There are cities where people never say hello.

I walked home today with a bleeding Achille's heel and an incipient bad burn. There were flecks of the beach's fool's gold in the spot rubbed raw by my shoe - this was noted after limping across a four-way stop two blocks from home and bravely looking down the back of my lower leg. But oddly, today was the most beautiful I've seen Long Beach...it presented an alluring face, reminding me of why I'm loathe to leave.

Walking to the bluffs, I felt my shoe chafing, but paid it little mind. The cloud cover was sporadic and pleasant; chilly with a light wind, maybe 68 degrees? Watching the kites floating in the sky, I thought about some decisions that need to be made. But to be honest, I didn't much want to think on them and so let the music float me away as I walked. The beach was clean - the city had come like a thief in the night and taken all the garbage. The water glowed turquoise, a rare sight at any time, and those millions of speckles of pyrite made the sand look as though it had been touched up by a Bond girl make-up artist. It glowed and shimmered, reminding me of my old flower-shopgirl gig and the champagne roses we'd spray with gold glitter for proms and weddings. One abusively red tomato sat perfectly amongst the strands of washed-up bladder kelp - I have no idea why. As I walked, I passed a tall black man playing a cornet in the sand...didn't recognize the tune, but it was a little mournful, and provided an interesting dissonance with what was playing on my iPod. On my way back later, he would play "My country, 'tis of thee"...fair enough, with the 4th creeping up and all. An ironic harmony, as I chose to listen to Hugh Masekela's eponymous album today.

"Masekela" was a revelation for me. I found it on a ¿Revolución, No? jag; was in an absolutely torrid love affair with the site. It is most certainly one of my favorite albums; a desert island pick, as it were. And the man is so f***ing cool. You listen to "Head Peepin'" and tell me the man wasn't hip as they come. "You can snort and smoke and pop and shoot, and you dig your LSD, but baby did you peep into your head last night?" Brilliant brass player, but with a frosty sound...less like South Africa and more like New York. This album bounces back and forth between cool instrumental licks and powerful revolutionary protest tracks. Here's the song "Blues For Huey" - any time I hear it, I can instantly transport back to a northern city, in the late fall, grey, rainy, cold, face upturned, leaves swirling, that dancing piano and smooth trumpet making me close my eyes in enjoyment.

In what seemed to be a natural progression, brainpan heated by the sun, and giddy from how pretty everything was, I moved on to the compilation "Hugh Masekela/From The Vaults Of Chisa", on which Masekela pulls little-known tracks from the Chisa years 1965-1975. The first track is the previously unreleased and amazing "Afro Beat Blues" by Ojah with Hugh Masekela, a heavy funk-ridden song. I was desperate to find more Masekela albums and had wound my way up through LA traffic to Amoeba, thinking I had a pretty good chance for an instant fix there. This cd stood out prominently in all its militant-looking yellow and black, and featuring a favored image of him. I didn't realize until home that it was actually a compilation of other musicians he'd worked with as a producer. Doesn't matter, as it's wonderful. It led me straight into the wonderful arms of Letta Mbulu.

"Letta" is an album so little-known it makes me sad. She's an amazing, volcanic talent - strong voice that over the years became strong enough to nearly cut. Both she and Masekela were expats from South Africa residing in the US; both were taken under the guidance (and friendship) of Harry Belafonte, among many others. Listening to Letta Mbulu is such a phenomenon for me; I want to write in glowing terms but find the words failing me. "Letta" has highs and lows, but the highs keep you coming back for another fix. The first track I ever heard by Mbulu was Mahlalela (Lazy Bones), remixed on the ¿Revolución, No? site as an add-on to the "Masekela" download. Then, on the Chisa comp, four of her best tracks from "Letta" are presented (including the original "Mahlalela"). Awesome stuff. The song is included in the YouTube "vid" here:



Anyhow, it's time to wrap up. I may go on further and explore Letta's work with Cannonball Adderley's label, or perhaps acquire a few albums by Miriam Makeba. If so, I'll certainly let you know! Another walk on another day.

Out.

