Big Talk, Real Slow

big.talk.real.slow@gmail.com

without a radio, we can all still hear it in our bones

Well, it’s…it’s 1:35 in the morning here at HITZ 103.5: It’s 1:35 a lot of places, actually. Maybe if it’s a cool night you’re getting me down on the other side of the lake. If you are, give us a call. Lines are open.

That last track was, of course, Toxic by Britney Spears. A good song. Not my favourite, personally, I’ll be honest. Unpopular opinion, but I hold up Womanizer to be the better song. Unpopular opinion. I might have to hang up my badge, my radio presenter badge, I’d have to hang it up if anybody ever found out.

The one before that was Backstreet’s Back. Off of their second album. That really solidified them. That second album—let’s look at it straight on—no sophomore slump. They just delivered. They were on a run there. Millennium came next and that has a lot of staples, a lot of good tracks there. Larger than Life. That’s off that album. You know, their fourth album, Black and Blue also solid. They all have that glossy Max Martin sound. It was a mistake to move away from that. Hindsight is 20/20. Easy for me to say.

A lot of comparisons have been drawn between them and the New Kids on the Block, but I think Maurice Starr didn’t know how to use the talent in his group at first, and then he…he stumbled on it. Still churned out two solid albums. The Backstreet Boys were better for the form. Tried slightly different things. And Martin was a good producer, but he had great talent too, and there were these little incremental leaps of genius. What do you think? Give us a call. The lines are open. While we’re waiting, let’s take a short commercial break and get to some more music. You’re listening to HITZ 103.5: The Station that Never Sleeps!

—-

Zigga-a-zig-ah. God. A classic. Just burst onto the scene. And that video. That video. Jeez. Lyrically, they’re still very playful, not really plunging the depths. We draw the Madonna comparison when talking about Lady Gaga. That’s true, it’s a – it’s a very valid comparison to make. But stylistically, the Spice Girls – you can trace a direct line to the Spice Girls.

Madonna broke new ground, but she was obvious about it. She broke new ground to break new ground and now that no ground exists to be broken, well, what do you do? Lady Gaga, well, she’s an engine of change, but—you know what? Let’s leave that open to some callers. You know the number.

No, the Spice Girls. They just…they just were something else. That video, running around in their loud casual clothes, their style, in the face of the British upper class. It’s not a class thing, though. It’s about being free. Free of everything. Free of—free of—free of ideology. I think that’s what I thinking of. They were expressing freedom. What it means to be free.

We’re coming up to 2AM here at HITZ 103.5: The Station that Never Sleeps.  

—-

It’s 3:03 AM here at HITZ 103.5. We are the Station that Never Sleeps. No matter how much we may want to. We’re having some technical difficulties, I’m told. Should only be a few minutes. That’s what that dead spot was a few minutes back, and we’re just checking equipment on our end.

Last week I was at a music festival. Primavera Sound, in Barcelona. I went to see Pulp. I am a big fan of their work, which any long time fan is sure to know. I’m usually good for one – at least one – Pulp song a night. They were great. Of course. Been out of the game for ten years, and you wouldn’t know it.

Hearing them play Underwear was surreal. Just surreal. It puts me in this different time altogether.

[cough]

Sorry, excuse me.

My..ummm…my…ummmm…ex-wife, before she was my ex-wife, before she was my wife, even, was with this son of a bitch. Hit her. Hard. From what she says, he was a big guy that hated his life and took it out on her and their son. She left him, thank Christ, and we met, and I remember on one of our first dates she told me one of her favourite songs is I Will Survive. Made sense to me. I asked it if gave her strength, and she said, no. That the song only really meant something after the fact. That it reminded her of that time, of all of what she was feeling. It was a…a….a…symbol. A symbol.

You know, it’s funny, I hate I Will Survive because it reminds me of that piece of shit asshole. Sorry, excuse the, the, language. I just picture him beating her and it makes me mad. Not all the time, but sometimes I hear it, when I’m at the gas station, or in an elevator, and it just brings that to mind. Funny.

