Throwback Thursday | The Marvelettes

Odds are you've probably heard of the Supreme's and Martha and the Vandellas.  However, most of you probably haven't heard of the 4 ladies that made the success of the aforementioned groups possible.

While the last two installments of Throwback Thursday have revolved around a late 70's sound with more groovable bass lines, rythm, and synths, today I'm reaching for something about more soulful and gritty. 

The recording's aren't as crisp. 

The sound isn't really fit for the dance floor. 

But if you aren't digging on the soulful lyrics and catchy melodies of these soul pioneers, you're in the wrong line of work.

Meet the Marvelettes, the best soul group you've probably never heard of:

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"Mr. Postman"

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"Darling Forever"

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"Playboy"

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"Beechwood 4-5789"

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#winning

There’s a long standing idea in the Western world that anyone who lends their name to the spotlight is open, in fact, deserving of any which kind of critisicm that comes their way. There may be a war on multiple international fronts, but our supermarket check stands and queues are littered with celebrity gossip.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ll surely have gotten wind of Charlie Sheen’s recent meltdown. I’m not going to carry on into too much detail on the actual on goings, but what’s more than obvious is that the man is clearly deranged, and mentally unstable.

Looking at the recent hoopla of Charlie Sheen’s latest brush with psychosis is in many ways both sad, and a reflection of the state of today.

I’m not sure if many of you remember, but while Twitter was single handedly brining democracy to #Egypt, Calvin Klein decided to take advantage of the social media buzz to peddle underwear.

Social Media is a fickle animal, with trends emerging and dying quicker than it takes to respond in 140 characters or less.

I rarely listen to the radio, but about a week ago, I decided to tune into my personal favorite, a man whose goatee is almost as bad as his jokes, Jim Rome. During commercial I switched to the other sports station, only to find the nasaly host playing clips off a Charlie Sheen soundboard, while his sidekick got in a few cheap chuckles.

Scour social media sites, and you’ll be inundated with a constant barrage of “#winning” updates and wise cracks about Sheen that made the pedestrian Chuck Norris jokes look like a reincarnation of George Carlin.

How many of your braindead friend’s decided to tell the world that they were, “on a drug called Charlie Sheen”?

Now you may think I have some sort of sympathy for Mr. Sheen. Not the case at all. I just found the whole thing to be far from funny. I mean, in this day and age, are any of you really shocked by a drunk celebrity spewing utter nonsense into a camera or microphone?

That shit was old when Mel Gibson was doing it.

Ritchie is the Spice of Life

Few artists can be pigeon holed as easily as our most Jamaican of friends, Richie Spice. The vast majority of his work speaks almost exclusively to the superficial politics of the stoner class; and for this I salute him.

This song, aptly titled 'Marijuana', is an ode to the leaf, the buddah, the herbaceous hedonist, the highest grade. There’s no subtlety, no beating around the bush. No, the bush is undeniably the primary focus of his attention.

Too often, I feel, the specialist is palmed off as limited. However, nothing could be further from the truth. Ritchie is an aficionado, an expert, a connoisseur toker with a voice so angelic as to bring tears to even the most bloodshot of eyes.

Ritchie Spice, born Ritchell Bonner, is, as I’m sure hardly needs stating, a member of the Rastafarian movement. He wears his narcotic and Reggae influences on his sleeve. Alas the illegal status of his chosen form of intoxication, as ordained by the woefully inconsistent British legal system, renders him a threat to the status quo.

Consider a wine review in the Guardian weekend supplement. Here the individuals praising the qualities of these potent liquids in various tasting notes are venerated as palatable members of a thriving cultural community. And yet Ritchie and many other, admittedly lesser, virtuosos in his field of expertise are too regularly dismissed as mindless, addled prophets of a heinous, degenerate underworld. The injustice is almost too much to bear.

So let this blog be a portal for this underappreciated champion of the sensi. It’s a bit retro, I suppose (this particular tune was released in 2004), but that’s in these days, right? Anyway, relax (preferably as Ritchie would advocate), enjoy and appreciate this budding veteran of dread. I’ll end this with what seems almost obligatory: Jah Bless!





Note: This post was authored by our mate Alfie Hatt, who should at some point become a regular contributer. Cheers.

Man with a knife (part 2)

The marriage collection is silly and innocuous, or so it seems. A friend said they reminded her of Punch and Judy dolls and she’s right; he is playing puppeteer. But just as the mask collection carries poignant duality, these marriage frames are also hardly one dimensional.

Stezaker’s patience and precision first to find the two faces and then to seamlessly align lips, eyebrows, chins, hairlines is noteworthy. He has said that before he cuts into the portraits he feels like a surgeon. What a deft simile it is. Both use scalpels. Both alter. But while a surgeon aims at leaving no traces of incision, the scar is vital to the artist. It’s a sinister jarring and awkwardness which gives these their eerie shots such appeal.

Whether or not you find his work as intriguing as I do, don’t tell me you didn’t look twice.

Man with a knife (part 1)

I get his name muddled with French prez Sarkozy, but rather than marrying (ex) supermodels, John Stezaker prefers to slice and carve up their glamour shots and then transplant landscape postcards to represent their brains, eyes, and lungs.

He operates in various ways. His work is founded on the acute juxtaposition of man and woman, human and nature, place and nothingness.




The old mask collection is disturbing gruesome at first glance. It appears like the people posing for the camera have been shot in the face at point blank by Javier Bardem from No Country for Old Men. Yet the gaping holes where one expects to see brain matter and remnants of skull instead reveal cascading waterfalls from a fantasy lands, cool dark caves, and archaic bridges from the French countryside. Here, Stezaker’s ability to jolt emotion from horror to beauty is awesome.









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Pride and Prejudice: WWF

Ask people to give their thoughts on racial jokes and stereotypes, and you’re bound to get an abundance of answers. I tend to find the whole issue rather polarizing.

On one hand you have those that are so uptight, that even the slightest jab at a perceived racial or cultural stereotype will make them cringe in discomfort.

On the other hand, you have those that can find humor and maybe even a cheeky laugh in some of the absurdities of modern stereotypes. Perhaps they adhere to the view of Comedian Russel Peters, who rather adequately sums it up when he says, “I don’t make the stereotypes. I just see them”. 

As someone who keeps a stable of diverse friends (no I’m not using the word stable to imply that some of them are fit for a barn), the ability to laugh at our collective differences together, is somewhat of a beautiful thing. 

I think the progress we have made as society is remarkable. And to emphasize that very point, I’m going to bring all of you a variety of things from my youth that would make the sensitivity police scream foul. 

As many of you who grew up in the 90’s can attest to, WWF was the coolest shit on television at the time. For comparisons sake, I tried to look at the new generation of WWF (I guess it’s called WWE now), and I simply wasn’t thrilled. Here are two awesome clips featuring Razor Ramon (probably the only wrestler with chest hair), and the Million Dollar Man, Ted DiBiase. 

Sexism? Check.
Stereotyping Latinos everywhere? Check.

Would this fly today? I doubt it.

Is it offensive? Probably.

Is it entirely hilarious? You better believe it.

Here's some more blatant (yet somewhat hilarious) racism thanks to our friends at WWF: