Someone got in my car, heard Adele on the radio, and said, “Is this that unreleased Amy Winehouse stuff?”
Long story short, the person thought Adele was Amy Winehouse. He is Suzuki, a complete head. Suzuki has no idea what plays on the radio and hasn’t in five years. He’s unfettered. Suzuki likes to stare at his Koi fish and attempt to make bass sounds that are outside the human range of hearing. He listens to junky South American electronica, Sleeper, Hella, Tomahawk, and Charles Mingus. He’s antisocial and his headphones are practically growing into his skull.
Suzuki is like a sonic Carlos Castaneda and Ipecac Recordings is his Yaqui Way of Knowledge. Listening sessions with him are a training. I take notes when I’m with Suzuki and date them 1962:
After lunch, the man put water into my canteen, and two pieces of fresh wheat bread into my knapsack. Instructions: Walk on the road for about a mile, cut through a field, and in two hours there will be foothills standing south of town. Southpark? The I.D? Leschi? Climb to a clearing, press play on Miles Davis' “Rated X” off Panthalassa. Look East. Spit into dirt. Sky to cave in, or droop. Snake tongue.