I didn’t really think of it much of that until I was at this festival. I had some off hours and walked around and I went to this band’s thing. I just saw two drum kits and I thought, “Alright, these seem like my type of guys.” I sat down and waited. Guy comes out and it’s…I don’t know…dance music, it was dance music. Stuff that you move to. Saw these kids dancing, and just moving to the music, but…it was like they were in a trance. There was nothing in between them and the music. Where ever the song went, they went too, and it was unlike anything I’d really known. Even early 90s Madonna, the dance stuff, or Ace of Bass, were impossible to get completely lost in.

It just got me thinking…some of this music, maybe even a great deal, is about the memories that come with it. Everybody goes to Pulp, because Pulp…gives them a taste of nostalgia. For me at least, they bring to mind that point where the secrets of sex are starting to bubble to the surface, and for you, maybe it’s just that charge of being young and overwhelmed with a vague confusion. Music has changed, you know. It used to be about the past, but you kids are looking for the future. You go to these things, all of these things and you just have your head so deep in it. There were over hundred bands playing. But they chase after them. It’s more than just hearing the new sound, nowadays it’s about hearing the next sound.

But I think, and this is going to sound weird, but that you’re trying to find music for the future. You’re going to find that one damn song that just glows, and you will build a moment to fit that song perfectly. Then you find another song, and try to do it again. Instead of having a life then attaching songs to it, you scout out the soundtrack to a future you will build. Does that make any sense? It’s not about capturing who you are, or who you want to be, but where you want to be. 

[cough]

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaannd it looks like we’re back in business. We’re gonna slide into a few minutes of commercials and then get into another commercial-free half hour of all your favourites, here on HITZ 103.5.

Form and content: A review of “All Day”

On November 15th, Girl Talk released a new album, All Day. If there are still holdouts, the arguments against Girl Talk are getting slimmer. All Day is a reminder that, despite the number of party DJs and bedroom mashup artists, nobody does it better than Gillis.

On paper, albums by the party-owning cut-and-paste DJ Girl Talk exist for instant gratification: There’s the grin-inducing spot-the-samples game (i.e.: “Shiiit, M.O.P. murder vows ladled over ‘Party In The U.S.A.?’”), and there’s also the fact that the entire mega-mash-up is stupendously danceable. Gillis’ musical Frankenstein project recycles many of the hooks and samples he used on his first LP—Jackson 5, Bananarama, Ludacris and the Beastie Boys (or at least the Pringles commercial-perverted version of the Beastie Boys.) All Day is just a refinement of Gillis’ technique. The samples are somehow more karaoke-machine-universal than ever, and his formula of mixing current hip-hop with ‘80s and ’90s nostalgia trips hasn’t changed in the least. But neither has his ability to churn out infectious mash-ups capable of turning even the stiffest blokes into dancing machines.

Night Ripper and Feed the Animals showed Gillis making good on the spotty promises of his earlier efforts (Few things can be funnier than hearing Jay-Z try to shout “JIGGA MOTHAFUCKA” while being cheese-grated through the theme to The Price Is Right) both consistently energizing, engaging, and — perhaps most importantly — wonderfully self-aware. 2006’s Night Ripper — the very point at which people started buying Girl Talk tees and reading Gillis interviews — is a frequently brilliant, nigh-impossible feat of pop cultural bricolage, and a far greater work of art than most seem to have credited it.

Befitting the party-starting functionality of All Day, it doesn’t ever go into the chin-stroking appeal of obvious precedent and the samples aren’t given new contexts so much as new purposes.  Foxy Brown’s “Hot Spot” becomes softer and more accessible when paired with the soothing croons of Peter Gabriel. The chords of “Blitzkrieg Bop” seem to be shifted into a minor key juxtaposed with “Get Ur Freak On,” as if Gillis makes some secret connection between disparate acts. Gillis seems less frenetic on All Day, less possessed by a manifesto of cramming as many samples into as small as space as possible. "Get It Get It" is the best illustration of how the roomier confines of these songs allow the samples to breathe, evolve, and take on a life of their own without wearing out their welcome.

