The NYT on black hipsters. Or, more broadly, black rock musicians.

Shortly before reading this, my iPod turned to Ultraglide in Black, the great album by Detroit’s The Dirtbombs. While I wouldn’t call Mick Collins a black hipster, per se, he does do the black-man-playing-rock thing. (A thing of which there should be much more.) The Dirtbombs are sort of a skronkier, filthier, rocked-up version of early ’70s soul; imagine Stevie Wonder with a guitar, a fuzz box, and a love of shouting. (Ultraglide actually includes a pretty good cover of Stevie’s “Livin’ For the City.”)

More importantly, Ultraglide features “Ode to a Black Man,” which features perhaps the greatest lyrics in recorded human history:

If you see Stevie Wonder, tell him I’m here
If you see Stevie Wonder, tell him I see
I don’t want no songs for plants, I want songs for me
I don’t want no songs for plants, I want liberty

(MP3 here. It’s actually a cover of a song by a guy from Thin Lizzy.)

The greatness there, of course, lies in its completely legitimate complaint about Stevie’s 1979 album Journey Through the Secret Life of Plants.

From 1971 to 1976, Stevie had recorded six of the greatest albums of all time, absolute classics and political statements. Then came a boring, confusing double album about…plants. And he hasn’t been worth a damn ever since. I don’t want no songs for plants, indeed.

29 January 2007

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