Lord Have Mercy

I just heard from my friend Brian, from college. He was from Arkansas. I had this vision of Brian living next door to Bill Clinton. I know it makes no sense, but when I first met him in 1997 in that weird cafeteria between to the two dorms eating my mashed potatoes I had a day dream or a mild hallucination from the dorm food. So be it. Brian didn’t have an accent. There were a few people I was friends with in college who didn’t have accents. I tried to figure out the equation. Was it intelligence? Was it the TV they watched. Was it cognisant. I never did figure out an underlying pattern.

So we both were in to music intensely. Intensely. Definitely on a different level than the average consumer of music. He’d come over to my place at 1522 Elrod Street, randomly, then play 20 seconds from, say, Miles Davis’ On The Corner. He’d say, “Man, that John McLaughlin guitar fuzz is the sickness.” I’d nod. Then poof, he’d run downstairs and he’d be gone. Maybe I’d see him again a few days later only to be talking about the Ruth Underwood’s mallet form.

And from time to time we would analyze the thought provoking and whimsical nature of Busta Rhymes‘ musical creations. His syncopated tapping of the Casio SK1 piano patch was pretty avant for hip-hop music of the time. That or he was having a seizure. I’d like to think it was a combination of the two.

This was college for me. Seriously.

Brian now lives about 4 hours away, somewhere in the middle of Virginia. Helluva-lot closer than Murfreesboro or Arkansas. I’d love to hang out with him and discuss the past, present and future implications of “Get Off My Block.” That would be nice. Like the good ol’ days.

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