On All Day, he doesn’t seem to have any overarching ideology, no consistent ethic in mind to give the record a sense of cohesiveness. What All Day and Girl Talk himself are nostalgic for is not a specific sound or even a specific period of time, even though Gillis’ sweet spot is alt-rock and pop-rap from the 90s. It’s not “hey, remember ‘Thunder Kiss ‘65’” or, “whoa, what happened to Skee-Lo,” but rather nostalgia for a time when MTV and radio were the primary methods of conveyance. So what does this mean? Is the essence of a song really just something that can be pared down, all the fat trimmed off?

The point is simple: “shut up and dance”.

On May 21st,  Harold Camping predicted that the rapture would happen and that the faithful would rise up and be taken to heaven. This is ridiculous. Unbelievably so. We know this now, because the date has long pased, but nobody was falling for it at the time either. Everybody had an off the cuff sarcastic remark the day of and the weeks leading up to it. It was an easy target.
But let’s imagine it did happen. Just for a second.
Imagine us being left behind.
Not so much the particulars of going back to business as usual, because I don’t think we’d lose that many people. Just imagine what it would be like to try to live in a post-rapture world. One day people just disappear. Confused Facebook statuses. Hashtag #rapture. The question left for everybody else: What now?
Would Jesus be coming? When? Is this it? Some denominations say that the period following rapture is one of severe famine and war, while others say that we’ll be ruled over by a benevolent Anti-Christ. There will be a lot more questions, and precious few answers.
How would people of different faiths react? The ones that lived exceptionally good lives, but just worshipped the wrong God? Christian church attendance, for one, would skyrocket, I think. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice…
Imagine how suspicious you’d be of people around you. You’d secretly wonder why they’re down here with the rest of us. The Rapture would make us all damaged goods. Maybe not individually, but as a culture. We are the reject pile.
I think the 20-something Parkdale crowd will talk about that one guy who got taken. Kenny. The one who wrote plays. “He seemed like an alright guy.” They’ll talk about him and how they never saw any of his plays. He will become The Writer Who Was Taken. They’ll break into his apartment one day and get his computer running, and hijack the .txts and .pdfs. They’ll stage his plays because they’ll want to understand who Kenny was, and maybe hidden in this one act about an oppressive father there will be some sort of hidden truth about how we should live. One guy will unironically call the play post-ironic. He will talk about how irony has been dead for a while. He’ll talk a lot. When the end comes, when the rapture comes, we’ll all talk a lot.  

On May 21st, Harold Camping predicted that the rapture would happen and that the faithful would rise up and be taken to heaven. This is ridiculous. Unbelievably so. We know this now, because the date has long pased, but nobody was falling for it at the time either. Everybody had an off the cuff sarcastic remark the day of and the weeks leading up to it. It was an easy target.

But let’s imagine it did happen. Just for a second.

Imagine us being left behind.

Not so much the particulars of going back to business as usual, because I don’t think we’d lose that many people. Just imagine what it would be like to try to live in a post-rapture world. One day people just disappear. Confused Facebook statuses. Hashtag #rapture. The question left for everybody else: What now?

Would Jesus be coming? When? Is this it? Some denominations say that the period following rapture is one of severe famine and war, while others say that we’ll be ruled over by a benevolent Anti-Christ. There will be a lot more questions, and precious few answers.

How would people of different faiths react? The ones that lived exceptionally good lives, but just worshipped the wrong God? Christian church attendance, for one, would skyrocket, I think. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice…

Imagine how suspicious you’d be of people around you. You’d secretly wonder why they’re down here with the rest of us. The Rapture would make us all damaged goods. Maybe not individually, but as a culture. We are the reject pile.

