The PK 27 -- Japanese Import

Warning: bad shades of green in the video below include lime, puke lime, neon lime, and "I'm not putting this in your Corona because it will kill you" lime*.

Say what you want about 50 Cent,

(c'mon, this is the Internet; call my mother a skeezoid and threaten to kill me; I have no legal recourse. Have at it, young angst-ridden haterz)

but dude still possesses a tiger-like ferocity on the mic when properly motivated. In this case, motivation is amply supplied by a choice Milk D sample. Not to beat a dead mixed metaphor sprinkled with a vague T.S. Eliot reference, but you can hear fire in an earful of lust from Curtis's delivery; give him a good (more drums, less synth) beat, and he's finna ride that mother to glory, eye of the tiger style.

There's a Vince Carter analogy creeping up somewhere in the back of my spine, but I'm too vindictive to follow through.

What I'm trying to say is this**: 50 used to be THE underdog in the rap game. He made a record rhyming about how he was going to rob the top-selling hip-hop artists of that time (1983, this was), and was subsequently marked for death. Word to Steven Segal and Omar Little. He was hungry; he wanted to eat at the grown-ups' table, and eventually he did. Then, somewhere along the way, he got complacent. It happens. Happens to the best (see: Jones, Nasir).

Survive bullet wounds then star in a --albeit shitty -- Hollywood movie, and get back to me vis a vis complaints for 50 taking it easy for a while/forever.

To make a short story shorter, what makes "I Get Money" a rare gem is that we, for a fleeting moment, get to see 50 Cent back in his element -- vomit-colored shirts, cars, and skirts notwithstanding.




* Although, if you're a guy ordering a Corona with lime, you probably deserve to die. Word to vitriol.

** Indication no. 135 that I'm tired, drunk and lonely, and want to wrap this up as soonly*** as possible.

*** Made you look.

The PK 27 -- Track 12

Love like Semtex, by the Infadels

Once in a while, I come across a song that I enjoy for no definite reason, which is to say that I find music to be an organic experience of the six senses; the sixth sense being the mystical, ‘I can’t precisely express my affection for something, but I know that I adore it.’ The Infadels have accomplished the not-so-small feat of tickling my spider sense for endearing melodies, and a big portion of my frail psyche wants to toss out a ‘just because’ for rationale. Some learned critics would decry my laughable inadequacy, and in an effort to satiate their bloodlust (and, coincidentally, punish you, vaunted readers) I shall endeavor to properly elucidate my accolades.

First things first; this song, Love like Semtex, should have been the first track of our illustrious debut album, but Sparkles recently sent me a vituperative, if not wholly inappropriate, e-mail warning me against such action*. This nefarious remonstration included the phrase ‘death by boom-boom,’ succinctly emphasized by an affixed photo of idealjetsam looking particularly libidinous, which is enough to make a con man go straight, a gay guy go hetero, and a righteous man walk the path of the wicked.

While I am perfectly willing to grant you, dear reader, the wisdom to discern that I am neither (flaming) gay, nor particularly wicked, perhaps we should presume that I am a bit of a charlatan, but on this splendid eve I shall come clean (as it were), if only to avoid the decidedly penetrating wrath of Sparkles’ Premier Assassin. In the spirit of things, I’m going to share ten random truths with you, all of which encapsulate the notion of love which predominates the typhoon that is Psychedelic Kimchi and its relationship to Love like Semtex.

1. A few years back, beneath in the neon glaze of Itaewon, the Kimchi Krew witnessed TMH wrestle a pig, albeit a deceased one. Corpse or not**, the use of folkstyle wrestling takedowns was befitting of the passion that Big T has for the sport itself, and the chokehold performed was, ironically, one of love unbound.

2. I once spread some of the sauce from a Taco Bell Baja Gordita (one of the company’s palatable signature items) upon a woman’s breasts, and proceeded to feast upon her delectable figure. I’ll spare you the woman’s name, except that it began with an ‘M’, and that it rhymed with the word semtex. It wasn’t the healthiest of relationships, but there was an abundance of hot sauce, so the price of admission*** was justified.

