Adam Mansbach presents Perez Prado


Another guest Pelanguero gets in the mix: this time it’s novelist Adam Mansbach, aka Kodiak Brinks, author of The End of the Jews, winner of the California Book Award, and the bestselling Angry Black White Boy, one of the funniest, smartest, and most devastating satires about hip-hop and race in America you’ll ever read. In 2011, he will publish a children’s book called Go the Fuck to Sleep, (dedicated, I assume, to my goddaughter V) and a graphic novel, Nature of the Beast. He is the New Voices Professor of Fiction at Rutgers University, and his record game has been described as “bananas.” Take it away, Brinks:

You can always tell, at a record store, who’s a hip-hopper: a DJ, a producer, even a collector – if the record store has a listening station, anyway.  Not by the stack of records he’s listening to: hip-hop is built on the notion of intellectual democracy through collage, so the wax he’s auditioning will have been pulled from every section of the store.  You can tell by the way he moves the tone-arm, the way he “flips through” the record.

He’s “looking for drums.” By which he means drum breaks: those stripped-down rhythmic lacunaes in the music that b-boys at park jams in the Bronx saved their best moves for and DJs learned to extend, for the b-boys’ pleasure, by rocking double copies.

First, the hip-hopper will listen to the opening bars of the song. This is where many breaks are located. If the song rewards him, his brow will furrow and his head will begin to bob. He may even pass the headphones to a friend and say “yo, check this shit out,” giddy with the excitement of a new discovery.

If there is an intro break, the hip-hopper will listen until other instruments come in, then drop the needle two-thirds of the way into the song, hoping the break comes back, longer and more robust, during the bridge. If the song is a ballad, or garbage, the needle will come back up before the first bar is over: on to the next jam. If the tune is promising but nebulous – a spacey jazz joint, say, one that seems like it might resolve into a groove somewhere down the line – he’ll drop the needle every sixteenth of an inch. Watching all this, you might wonder how the hell anybody can decide whether to buy a record by listening to ten one-second portions of it.

I always stress to my graduate students, in that crucible we call a fiction workshop, the importance of meeting a story on its own terms. I tell them that to be good readers, and helpful classmates, they’ve got to seek to understand what the writer is trying to do, and figure out how to help her get there.

And as I stand at the listening station, flipping through rock and blues and salsa records, it often occurs to me that perhaps I’m doing the opposite.  I’m judging the music – or at least, it’s suitability to join my rarefied collection – based on criteria that may have nothing to do with the artist’s intentions. Certainly, some of hip-hop’s most celebrated breaks, if you play them in context, seem incidental, if not anomalous, to the songs in which they’re housed:

This question of “terms” is never more striking to me that when I’m checking out Latin records. I guess because it seems so wrong, somehow, to judge them based on a hip-hop-centric conception of funkiness.  “Boogaloo” (itself an Americanization of “bugalú”) is the style that a) is most likely to give me what I’m looking for, and b) was widely seen, when these records were coming out in the late sixties and early seventies, as a sellout move, a compromise; the Ray Barretto records hip-hoppers hunt for are not the ones salsa fans seek out.  So… I’m actively pursuing the tourist crap?  That can’t be good, right?

Meanwhile, everything on Fania from 1973 is great, and all of it is funky – just not in a 4/4, b-boys-hit-the-floor kind of way. And, of course, I’ve ended up buying plenty of those records, and I consider myself a salsa fan now, and I’m learning to appreciate the music on its own terms.  The same way chasing down hip-hop samples granted me entrée to jazzblues, and rock, only to make me a fan in ways that transcended the breakbeat mission.

And yet, every time I throw a Latin record on that listening station turntable, I’m hoping for the kind of drum break that would have made Afrika Bambaataa wet his pants.  Which is why this 1974 Perez Prado LP is one of the dopest albums I’ve come across in months. I don’t know what was on his mind when he made it – was this a nod to commercial concerns, an attempt at fusion or crossover?  Or was he just one of the funkiest motherfuckers in the world, a musical pioneer who didn’t mind laying down his crown as “El Rey del Mambo” in favor of pioneering the Latin-rock fusion known as “Patricia,” then moving on to what Now’s liner notes describe as “an equation combining rhythm and pleasure to arrive at free expression” and term “Escandolo”? (A name that might also describe the style’s reception among Prado’s longtime fans).

It’s hard to pick one track here; “Tommy,” “El Campesino,” “Que Es Lo Que Pasa,” “Escandolo #1,” “Smack,” “Cangrejo,” and, yes, even “Tequila” are straight bangers.

Sadly, and perhaps revealingly, only “Tequila” is available on Youtube:

– Adam Mansbach

DJ Smokestack presents: P-Way’s “From All Angles”


Editor’s note: It’s our great pleasure to present another excellent guest pelanguero: our homie and goalkeeper

DJ Smokestack. Smokestack is an Oakland based B-boy, DJ, and avid funk connoisseur, and if you haven’t already heard his compilation of Bollywood disco, Shitala, you need to ask somebody. Along with crews Forever We Rock/Horsepower, Smokestack represents a rich tradition of b-boying fundamentals in Northern California. You can read about his record-digging adventures here:

For even the infrequent reader of La Pelanga, it’s clear there’s only one rival to the “Pelanga” flavor they bring – the beautiful game of futbol! Of course, on this first guest post I want to keep that flavor going, but gotta first pay homage to what initially connected me with the folks – playing pick-up ball in the park.

Though basketball is the undisputed champion of the hip hop aesthetic in the US, there is definitely a voice for those who, like me, like to juggle a soccer ball to the sounds of the Dungeon Family or Hieroglyphics. Professor Whaley of San Francisco’s Bored Stiff crew is one such voice. Waley, a veteran in the Bay Area’s public school classrooms and rap scene, rhymes with much swagger, while also possessing some often missing ingredients in today’s hip hop charts – a real grassroots commitment to social justice and integrity (ouch!). 

While P-Way’s  2000 “From All Angles” full length is quality straight through, my attention today goes to “Copa Mundial”, the first song that truly merged my love for futbol and rap music. I may not have grown up playing ball in the Bay Area, but Copa gives me the chance to reminisce on my own teenage glory days in Texas and imagine what it would be like to grow up having your style of play influenced by such cultural diversity! 

P-Way lays it down simply…”more people play soccer than football, basketball, and baseball combined”. While this is just cold fact, sadly in the US there still lingers an ignorant soccer-hating mentality, bred from latent american-centrism. Though it’s clear the sport continues to make advancements in the popular and collective conscious of the US, there is much ground to cover in order to foster a true sense of love for the game in the country as a whole.

All that aside, the music itself is solid, blending a nice mix of conga, afoxe, and other latin percussion with tinges of P-Way’s own dubbed-out trumpet playing and a bass heavy hip hop production style. If you’re feelin’ it, there’s a free download online along with the full album and other Bored Stiff productions…