I think the 20-something Parkdale crowd will talk about that one guy who got taken. Kenny. The one who wrote plays. “He seemed like an alright guy.” They’ll talk about him and how they never saw any of his plays. He will become The Writer Who Was Taken. They’ll break into his apartment one day and get his computer running, and hijack the .txts and .pdfs. They’ll stage his plays because they’ll want to understand who Kenny was, and maybe hidden in this one act about an oppressive father there will be some sort of hidden truth about how we should live. One guy will unironically call the play post-ironic. He will talk about how irony has been dead for a while. He’ll talk a lot. When the end comes, when the rapture comes, we’ll all talk a lot.  

Paul LeGrun, Head of McCain Frozen Foods R&D



“It was 1998. It was a rough time for the business. Ideas were scarce. All across the board. I mean, in that business the ‘appropriation’ of ideas was ridiculous, so when Dominoes started offering free delivery in ‘93, you better believe we were all over that. Price of oil per barrel was nowhere near the levels it is today, but even then it was a nightmare, and by ‘98 the margins were too thin. The crust, heh, wasn’t thick enough.”

“So it’s me, Ronald Katcpa, John Simmons, and Brett Carver, and we’re drinking at the hotel bar. We were at the Piazzazs, that’s the industry award, and we were two doubles in. All of us. This was the year that Pizza Hut put cheese in the crust. They were tricky: they trademarked it. Everybody showed up as a formality, but the awards were a foregone conclusion.

Waiter comes around with some celery sticks. Just celery sticks. And we take them, and I remember Ronald looking around, frantic. 

'What is it?' I asked.

'Can't stand raw celery. Where's the sauce to dip this in?'

It hits me.

Dipping sauce.

Now it seems silly. That’s the hallmark of a great invention: you wonder how come nobody ever thought of it before.

The consequences. The consequences aren’t really something you think about in that business. People burn out quick. Ten years in and I was a vet. But when I started to comprehend the damage I’d done…

I was in the R&D kitchens. We were unrolling a new line of sides —  wings, shrimp, things to build the brand. Pizza Hut started offering pasta around that time, and there was hand wringing upstairs. So, one of the techs, along with one of the marketing boys was showing me our new cheesy garlic sticks. I’m a garlic bread fan, always have been. The tech offers me one, and I’m excited. Straight out of the oven and everything. I take a bite and…and it’s bland. Paper. It was like eating paper. They look at me like I’m an idiot. The tech rushes back to the fridge and pulls out some creamy garlic sauce. “It needs a little kick.” 

I resigned that week. At that moment, I understood what I had really done. We were in the dipping sauce business now. 

(sigh)

I had improved the commerce of pizza, but what of its art?

I am writing this the night before the Royal Wedding.
This will be posted 4-6 weeks after the Royal Wedding.
How do you feel about the commemorative plate now?

I am writing this the night before the Royal Wedding.

This will be posted 4-6 weeks after the Royal Wedding.

How do you feel about the commemorative plate now?

One of my customers today was a train conductor.
He told me the divorce rate was 75%. As high as cops. It’s a hard job. Always on call. You will likely miss Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries.
He loved it though. He told me that he’s paid by the mile. That is one of the most beautiful things I ever heard: Compensation based on motion.
He told me the trains were the pulse of the economy. He doesn’t believe we’re out of this recession yet. He talked about Japan and how the earthquake is being felt here.
Factories don’t rest, they either live or die. The folks at the Honda plant in Alliston, Ontario are down to three days a week (“It was either that or people were gonna get laid off. Better less days than no days.”) The assembly line keeps going, producing cars, but they’re low on computer parts, so when a car is finished, they take the computer out and send it back, so that it can be slotted into another car, to keep the line going. They have tons of cars built, all without computers. They’re completely useless, adding nothing, but the folks in Alliston don’t care. They’re paid by the hour.

One of my customers today was a train conductor.

He told me the divorce rate was 75%. As high as cops. It’s a hard job. Always on call. You will likely miss Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries.

He loved it though. He told me that he’s paid by the mile. That is one of the most beautiful things I ever heard: Compensation based on motion.