3. In the late eighties, idealjetsam and I went to see a Boston concert, in Connecticut of all places. Brad, Tom, and the rest of the gang were in top form -especially during their perennial hit Amanda, which ushered forth an adrenaline rush the likes of which most skydivers can only dream about- and left us breathless. The performance of Feelin’ Satisfied remains one of the most dramatic moments of my life. At several points throughout the song, Mr. Delp commanded the audience to ‘put your hands together, yeah c’mon, put your hands together’ and we, the people, took his suggestion to heart, just in different ways. I thought the words meant to clap my hands profusely, while IDJ thought it implied that he should grab other people’s hands in an effort to feel satisfied. A bit traumatic, but that’s when I learned that IDJ is pure, explosive emotion, and it’s best not to rile him up (unless you’re into being manhandled).

4. Did you know that I am on vacation? What’s more, I shouldn’t give a shit about Sparkles’ censure, even though I’ve lost at least thirty hours of quality REM sleep trying to master my fear of it. So let Love like Semtex be track twelve hundred for all I care. “Love just doesn’t come first in life, unless you’re addicted to cocaine.”****

5. I once auditioned for the role of Mayday in Roger Moore’s final contribution to the James Bond franchise, A View to a Kill. In the final round of the selection process, I lost out to Grace Jones, because she agreed to participate in a love scene with Mr. Moore, while I remained firm in my objection on the grounds that it was morally reprehensible. They refused to allow full frontal nudity in the film, and they had expected me to merely simulate copulation. The director also dismissed my proposal to insert a scene in which Christopher Walken slaps the Russian girl around with a severed elephant trunk. Strike three, gentlemen, and the final product bore the price of my departure.

6. Just a few moments ago, I mentioned using Taco Bell as an aphrodisiac of sorts, but I’d like to set the record straight, inasmuch that the woman noted previously was not the same one that enjoyed eating CheezUms until she vomited (well, to be honest, it was probably more of a regurgitation if anything). Seriously, whence would I have developed such a penchant for Pringles? Her name began with an ‘S’ (-atan), and she had darker hair than the other lady. They were totally different people, and only the latter adored my act of ejaculating upon her backside whilst she coughed up orange-colored, gelatinous goo. If that doesn’t scream Psychedelic Kimchi, I don’t know what would.

7. The Head on the Door is a fantastic, nay, lovely album, and I don’t even like the Cure that much. Actually, Disintegration was pretty cool as well, but you get the idea. Thanks for making such a fine suggestion back in '86, mom.

8. Getting back to Kimochi for a minute, it seems as if there is a sizable portion of Psychedelic Kimchi’s readership which finds our adulation of the feminine form to be distasteful at best. To the mothers, daughters, sisters, wives, feminists, effeminate men, gorillas, hardcore troubadours, and Michelle Branch fans of the world: we understand, we deserve your ‘shame on you boys’ scorn, and we have only three prurient souls to share between the six of us, but that’s just the way we were made -especially Kermo- and we have no intention of making genuine apologies. Sure, Denz will throw out a plastic olive branch at times*****, and I’ll give some lip service to regretting my cavalier lifestyle (kissing babies, cutting ribbons at shopping mall openings, drinking lepers’ bath water, etc.) but you know that we’re just telling you what we’d like to tell ourselves when drunk (which is less than never). Proclivity like semtex.

9. Halloween, 2006. If you were there, you’d know, but as an abridgement: one guy got lucky, one man was set upon the path of freedoom, and several people were subject to a cannonade of delightful deception that spanned across the weekend in its entirety. Best of all, neither of the gentlemen had to dress up as anything other than their charming, insouciant selves.

10. Love like Semtex, or 100% Psychedelic Kimchi? I’ll let you be the judge.



デジタル・ラブ

------------------

* Love like Semtex wouldn’t really set up the second track (Fuckin’ in the Bushes) all that well, actually, so blame Denz.

** It may have been the bloated carcass of a prostitute, but you know how fuzzy memory can become over the years.

*** Three fiddy-nine, and a whole lotta blotto.

**** Corinthians, 2:13

*****By having his picture taken with cute dogs, for example.

The PK 27 -- Track A

We've had somewhat of an outbreak here in America A. They are calling it an Equine Flu epidemic. Horses getting the common cold is serious business, or so they would have me believe. I'm a good citizen though, so I don't question things too much.

