Do you remember Chocolate Thunder? The In-Your-Face-Disgrace, Dr. Dunkenstien, Sir Slam, Rim Wrecker? That’s Darryl Dawkins, ladies and gentleman. The next Wilt Chamberlain and the reason that the NBA introduced break away rims. Powerful, fast and so big that his high school teachers called him “Mr. Dawkins.” You have to recognize a mast of the art of the game, and the Spine Chiller Supreme was certainly one. But where did he give credit for his unusual abilities? Why, Planet Lovetron of course, where he spent each off season with girlfriend Juicy Lucy improving his “Interplanetary Funkmanship.”
Somewhere, deep in the swamps of Florida, Sir Slam must have arranged a clandestine meeting with Juan Holliday, frontman of the Secret B-Sides. As a long-presumed-extinct T-Rex pranced just outside of the firelight to the thick bass of Shayne Heather, Juan received the coordinates of Lovetron and, having studied the ways of Interplanetary Funkmanship, was given the responsibility of being Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary to return the funk via the hills of the Cherokee. Fortunately for us, the embassy is populated by the B-Sides and their lessons come to us in the convenient packages like “Flowers and Chocolate.”
These lessons came to some as quickly as they were released for human edification back in April. Others, like myself, had to wander in ignorance for far too long. In fact, it was as I wandered by the B-Sides’ set at this year’s LAAFF that I was struck by the soul-stirring funk of the band. In addition to the aforementioned low end (thick enough to make Queen Latifa’s hips look pencil-like by comparison) Robin Tolleson’s syncopated rhythms roll down like rain on a metal roof, except that they grab you by their absence and return before you even knew they were gone.
And speaking of gone, what about Jeff K’norr on the keyboards? I thought K’norr was a Norwegian soup mix, and if that is the legacy of Mr. Jeff, he brings both character and spice to this stew. The keys lay like a sunset on top of the mountains, ever changing but never not right. Stitching these parts, and various iterations of a smoking horn section, together are the guitar licks of Juan Holliday. Holliday provides the lead vocals as well, with a voice that is reminiscent of smooth soul singers like Marvin, Smokey or Sam. And like at least two of these three, Juan’s vocal tranquility strengthens rather than hides the conviction of his lyrics.
Lyrics which are of love and living, which the B-Sides appear dead set on helping us enjoy. No pleasure of the flesh is off limits, be those sex, marijuana, hairstyles, or masculine mani-pedis. But as “Franky Flowers” points out, all of these endeavors point to a state of mind. That spiritual state is embodied in the life of our beloved mountain home, which gets its own tribute in “Wonderworld.” In other tracks, the B-Sides give evidence of a belief that there is someone or something bigger than all of us, guiding us when we are willing.
And by us, have no doubt that this means all of us. Like Sam Cooke or Marvin Gaye, the Secret B-Sides preach a love that is all encompassing. This means that those of us who enjoy enough freedom to choose our own actions need to consider becoming “Soldiers of Love” in a war of liberation for our brothers and sisters still deep in the struggle. Along the way a variety of featured guests get enlisted into the B-Side Liberation Front including Chach, Agent 23, Sidney Barnes, Preach Jacobs, and the Southern Silk Duo. The result is less a military fortification than a house party or revival encampment. And when the gospel is this soulful, there are not better ministers than the Secret B-Sides.
My empire of dirt
True confessions: from pictures I have seen on the Facebook pages of people I don’t fully respect, I assumed Michael Franti was a douchebag. Maybe he is. Back in the day, however, I got turned on to a band called “The Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy” and was thinking about their song “Music and Politics” over the weekend with the ongoings in South Carolina. In particular, I was listening to that part of Race To The Bottom where Jon Reid was laying out and laying into Newt Gingrich.
The sensation was much like that of receiving morphine in the hospital a couple of weeks back. (Though it has not had the same lasting effects on my bowels.) A short painful stick was followed by a vein-numbing rush of the cold dope we call electoral politics. After a brief period of intense nausea, I felt myself slipping into a dull stupor of righteous indignation. Make no mistake about it, my moral outrage will not be assuaged by Democratic campaigning. It will not be assuaged because I will want to wear it like a warm, wet blanket. There is a reason it’s called being a “political junkie.”