He told me the trains were the pulse of the economy. He doesn’t believe we’re out of this recession yet. He talked about Japan and how the earthquake is being felt here.

Factories don’t rest, they either live or die. The folks at the Honda plant in Alliston, Ontario are down to three days a week (“It was either that or people were gonna get laid off. Better less days than no days.”) The assembly line keeps going, producing cars, but they’re low on computer parts, so when a car is finished, they take the computer out and send it back, so that it can be slotted into another car, to keep the line going. They have tons of cars built, all without computers. They’re completely useless, adding nothing, but the folks in Alliston don’t care. They’re paid by the hour.

Consider Steven Spielberg: the creator of the summer blockbuster, the  film brat who reinvented cinema and brought people back to the theater,  the cocky kid who seemed unstoppable with hit after hit after hit.
Consider the first of his two 1993 classics,  Jurassic Park.
No, really, let’s think about Jurassic Park: How well the CGI holds  up; how the first half is almost entirely dialogue driven, with  intelligent people debating intelligently about the implications of  dinosaurs being brought back to life; how pains are brought to make the  idea deadly serious, which in turn makes the danger deadly serious; the  way the characters are allowed, for one glorious minute of cinema, to be  in utter awe of the fantastic in front of them.
Consider how the first half perfectly sets  up the chaos of the second; how the action switches between two  locations, distinct, but playing off each other; how the brute force of  the T-Rex is balanced by the cool, calculated menace of the raptors.  Consider how good, I mean genuinely fucking good, the kitchen scene is.
Consider how this isn’t done anymore:  Ironic quips instead of awe, cheap effects instead of enduring  spectacle, explosions instead of engagement. Consider how the  blockbusters that Spielberg helped create have regressed.
Consider young Spielberg, more specifically Close Encounters of the Third Kind:  How Roy Neary is consumed by visions, a compulsion to see something in  his dreams come true. It haunts him. He simply can’t get it out of his  head. “Dammit! I know this. I know what this is! This means something.  This is important,” he says at one point. In the end, that dream, that  desire is worth more than his family, it’s worth more than himself. It’s  enlightenment.
Now consider my  favourite scene in Jurassic Park.  Hammond, (played by fellow director Richard Attenborough, himself no stranger to manufacturing fantasy) the man responsible for the park and its wonders, confesses to  another character:

“You  know the first attraction I ever built when I came down south from  Scotland? Was a Flea Circus, Petticoat Lane. Really quite wonderful. We  had a wee trapeze, a roundabout - - a merry-go - - what you call it? A  carousel - - and a seesaw. They all moved, motorized of course, but  people would swear they could see the fleas. ‘I see the fleas, mummy!  Can’t you see the fleas?’ Clown fleas, high wire fleas, fleas on  parade… But with this place, I - - I wanted to give them something  real, something that wasn’t an illusion, something they could see and  touch. An aim devoid of merit.”
Again, consider Hammond: His age never more  apparent, surrounded by a broken dream, one that’s been sold and  “slapped on a lunchbox” as one character says.
One last time, consider Steven Spielberg.

Consider Steven Spielberg: the creator of the summer blockbuster, the film brat who reinvented cinema and brought people back to the theater, the cocky kid who seemed unstoppable with hit after hit after hit.

Consider the first of his two 1993 classics, Jurassic Park.

No, really, let’s think about Jurassic Park: How well the CGI holds up; how the first half is almost entirely dialogue driven, with intelligent people debating intelligently about the implications of dinosaurs being brought back to life; how pains are brought to make the idea deadly serious, which in turn makes the danger deadly serious; the way the characters are allowed, for one glorious minute of cinema, to be in utter awe of the fantastic in front of them.

Consider how the first half perfectly sets up the chaos of the second; how the action switches between two locations, distinct, but playing off each other; how the brute force of the T-Rex is balanced by the cool, calculated menace of the raptors. Consider how good, I mean genuinely fucking good, the kitchen scene is.