Truth told, I lied about not questioning it. In fact, I've questioned it frequently in the past few weeks, quite loudly and often on trains. I mean, why should I give a fuck about snotty nosed horses? I'm not in the calvary.

And yet they persist that this is America A's key problem right now. The news is replete with infection updates and sad tales about the cancellation of the Spring Racing Carnival and images of punters who are unable to 'back a winner' and must, in the cruelest of twists, use that money to pay child support.

Ironically, or perhaps not, I live within walking distance of the heart of the horse racing industrial complex. In fact, I could see its shiny grandstand from my window if I were to stand on a box. However, I choose not to do so. Not for fear of its hypnotic pull or my lack of an actual box, but because as a person not of the ruling class, I feel no connection to this silver spooned beast.

See, unlike IDJ, I'm not from Connecticut and my parents do not own a mansion and a yacht. I never had a pony. Hell, I'm still waiting on my acres and a mule.

Pass the forty.

But I digress. The skinny is: I have not followed the party line about how serious this horse epidemic is. And that, dear reader, has been my undoing.

Sometime last week, most likely when I was drinking on Sunday afternoon, I fear some blue blood hack/horse lobbyist injected me with the Equine flu. I was drinking with an Irishman at the time and he, subsequently, happened upon a Brit. They did that 'jewel of the crown/county' bit I never quite get and that's when it happened. Or at least, that's about the time from when I don't recall much else happening at all.

Knowing what you and I know vis-a-vis equus/homo biology and physiology, I understand your initial conclusion would be that the successful transmission of such a contagion from a horse to my person would be improbable. I agree. However, that would be overlooking the distinct physical aspects of all who occupy this binary space: Incitatus.

I have clearly been the victim of foul play. In the days that followed I endured possibly the most virulent flu ever encountered ... by myself.

As an aside, on the second day of my illness I visited the doctor to seek advice. The doctor was nice enough, but at this stage I looked like a marfan-addled Linux user and was clearly incoherent, answering most questions with 'what?'. I did manage to explain to the doctor that I had some back pain, at which point he perked up, took stock of me for a second, winked and wrote me a rather large prescription for codeine phosphate. Thinking nothing of it, I winked back and took the script from him. It wasn't until later when the pharmacist told me it was a controlled drug and that they locked it in a safe that it occurred to me that my doctor must have thought I was a junkie.

In any event, the rest of my illness was spent in a fever-ridden and, notwithstanding the codeine, pain-riddled delirium. Apparently codeine only works on meth heads.

There is a point to this:

One notable aspect of my illness was the fever dream stage. When I was a kid, my fever induced dreams were, invariably, of German Stuka's relentlessly divebombing my bed, Jericho horns wailing, but never bringing the sweet release of death. I was a strange kid.

This time, my dreams were different. The first night was occupied with me being convinced that the Harvard Negotiation Model could be improved by rendering it in a three-dimensional form.

The second night, a veritable novel of words and ideas spewed - figuratively and literally - from my mind and mouth. I had a novel. I even managed time to adapt a screen play, and was doing some mental sketchings that I hoped would be redone professionally by William G during pre-production. A life's work, in two fever riddled days. Had I managed to capture any of it on paper (or four track), I would have completed my life's goal of completing a life goal.

However, I did not. Now I sit here, spent. Trying valiantly to remember anything that went through my brain, but all I can think of is the Mr Ed theme.

I do know one thing though. Everything in my dream looked and sounded like this:



Track A
Crooked - Evil Nine (Ft. Aesop Rock)

The PK 27 -- (Hidden Bonus Track)

It takes a pretty literal-minded English major to like a song because his actual age is mentioned in the lyrics. However, with songwriting like "27 years of nothing but failure and promises I couldn't keep/ but I ain't ready to go," Ryan Adams has made just such a man of me...



... until December, anyway.

