wheels provide proper handling. Inside Vintage Air keeps things cool and the best part is this car was completely homebuilt.

Debra Vitte | Riverview, FL | 1957 Chevrolet Cameo

The Cameo-stylized bed was custom from the factory so it remains basically stock. Debra enjoys plenty of power in the form of a 502 Ramjet motor and a Hurst-shifted five-speed TREMEC tranny mounted in the TCI Engineering chassis. Wilwood brakes slow things down, Vintage Air keeps things cool, and U.S. Mags provide the rolling stock. The Emerald Green PPG paint combines with tan leather for a classic look. Doug Kenny gets credit for doing the bulk of the work on the truck.

Mike Ricotta | Denton, MD | 1933 Chevrolet three-window coupe

Start with a super-rare Mercury series Chevrolet coupe (the small series), chop the top, then lay down a set of hot licks over PPG Envirobase black for real hot rod flavor. Suspension is all early Ford style with a Super Bell dropped axle up front and a Winters quick-change rear out back with Pete & Jakes shocks on all four corners. Real Wheels continue the traditional theme, while under the hood a 4.71 blower forces air through the 383 stroker motor. The East Coast Hot Rod Garage handled the build.

Jerry Campbell | Wilmington, DE | 1932 Ford roadster

Jerry Campbell’s highboy carries a European flavor with British Racing Green covering the heavily louvered body with Oxblood leather on the inside. Power comes from an Edelbrock-fed 327 with double-hump heads hooked to a Lokar-shifted 350 Turbo transmission. The dropped front axle and brakes are from SO-CAL with Pete & Jakes shocks. Wheel Smith wheels are wrapped with Coker Excelsior rubber to complete this oh-so-traditional hot rod.

Bob Kuehn | Stanton, NE | 1954 Mercury convertible

Bob Kuehn’s first car was a 1954 Mercury convertible and he simply stayed with his first love. To that end he planted a Ford 5.0 Coyote with a 4R70W tranny. The body remains completely stock covered in PPG black while inside brown leather is a serious upgrade from the original. Classic Instruments monitors the Coyote and when the top goes up the Vintage Air goes on. Front suspension is from Heidts while a 9-inch Ford rear spins the Billet Specialties wheels.

Vic LaBantschnig | Fenton, MO | 1955 Chevrolet Nomad

Enhancing this 1955 Nomad is as simple as taking the original PPG Glacier Blue paint and mixing a little more blue metallic for a better than original look. Then put the car on an Art Morrison chassis for that perfect stance and handling. Underhood a FAST Inglese EFI feeds the LS3 motor in traditional fashion, while 17-inch ET Sebring wheels complete the restyling effort by Carnock Creations in Des Moines, IA.

Bill Sherman, Peru, IL / 1961 Pontiac Ventura

The early ’60s brought with it the fantastic “bubbletop” design and no one did it better than Pontiac. It all starts with a complete custom-fabricated chassis with QA1 shocks and tubular control arms. Rear suspension employs a second set of QA1 coilovers and power comes from a 389 punched out to 406 inches with a factory four-speed mixing the gears. The rare Dawn Firemist paint is the factory color and the trademark tri-color interior completes the package.

Carl & Jeanne Booth | Rochester, MI | 1932 Ford roadster

Starting with a vintage Downs body it was covered with Henry Ford’s “any color you want as long as it’s black” PPG paint. While the motor may look traditional, it is really a modern LS3 topped with a FAST Inglese EFI induction. The chrome front suspension is from Pete and Jakes while Wilwood provides the stopping power. Inside tans seats carry traditional rolled and pleated fabric inserts. Classic Instruments monitors the motor and Wheel Vintique steelies are wrapped with Coker Excelsior tires.

Red & Deb Stauffer | Mount Dora, FL | 1932 Ford Victoria

There are traditional hot rods and there are historical hot rods. This Deuce Vicky falls under the historical banner. First hot-rodded in the ’40s this Vicky has a long and storied past. When longtime hot rodder Red Stauffer discovered the car he continued the heritage with a vintage build. From the genuine ARDUN Flathead to the real knock-off magnesium Halibrand wheels there is nothing new on this car. Kinmont front brakes mount to an early dropped axle with stock 1932 shocks still in service. Coker Excelsior rubber carries the traditional look, while inside black tuck ’n’ roll and a 1936 Ford dash continue the theme.