Consider how this isn’t done anymore: Ironic quips instead of awe, cheap effects instead of enduring spectacle, explosions instead of engagement. Consider how the blockbusters that Spielberg helped create have regressed.

Consider young Spielberg, more specifically Close Encounters of the Third Kind: How Roy Neary is consumed by visions, a compulsion to see something in his dreams come true. It haunts him. He simply can’t get it out of his head. “Dammit! I know this. I know what this is! This means something. This is important,” he says at one point. In the end, that dream, that desire is worth more than his family, it’s worth more than himself. It’s enlightenment.

Now consider my favourite scene in Jurassic Park. Hammond, (played by fellow director Richard Attenborough, himself no stranger to manufacturing fantasy) the man responsible for the park and its wonders, confesses to another character:

“You know the first attraction I ever built when I came down south from Scotland? Was a Flea Circus, Petticoat Lane. Really quite wonderful. We had a wee trapeze, a roundabout - - a merry-go - - what you call it? A carousel - - and a seesaw. They all moved, motorized of course, but people would swear they could see the fleas. ‘I see the fleas, mummy! Can’t you see the fleas?’ Clown fleas, high wire fleas, fleas on parade… But with this place, I - - I wanted to give them something real, something that wasn’t an illusion, something they could see and touch. An aim devoid of merit.”

Again, consider Hammond: His age never more apparent, surrounded by a broken dream, one that’s been sold and “slapped on a lunchbox” as one character says.

One last time, consider Steven Spielberg.

Me: How was it?
You: It was pretty fucked up. I mean, by city planning acedemic conference standards. Do you know Geoffrey West? 
Me: No.
You: A physicist. Met him a bit at the luncheon. Boring as fuck meet and greet, but he was pretty cool. Y’know, cool for a physicist. Anyways, I didn’t really know much about him, but he was doing one of the keynotes that day. It was something like “the math of the city.” 
Me: The math of the city?
You:  Yeah, I know right? Anyways, I go to this, and I’m covering the event too, a condition of my attendence, and I’m up front taking photos. He gets up there, and, he’s a small guy, so, the podium kind of hides him, but it suits him. He’s really soft spoken and, after a little fiddling with the mic he starts his talk. 
Me: What was it on?
You: Exactly what he said he would talk about: the math of the city. He starts off and you can sense that everybody in the room doesn’t take him seriously. He’s not a city planner, no background in urban studies at all, and even admits to only casually skimming Mumford. He starts to talk about how there are underlying principles in every city, even going as far as to say that there are equations to figure out a city. And-and, he’s going and the tone of the room shifts as he starts to present these findings. Equations and proof. Fucking damnable proof. Everything got heavy.
Me: Heavy?
You: Heavy. Like, tense, you know, tense. I remember the end of his talk “What we found are the constants that describe every city,” he says. “I can take these laws and make precise predictions about the number of violent crimes and the surface area of roads in a city in Japan with 200,000 people. I don’t know anything about this city or even where it is or its history, but I can tell you all about it. And the reason I can do that is because every city is really the same.” And there was this pause, a dead pause. No applause, no questions.Me: Was it, uh, did it—did it make sense?You: Oh yeah. Questions are thrown at him and he answers each one, and  even somebody like me can get that he’s got a solid point. It’s fucking  scary. Again, this silence just falls on everybody. Then somebody threw a chair at him.
Me: A chair?
You: Yeah, just whips it onto the stage. Then a professor from Cal Tech jumps on stage and  bites his arm. West is clobbering the guy with his free arm, but more people  rush the stage. Eventually, there are too many people around him, so a  circle forms around that, people hissing and fucking yelling. Somehow, somehow, he gets out of there. His glasses are gone, he’s bloody all over,  he stumbles off the stage and this entire time I’m taking pictures and  suddenly he’s right there at my fucking feet, dragging himself across the carpet.Me: What did you do?You: What do you think? I bashed his fucking head in.

Me: How was it?

You: It was pretty fucked up. I mean, by city planning acedemic conference standards. Do you know Geoffrey West?

Me: No.