The PK 27--Track 3.14159265

Since skippy the TAKAlisciouS thought it acceptable to leave you all without a Youtube wonder, allow me to gratify you visually:

That, Meine Damen und Herren was the joyful and eclectic Polysics who solicited the 11 year old "anime dancer" Strong Machine 2 to perform her magic in their video. There was actually an original video with multiple dancers, but in an effort to outdo the North Koreans in their somewhat-more-than-just-a-tad-bit-off fascination with the acrobatics, contortions and JUST FREAK-ASS WEIRDNESS of pre-pubescent performance artists, they ended up trashing that one, in favor of this Strong Machine 2 masterpiece.

(Admit it. It's kinda cool. Zooperkool, even.)

Now, in case you think there is any trick photography involved, or that Polysics's music is, er, computer generated by a team of monkeys at the boards and hamsters at the wheels (of steel?), here is a live version with spesshuul ges-teuh: Strong Machine 2!

Tell me it ain't past that kid's bed time, and, actually, I'll believe you because North Asian parents bring their kids to the club.

All you really need to know about Polysics is that their greatest influence is Devo (can just make it out, cantcha?), a respect that is sardonically returned by the members of Devo themselves: Mark Mothersbaugh used a Polysics CD for his office phone system, forcing the people on hold to endure the tracks being played.

Love that recorder.

And that's what I needed to say in New York City, exactly six years after the Twin Towers burned.

______________________

The PK 27 -- Track 4

Note: this post is approved by Cancon.

Say what you want about Christianity,

(except that; that was out of line, pal)

but, like Greek and Roman myths, the English language is loaded with some pretty neat biblical metaphors, allusions, aphorisms and iconography*. 9 out of ten atheists** agree: Christianity often makes for some wicked art***. (Was that ironic adjective usage heresy? Did I blaspheme?)

Case in point: Jesse Winchester's "Step by Step," which cribs from the American spiritual "When the Saints Go Marching In," and freaks it from the perspective of a hesitant laggard who, instead of ascending Jacob's golden ladder, would prefer to remain behind in order to understand "the trouble down below." The song also serves -- in its lyrics "many a happy-go-lucky saint has made that long, long drop" -- as a reminder that the distance between Heaven and Hell is merely a fall from grace away. Word to Michael Vick.

If it appears I'm proselytizing, trust me that I'd rather convert you to this song than convince you to kick ass for the Lord. "Step by Step," with its ploddingly thick harmonica and bass, is dirty in the holiest sense of the word. (Ways in which the Christian Church has failed: 1) not commissioning a series of porno movies which titilate yet manage to shame, 2) snack foods, 3) Sunday morning service****).

Would that I could bless you with a Youtube video, you're gonna have to make an Internet exodus worthy of Moses to find this holy gem. (Or download the finale of The Wire's first season and wait for the ending montage, though that seems too easy a salvation.)

I have faith in you, cowboyboz_77. Seek the promised land.






* Unlike Greek and Roman mythology, however, Christianity has failed to produce any kickass cartoons, comic book superheroes, or planets (bring back Pluto). Jesus wept.

** No caps on the 'a,' you heathens. (I sincerely hope any atheists reading this can take a joke. Because they're so touchy and all.)

*** I realize I'm putting myself before a firing squad with that statement, so hear me out. Using familiar Bible verses before killing some motherfucker = good (see: Fiction, Pulp); trying to convert listeners through pansy-ass rock music = bad (see: P.O.D.; Stryper). I'm no prophet, but I'm fairly sure God hates lame art made in His name more than you do.

**** How can you compete with hangovers and the NFL, church? Don't be so stubborn; take the L on Sundays and move to a new time slot. It worked for The Simpsons [dodges lightning bolt].

The PK 27 -- Track 29

(Only available on the Special Edition 8-track "PK 27: Funky 4 Plus 4 More," to be released in the fall of the year 49311. Order now from Amazon and receive a fossilized replica of my tortured soul, replete with kung-fu grip.)



I'm dumbin. I'm pulling an IDJ (if PK is basketball, I'm George Karl). I'm buying time for K-Hot to contribute when he gets back from the land of coconut milk and honeys (pace wins the race).

I'm purposefully being vague. It's better that way, Terry.

(Not you, the other Terry.)

