[Landline] Sideways to the above

Funk's motherland, kosmiche country, David Berman's country picks, Duchamp's last laugh

Speaking of tricksters, autonomous troupes and institutions: Next time I’m in D.C., this is where I’m headed…

Proper pilgrimage to a true rock n roll hall of fame! I’ve heard you might need some kind of reservation but don’t quote me on that. (If anyone knows the details, please enlighten us in the comments.)

Alternatively, if D.C. does not appeal or if budgets are tight or you just can’t get a reservation, maybe head to some, not-yet-formalized, real P-Funk hallowed ground — say, a certain outhouse in Kannapolis, North Carolina — which is what journalist/national treasure Dave Tompkins did, in “Can We Get to That,” an all-time piece for the Oxford American that ran six years ago that I’m only just now catching up on…

Dave writes:

Not to discount whatever events took place in the other 1,599 outhouses in Kannapolis at the time, but the one plotted just north of the rooming house on Lowe Avenue calls for historical designation. It already has its own day: July 22, 1941, when George Clinton was born to Julious Clinton and George Clinton Sr. 

“I heard that [outhouse legend], soon as I could remember anything,” says George, now seventy-seven. “About the midwives, how they delivered babies. That story is one of my first childhood memories. She was going to the bathroom and had me.” 

The whole Tompkins piece is solid, endless green. Lookit this:

Having already left Kannapolis by the age of four, George’s only memories of North Carolina are his mother’s: picking blueberries, stories of her Cherryville hometown, dancing to Louis Jordan. “Those kind of songs that make a young mother that still wanna go out and party. My mother used to make those funky faces when ‘Caldonia’ come on.” 

Funk can be a sense of place, transmigratory memories filtered through the nose. For George Clinton, the smell of pig shit crosses state lines. “I remember feeding them pigs. I was knee deep in pig shit. Cosmic pig slop. That’s why you make the same face when something smells. Funk tickles the same muscle. That Southern vapor. Up in there with the biscuits and bacon. Your mother cooking with that iron stove, especially on Sunday morning. That was that same good smell that make you frown like you hear that funky blues.” 

My recommendation? Stop reading this¹, and start reading that: ”Can We Get to That” by Dave Tompkins, Oxford American (Winter 2018)

From the OxAm piece: George Clinton at full force onstage, 1977.

A little while ago I rhapsodized in this space about UK psych-country instrumentalist Bobby Lee’s latest album, Endless Skyways. Heads should be aware that Bobby has recently been building an unbelievable, 50-song spotify playlist. He explains:

Thought I'd make a Kosmische Country playlist before someone beats me to it. (As names go, I think it's OK. Its better than Kraut-Americana, although I'm down with Heartland Motorik.) It's a work in progress so suggestions welcome. Friends, heroes & heads.

I’ve been dipping in and out of since I found out it existed… Four hours of stuff so far! Check it:

So much good stuff in there. The fourth piece, “Vysehrad” by something called Golden Gunn, was the first one that really stopped me in my puttering. I think I hit repeat three times while heading into investigationville.

I was immediately startled and somewhat embarrassed to learn that Golden Gunn was a one-off, 2013 album-length collaboration between Steve Gunn and the Hiss Golden Messenger guys, conceived by Cory Rayborn from the Three Lobed Recordings label. How did I not know about this, given that I like all of the aforementioned? Dumbass asleep at the comms desk controls! Anyways, Golden Gunn is kind of a J.J. Cale tribute — it’s right there on the cover logo — but that doesn’t say it all, the thing has got its own deep dank/shimmering propulsive country folk rock blues funk vibe — part instrumentals, part songs with vocals, really rich and progressive and appealingly upbeat. Recalls Cale, sure, but Sandy Bull in his weirdo modern period, too. Swamp and fog, smoke and stars. Vinyl is long ago sold out (second printing, Cory, please!) but yea, it doth stream, and is obtainable in digital form on bandcamp...

Please send these guys money— and encouragement to make another Golden Gunn album, cuz this first one is all by itself and feeling lonely.

Sideways to the above, humorist-novelist J.D. “Joe” O’Brien (see: the wonderful weedcrime caper Zig Zag, 2023) recently hipped me to the existence of this 50-song playlist of the late David Berman’s country music favorites…

…which as you can imagine is a real and continuous hoot. The compiler Aaron Turney, who I don’t know, writes: “Berman posted this list a while back (maybe on his mentholmountains.blogspot.com page). Can't find the post so you'll just have to take my word that it's floating in the ether.” I’ve decided to take Mr. Turney’s word for it, but yeah, I’d love to see the source for this list if any of your DCB sleuth-heads can find it. Let us know via the Comments!

Thanks Dave. Thanks Bobby. Thanks Joe. Thanks Aaron. And thanks Berman. Blessed are those who pass it on!

Speaking of passing things on. In the last Landline, I erred grievously. Here at the end of this sentence is where you should really go (online) to seek out Guided By Voices stuff: www.GBV.com 

We’re running out of room. More soon, but let’s go out with this footnote about the Duchamps from page 275 of Lewis Hyde’s Trickster Makes This World²…

Fondly,

Jay Babcock

Arizona

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1. Especially if your name is Jann Wenner.

2. I’m still reading it! Dense and delightful — my most-dogeared-and-highlighted read in some time.

3. Substack doesn’t let writers offer subscriptions below $5/month, which is unfortunate. If I could offer this thing at $1/month, I would! For what it’s worth, a year-long sub is cheaper, and cuts down on transaction costs, so if you can swing that, thank you. Paying subscribers get the occasional Landline Special. (Material from Landline Specials eventually gets integrated in the free-to-all, public Landline, so that no one ends up being left out cuz they’re short on cash.)