You: A physicist. Met him a bit at the luncheon. Boring as fuck meet and greet, but he was pretty cool. Y’know, cool for a physicist. Anyways, I didn’t really know much about him, but he was doing one of the keynotes that day. It was something like “the math of the city.”

Me: The math of the city?

You: Yeah, I know right? Anyways, I go to this, and I’m covering the event too, a condition of my attendence, and I’m up front taking photos. He gets up there, and, he’s a small guy, so, the podium kind of hides him, but it suits him. He’s really soft spoken and, after a little fiddling with the mic he starts his talk.

Me: What was it on?

You: Exactly what he said he would talk about: the math of the city. He starts off and you can sense that everybody in the room doesn’t take him seriously. He’s not a city planner, no background in urban studies at all, and even admits to only casually skimming Mumford. He starts to talk about how there are underlying principles in every city, even going as far as to say that there are equations to figure out a city. And-and, he’s going and the tone of the room shifts as he starts to present these findings. Equations and proof. Fucking damnable proof. Everything got heavy.

Me: Heavy?

You: Heavy. Like, tense, you know, tense. I remember the end of his talk “What we found are the constants that describe every city,” he says. “I can take these laws and make precise predictions about the number of violent crimes and the surface area of roads in a city in Japan with 200,000 people. I don’t know anything about this city or even where it is or its history, but I can tell you all about it. And the reason I can do that is because every city is really the same.” And there was this pause, a dead pause. No applause, no questions.

Me: Was it, uh, did it—did it make sense?

You: Oh yeah. Questions are thrown at him and he answers each one, and even somebody like me can get that he’s got a solid point. It’s fucking scary. Again, this silence just falls on everybody. Then somebody threw a chair at him.

Me: A chair?

You: Yeah, just whips it onto the stage. Then a professor from Cal Tech jumps on stage and bites his arm. West is clobbering the guy with his free arm, but more people rush the stage. Eventually, there are too many people around him, so a circle forms around that, people hissing and fucking yelling. Somehow, somehow, he gets out of there. His glasses are gone, he’s bloody all over, he stumbles off the stage and this entire time I’m taking pictures and suddenly he’s right there at my fucking feet, dragging himself across the carpet.

Me: What did you do?

You: What do you think? I bashed his fucking head in.

DJ Jazzy Jeff (née Jeffrey Allen Townes) sits in front of his Smith-Corona typewriter. He has writer’s block.He has sent former co-star Will Smith over 150 unsolicited scripts. Each is a thinly-veiled attempt at a reunion. The first few, sent a year after Fresh Prince of Bel-Air’s finale, were simply just variations of the show’s format. As the years changed, so did he. DJ Jazzy Jeff isn’t completely oblivious to the march of time, and as the tastes of the American Public have changed, so have his scripts. He’s tried the single camera approach, he’s tried incorporating cutaway gags, and cringe humour. He’s tried the faux-doc style, and has even tried a musical episode (he, of course, did the score). DJ Jazzy Jeff sits in front of his Smith-Corona typewriter and starts to type. He’s got a good feeling about this one. He smiles as the words flow out.Smith has yet to reply.

DJ Jazzy Jeff (née Jeffrey Allen Townes) sits in front of his Smith-Corona typewriter. He has writer’s block.

He has sent former co-star Will Smith over 150 unsolicited scripts. Each is a thinly-veiled attempt at a reunion. The first few, sent a year after Fresh Prince of Bel-Air’s finale, were simply just variations of the show’s format. As the years changed, so did he. DJ Jazzy Jeff isn’t completely oblivious to the march of time, and as the tastes of the American Public have changed, so have his scripts. He’s tried the single camera approach, he’s tried incorporating cutaway gags, and cringe humour. He’s tried the faux-doc style, and has even tried a musical episode (he, of course, did the score).

DJ Jazzy Jeff sits in front of his Smith-Corona typewriter and starts to type. He’s got a good feeling about this one. He smiles as the words flow out.

Smith has yet to reply.