Mostly, I'm being lazy. I could have written a post describing Kanye West's new album, Graduation, as the most ambitious mainstream hip-hop release since Jay-Z's The Blueprint*; I could have told you that Aesop Rock's None Shall Pass is mostly a yawn fest (I don't hate myself or have multiple body piercings, so I might be the only living human alive to consider Bazooka Tooth his magnum opus).

I could have given you the world.

(Failing that, a killer grilled cheese and bacon sandwich. With guitars.)

My sincere apology to Den Dog: Nas is Prince times, like, infinity. So much talent, so many lame albums. Still, there are some gems. As far as a career in the arts goes, I feel the same way about John Carpenter. There comes a point when a visionary can no longer coast on early success -- what have you done for me lately, you know? (Word to Janet.) And, yes, I'm looking in the mirror right now. I have a bit of parsley between my ego.

Track 29 isn't even a very good song (theme!): it's Nas recycling the Iron Butterfly sample he used on "Thief's Theme" (theme!). But it's PK like that because it arouses memories of the greatest road trip ever taken.

Just trust me. It was that good.




* Mos Def, however, is on drugs. I wasn't expecting much from a song titled "Drunk and Hot Girls," but what a debacle. Possibly worse than the entirety of Outkast's Idlewild, which is saying something.

The PK 27 -- Track 15

Step aside.

The PK 27 (Why 27?) Track (Some number goes here--talk to the editor.)

________________________

Shout to the Top--The Style Council

I realized by reading the posts of the other PK staff writers how heavily this whole PK 27 concept (which I still don't fully understand: Why 27? What's with the number order? Who the hell approved an Oasis track? JTC...) relies on the 5th Estate(TM): Youtube.

So, I have gone ahead and changed all of my initial choices (as told to the stylin' six) as I can't find good versions of them online. Instead, I'll start off with a little subtext and context and Paul Weller's post-Jam, post-Punk, post-partum party of four, The Style Council.



Ah, the modfather had become truly moddish. But to provide the promised context let us remember young Paul's roots:



I've always said that the performance of a truly dynamic duo could be made in the meeting of the blue-collar, local boy socialist sensibilities of The Modfather and The Boss. Envision our avuncular bards together on the same stage, acoustic guitars in hand. Can you hear Bruce's version of "That's Entertainment" or Paul's rendition of "Born to Run"?* See it?**

Goose bumps were cliché only until just then.

Alas, this congress of genius seems unlikely in the extreme. Therefore, let's satisfy ourselves with the British equivalent of "Born to Run" played by Paul, supported by a talentless hackey who barely deserves to be among the audience, much less sharing the stage.

Paul's nothing if not magnanimous.





Sidenote: Hopefully you will all forgive me, but I will no longer be able to maintain the blistering pace of posting you have come to expect. I am on a weekends-only schedule (unless I change my mind sometime) and appreciate your patience.


And that's what I needed to say in New York City,9 days shy of six years after the Twin Towers burned.


*I won't blaspheme in the general direction of our readers from across the pond by hypothesizing how Mr. Weller's take on "Born in th USA" would manifest. Oops. Did that just enter your mind...?

**Now imagine Young William and Tony providing backup in a true show of bi-lateralism. (Getting carried away, aren't I?)

The PK 27 -- Track 11

I'm perfectly hungover and feel as though I've been poisoned; so I suppose it's been a good weekend. It's not a well-documented fact, but, truth be told, Constant Retard, I'm fond of pleasing the species feminina. (Almost as fond as I am of commas.) Occasionally, this hobby of mine includes agreeing to go ice skating. Enter: alcohol. Last night's friend, today's saboteur.

What a way to go out, out like a sucker: turns out drunken promises are hard to keep when you're standing on the corner of 5th and Vomit. Thankfully, the life of one Tiberious aka Sparkles was spared by an angel of mercy.

Sometimes I fuck up -- of that I am willing to admit. Sometimes was today, and the level of gratitude I hold in my heart towards [name withheld upon request] for giving me a mulligan is immeasurable.

With that, I dedicate track 11 to the homogametic sex. Psychedelic Kimchi extends its superlative thankfulness to a much-appreciated, increasingly rare breed of humans: the Sunday Morning Nurturers, women who put up with -- and forgive -- our indulgence, our idiotic behavior.

Word to Marge Simpson.