Out again in the sun today, really trying to make a go of it. As I've mentioned to a friend, I'll be brown as a nut and fit as a lass. Echoes of Daffy Duck. Today's walk was a bit more pensive. I've started having migraines sans the actual migraine part...just the auras, or, to be more realistic, hallucinations. Two (and a half, one tried to pick up speed but couldn't get off the runway) in three days. I gather "ocular migraines" are much preferable to their kin, but it still has me a little down. They start small, as if you stared in the sun for too long, but get bigger and bigger and it always ends with my vision being too skewed to even walk, much less read or (god forbid) drive. I recently live in horror of one of these bad boys catching me on a long stretch of traffic-ridden freeway.

The beach was cleaned up, not so disgusting as the other day...and instead of a trash skip having overturned, today it looked as though the local fruit stand had taken a dip. There were oranges and lemons rolling in the sand, and an entire split watermelon with a spray of distressingly meaty-looking chunks sprayed around a goodly 12 feet or so. It looked so much like a smashed animal I had to count on logic to provide me with the disturbing intelligence that seagulls would be all over the pieces if they were actual meat. It looked as though someone had tried to play the summer watermelon smashing game, but hadn't bothered with the follow-up. Some young teens were excitedly digging in the sand, which worries me occasionally - I wonder if they have a critter who haplessly wandered into their clutches. But not today. They were building a sand castle and there were several excited invites to join in. Oh, yes, that would have looked just fine. Social mores aside, I was too tired to handle the yelling. Smiled and moved on, to find more fruit playing in the sun and sand.

Today's soundtrack was a little off, not really what I'd consider "summer" music, but I'd had an urge since last night:

I began with the eponymous Liquid Liquid album, which is zippy enough: percussion-laden and exciting in a low-key way. I located it on emusic shortly after careful consideration of the $50 OOP cd on ebay. Listening reminded me of my trip to London last October, during which a friend and I would "meet" in Starbucks each morning and go over my day's plans. One a.m., he suggested I visit the Rough Trade West shop near Portobello. I walked from my hotel, spurning the tube, so it took a while - and was tired once I got there. I picked and plucked from the racks, trying to decide what I wanted, and decided upon a cd reissue of the post-punk album "Memory Span" by the Lines, entirely due to their song "White Night" (which is wonderfully sleazy). While making the purchase, the gent behind the counter looked at me quizzically and asked why this cd in particular had picked up in popularity, and I could only shrug...I knew it had been posted on a friend's blog not too long ago, but wasn't sure that would have a world-wide sales trend effect despite the immense popularity of his blog. Shrug. Then we began talking about Liquid Liquid. He told me they'd recently played in London, and inferred that some bands should let it lie. But I would have loved to see them back in the day. Nearly everyone who has ever seen sunlight (and those who haven't) know this band if only because they provided the bass sample for the song "White Lines" via their tune "Cavern". My personal favorite from the album is "Out", a funky beat-ridden track that I would've gleefully danced to in clubs, drink in hand.

It seemed natural enough to follow up one New York Noise act with another, so I turned on Lizzy Mercier Descloux's 1979 album "Press Colour". She continues to be one of my absolute favorites. Review after review states how she wasn't all that talented, but I beg to differ. You can play your brains out, but you either have it or you don't. And she most certainly HAD it. "Hard-Boiled Babe" will always be one of my most-played tracks. To be honest, I was introduced to both Liquid Liquid and LMD via the brilliant New York Noise compilation from Soul Jazz Records (so forlorn about not going there while in London). I'm a slow beginner, but catch up fast. And thanks to Lizzy I then hopped on the ZE/Mutant Disco train. Excellent snowball effect!

If I'd walked further today, the next album might have been Essential Logic's "Fanfare In The Garden" - I think it's the finger cymbal sound in EL's "Love Eternal" that transfers so readily from those used by Lizzy.

Funny: hadn't realized until now that I located all three of these albums on emusic. Do listen to the samples provided; I think you might get hooked. As for me, I'm off for a cuppa joe and some reading. Enough sun for one day.