I'm in NYC, sitting in my hotel room (BK, right by Fulton Mall), before SP's play SOB's. The last few days I've been too busy doing stuff to blog about doing stuff. The Shabazz line I most often think of in my day-to-day decision making (and I very often do invoke the Palaceer's wisdom) is the oft-quoted hook "when you talk about it, it's a show/but if you move about it, it's a go." Kind of a challenge when one of your jobs is to routinely talk about it, for sure, but as long as my talk is kind of a move in itself, then it's still thankfully a go. Know what I mean?
Anyway, I never said anything about Detroit. Dog, we went to 2468 Grand Blvd.
There's not much more to say; we got to touch hallowed ground. Mecca. Motown. On the way to the telly I put on some Stevie, and silently had myself a moment. I leaned my head back, the sun beaming hard in my eyes, determined not to drop a tear from behind my Ray-Bans; at that moment I felt so happy and touched, just blessed beyond all belief to have been so connected to music all my life.
Detroit native and hero dream hampton, while not present (she was in Philly), provided for us nonetheless; she arranged to have a huge order of Slow's BBQ sent over, and goddamn was it good. Standing in the crowd, I kicked it with the homegirl Invincible, a DIY Detroit hiphop institution:
It wasn't summer, but it wasn't so cold in the D; still, coming into town we could see the evidence of hard times, the neglect, the stress. Detroit is always going to be one of the illest music towns of all time though, if not the illest, full of game-changing innovators. While settling out, I had a great convo with the house manager touching on all of this; he was surprised when I asked him about The Dirtbombs. I told him about this video, of them performing my favorite joint on Ultraglide, a Phil Lynott cover, a block from my crib:
Sigh. All this is awesome, so freaking awesome, but I miss home like a mug, y'all.