Outdoor: Best Ford in a Ford 1946 Ford Woodie Receives Best Ford in a Ford with a 4.6L Cobra

We were on a mission to find this year’s Best Ford in a Ford, sponsored by Ford Performance, at the NSRA Street Rod Nationals in Louisville, Kentucky. Finding that special car in a sea of more than 10,000 cars takes some time and effort.

We’ll admit it, the wood drew us in for a closer look and when we saw SVT on the valve covers we knew we were onto something special. Sure enough this “Just Green” 1946 Ford woodie was powered by nothing less than a 4.6L Ford Cobra engine connected to a 4RW70 transmission spinning a 9-inch Ford rear. Painted in a matching hue, the supercharged powerplant blends perfectly with the rest of the car.

Phil Becker is no stranger to hot rodding and he learned early on for best results it always pays to begin the project with the best car you can find and afford. With that thought in mind, Phil jumped at the chance to purchase this two-owner California woodie. It seems the old lumber wagon spent the first 20 years of its life as an airport car to pick up prestigious clients spending the weekend at a Napa Valley winery. In the ’60s the mechanic who had maintained the car purchased the car from the original owner. If this old car could talk it would list some pretty famous people who rode in the back seat.

Phil brought the old woodie back to his Illinois home and enjoyed the car for a couple of years before deciding it was time for a complete rebuild that would include all new maple wood, more power, better suspension, and flawless paintwork.

The wood is nothing short of spectacular and while it may appear stock there are many subtle modifications to ensure a perfect fit that would be both weather tight and good looking. Dave Martin of New Old Wood worked his magic on the wood while the sheetmetal was massaged to perfect and painted DuPont “Just Green,” giving this woodie a certain beach cruiser feel. Inside, tan leather combines with more gorgeous timber while the dashboard is filled with Classic Instruments residing in a dash inserts formed by J&B Microfinish. We find it interesting that over the past 69 years one thing has remained constant, this woodie wagon is still hauling people to places to have a fun time.

Color, wheels, and stance are the big three when it comes to building a proper hot rod, and Phil Becker’s 1946 Ford has all three. The 17- and 18-inch Schott Octane wheels mount to Heidts front suspension while out back Posies leaf springs support a 9-inch Ford rear.

The hot rod rake is even more apparent when viewed from the rear. All the original woodie hardware was re-plated and used in conjunction with the beautiful Maplewood.

Woodies were built to haul the goods and with a 4.6L Ford Cobra under the hood this wagon will definitely deliver the goods. The supercharged motor connects to a 4RW70 transmission, keeping the entire driveline pure Ford.

The dash is filled with Classic Instruments gauges while Vintage Air keeps the passengers cool. J&B Microfinish formed the aluminum inserts.

Beyond the great craftsmanship there is great design built into the new wood. Note the overlapping top gate that prevents water from entering the cabin. Yes even the taillights were formed from maple, note there are no screws holding the light cup into the wooden bucket; it is a press fit.

More great wood craftsmanship … look up! The headliner is a series of maple stingers giving the inside of the woodie at great look.

Indoor: Best Ford in a Ford 1960 Ford Pickup receives Best Ford in a Ford with Coyote Power

While attending the 48th Annual Street Rod Nationals at the Kentucky Exposition Center it was a perfect time for STREET RODDER and Ford Performance to recognize street rodders who install a late-model Ford engine in a Ford hot rod or custom. Walking through the indoor portion of the event we met up with Jeff Perkins of Greenfield, Tennessee, our latest award recipient with his classic 1960 Ford pickup.

Let’s take a quick look into what it took to bring such an alluring hot rod to life. Seeing that Jeff’s had a passion for trucks ever since his youth he began a conversation with longtime friend Steve Legens, owner of Legens Hot Rod Shop of Greenfield, Tennessee. The pair shared many of the same ideas on what it would take to undertake the build of a truly memorable Ford pickup. It wasn’t long till the search for a suitable base to start with led them to a stalled restoration project on a 1960 Ford F-100. The truck was in decent overall condition and would be a great start for the new build in bringing the rendering by Eric Brockmeyer to life. Without wasting any time the truck was bought and sent to Legens Hot Rod Shop to start the teardown for rebuild.

