[I’ll Give You a Break is a sporadic series of posts highlighting obscure (and not so obscure) breakbeats in unlikely places, so that they may be sampled by producers or just enjoyed for their own geeky purposes. NB: Don’t forget to clear all samples through the proper channels (cough).]

Shalabi Effect are a Montreal psych-rock group who incorporate exotic elements into their epic compositions. (Leader Sam Shalabi now plays in the Invisible Hands with Seattle musician/Sublime Frequencies co-owner Alan Bishop and some Cairo-based players.)

“One Last Glare” comes from Shalabi Effect’s 2002 album, The Trial of St-Orange (Alien8 Records). It’s an intriguing slice of strange-terrained psychedelia, with an extended tabla break running from approximately 2:24-3:16. I recommend that you use something in that stretch for your next track—because you’re special. The rest of the song has some great, sparse instrumentation out of which I can imagine some disciples of cLOUDDEAD constructing something extraordinary.

[I’ll Give You a Break is a sporadic series of posts highlighting obscure (and not so obscure) breakbeats in unlikely places, so that they may be sampled by producers or just enjoyed for their own geeky purposes. NB: Don’t forget to clear all samples through the proper channels (cough).]

Jeremy & the Satyrs were led by jazz-fusion flautist supreme Jeremy Steig, probably best known for the Beastie Boys sampling his tune “Howlin’ for Judy” on their track “Sure Shot.” (Steig is quoted on allaboutjazz.com: "I made more money from that sample than from any of my records. It saved my life at the time.")

Before he embarked on an artistically fruitful solo career, Steig cut an album full of excellent, electrified blues rock with the Satyrs in 1968, titled simply Jeremy & the Satyrs. Perhaps the highlight from that record is “The First Time I Saw You Baby (With the Pretty Green Eyes).” The bit from 0:16-0:19 is so functionally and vigorously funky it’s a wonder DJ Premier or Pete Rock never used it. Well, their oversight is your gain. You're welcome.

[I’ll Give You a Break is a sporadic series of posts highlighting obscure (and not so obscure) breakbeats in unlikely places, so that they may be sampled by producers or just enjoyed for their own geeky purposes. NB: Don’t forget to clear all samples through the proper channels (cough).]

Lothar and the Hand People were a quirky psych-pop group from the late ’60s who recorded for a major label (Capitol) back when major labels catered to those crazy, drug-addled kids because business in general was booming, so who cared if an LP only sold 3,017 copies? Here, have another hit of purple owsley…

Anyway, Lothar and the Hand People, a septet featuring theremin and Moog synthesizer in their repertoire of instruments, released an excellent album in 1968 titled Presenting… Lothar and the Hand People, produced by Robert Margouleff of Tonto’s Expanding Head Band, who later worked the boards on some of Stevie Wonder’s most adventurous records in the ’70s.

Among other gems, Presenting… bears the chunky oddity known as “Machines.” The opening, vocal-free 27 seconds provide some ear-grabbing Rube Goldberg, uh, machine klang and plonk with a woozy robotic groove that's just screaming to be sampled. I'm telling you, this one's got legs—very wobbly legs. Get on it, producers.

It’s 2013 and people in the music-promotional game should already know these things, but every once in a while something happens that proves a helpful reminder is necessary. Ergo, this list of common-sense guidelines to orchestrating a successful Monday night musical entertainment experience.

Prologue: Monday nights are horrible, obviously, because 97-percent of your target demo is recovering from the weekend—on top of which many people have loads of laundry to do, online music retailers' email lists to peruse, and toenails to trim. So, promoter/venue booker, the odds are stacked against you from the get-go. You shouldn’t hold an event on a Monday night. Seriously. But sometimes you have no choice. Maybe a band from overseas that’s never played your city is in town for a Monday night and maybe some people have been itching to see said band for many, many years. Oh, all right, let’s put on a Monday show, even though Mondays are the George W. Bush of nights.

Please follow these guidelines in order to make the best of a (probably) bad situation.

• Start the show early—say, 7 pm or 8 pm.
• No more than three (3) bands on the bill. This is a fucking gig, not a war of attrition.
• First band should start no later than 45 minutes after doors open. No fucking exceptions.
• Bands should not be soundchecking before they play their set. That should’ve been done before doors opened.
• Set lengths for opening acts should fall in the 25-/35-minute range, max. Ever hear of the dazzling nugget of wisdom, “Always leave ’em wanting more”? Heed that sage advice, for the love of all that is holy.
• Headliners should go on no later than 11 pm. If your headliner goes on at, say, 1 am and only gets 30 minutes to play, you’ve seriously botched things. This should be apparent by the grim realization that much of your meager crowd has already dissipated.
• Shoo out the punters by 12:30 am (at the latest) by playing third-wave ska over the PA.

[I’ll Give You a Break is a sporadic series of posts highlighting obscure (and not so obscure) breakbeats in unlikely places, so that they may be sampled by producers or just enjoyed for their own geeky purposes. NB: Don’t forget to clear all samples through the proper channels (cough).]

This may be the wackiest entry in the I’ll Give You a Break annals. Check out the naked beats in the first seven seconds of Second Hand’s nutso prog monstrosity “Lucifer and the Egg.” They’re not the easiest slaps to work with, but I have faith that somebody out there can use them—especially the opening volley—to benefit the human race.

The song’s remaining seven-plus minutes take you on a serpentine journey to the heart of British prog’s baroque virtuosity and boundless tomfoolery. If you gaze long enough at the amazing cover art, it all starts to make (non)sense. The first time I heard the album on which “Lucifer and the Egg” can be found—the geniusly titled Death May Be Your Santa Claus—I was tripping on acid in Dallas, Texas (thanks, Eric and Matt). I’m still trying to recapture that feeling of helium-filled, outlandish absurdity that this track conjures.