The other night I happened to catch The Harder They Come, a film I could watch over and over again. One winter I had a job working in an unheated artist’s studio. There was a boom box and a crate of ancient cassettes, and the soundtrack was the only listenable one in the bunch (the others being, like, Hot Tuna or something). I still really like the album, despite the adverse conditions associated with it. But then again, I like the smell of turpentine, as well as a bevy of things Other People find distasteful, so whatever.

Toots and the Maytals was my first real concert (not including Sha Na Na and…uh…Weird Al). 1987 I think? God I wish I still had that t-shirt.

The sad legacy of such music, however, is that it’s now the province of bands with the [adjective] [color] [animal] name algorithm. And frat boys.

I’m going nowhere here. I’ll just leave you with this. For those of you who love original and indigenous sounds. Don’t forget to keep the beat with the upper half of your body.

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