Seeing that the original frame was rock solid it was blasted clean and boxed for additional strength. Out back a Currie Enterprises 9-inch Ford rear was packed with matching 31-spline axles spinning 3.90 gears. It’s suspended in place by a RideTech parallel four-link with matching HQ-Series coilover shocks and Panhard bar. For razor-sharp handling up front a Kugel Komponents IFS was added featuring their exclusive upper and lower tubular control arms and cast stainless steel spindles deftly matched to RideTech HQ-Series coilover shocks. For plenty of stopping capabilities a dual power master from Master Power Brakes pushes fluid though stainless lines to Wilwood Forged Dynalite Pro-Series brakes at each corner, featuring 11.75-inch discs with four-piston calipers. Linking it all to the street a set of 20×8.5 Schott Mod 5 EXL wheels capped with Pirelli Scorpion Verde P245/45xR20 tires creates a perfect stance.

Wanting to keep a Ford in a Ford, it was an easy decision to contact Ford Performance for one of their cutting-edge 5.0L Coyote crate engines. It starts with an aluminum block complete with cross-bolted main bearing caps packed with a forged steel crank linked to forged steel connecting rods wearing hypereutectic aluminum pistons to produce an 11.0:1 compression ratio.

Aluminum cylinder heads generate plenty of power while on top an eight-stack semi-crossram injection system from Borla Induction delivers the goods. Spent gases push through a set of Sanderson headers to a custom 3-inch stainless exhaust with Borla mufflers. Power moves though a Ford Performance 4R70W automatic trans to a custom driveshaft. Extra attention by the Legens team included the custom engine cover and underhood detailing.

To bring the Brockmeyer rendition to life the Legens team got busy fabricating narrowed and tucked bumpers, custom hood vents, body and bed trim, and a custom tailgate and taillights. From there they installed a number of their exclusive parts, including a fuel filler concealment kit, stainless steel bed strips, tailgate concealment hinges with latch concealment kit, stainless steel exhaust hangers, wire loom plates, and bumper mount kit. With the custom work completed the cab and bed were then metalfinished with all gaps set. For color Jeff pays homage to the St. Louis Cardinals with a custom-blended Cardinal Red vibe from PPG.

The interior had to have the same attention to detail as the exterior so the team got busy by first filling the stock dash with dials from Classic Instruments to monitor the vitals. The stock steering wheel was cut down to 15 inches and links to a tilt column from Flaming River to set the course while cool breezes are from Vintage Air. For plenty of comfort a bench seat from Wise Guys was wrapped with distressed pecan-toned leather, accented by complementing deep brown carpeting. Congratulations to Jeff who will receive a limited-edition jacket as the award winner.

Legens Hot Rod Shop did an amazing job bringing the Eric Brockmeyer designs for the F-100 to life with plenty of classic elegance. Subtle body modifications, Schott Mod 5 EXL wheels, and PPG Cardinal Red gloss add plenty of allure.

A Ford Performance 5.0L Coyote crate V-8 gets the message across with a speed shop full of go-fast goods, including a forged crank and rods linked to hypereutectic aluminum slugs and aluminum cylinder heads. The eight-stack semi-cross ram injection from Borla Induction is the finishing touch.

Nothing says performance like a semi-cross ram eight-stack injection. This system from Borla Induction not only looks wicked, it gets the message across as soon as the gas pedal calls it into action.

Dramatic good looks come from a stock dash filled with gauges from Classic Instruments mingling with a reworked stock steering wheel massaged to 15 inches perched atop a Flaming River tilt column for added comfort.

The business office retains its original style with plenty of class thanks to yards of ultra-soft distressed pecan leather, wrapping a bench seat with accenting plush carpet while it all stays comfy thanks to Vintage Air on those long hauls.

Well-designed details are everywhere on the F-100, including two signature taillights per side accented by custom side trim, tailgate and massaged bumpers.

Well, that about wraps it up for the 48th annual. It’s hard to believe but it is most assuredly coming and that being the 50th in just two years. Maybe it’s time for lots of those veteran hot rodders from decades past to limber up their bodies and their hot rods and get ready for the 50th. In the meantime we will be looking for all of you at next year’s 49th annual get together.

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