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A new CD collection released on El Cerrito’s Arhoolie label, Pachuco Boogie: The Original Historic Recordings, aims to correct all that, gathering together prime examples of the unique style that Latin hipsters like Tosti created - the pachuco boogie.Ī Mexican-American swing player originally from Texas, Tosti added his own distinctive touch to pop music’s postwar crazy quilt with a dynamic R&B tune that melded raw, rocking jazz with the Chicano youth culture that had surfaced earlier in the decade. But while hillbilly bands and African-American groups broke into the mainstream, the innovative efforts of Mexican Americans during the postwar era stayed well off the cultural radar. The hard-core jazz of the beboppers burned its legacy onto wax, along with newly electrified urban blues, the rustic rhythms of honky-tonk country, and the rowdy new R&B combos that took over where the big bands left off. Suddenly, all the pent-up creative growth of the early ’40s exploded onto the postwar landscape. As the Second World War ended, so did the recording ban that had funneled vinyl into the war effort. Originally made available at Justin Sherill’s Home Page Replica.When Los Angeles bandleader Don Tosti cut loose on the microphone in the historic 1948 session that would make him a star, popular music everywhere was going through radical changes. Turned many an otherwise conservative, mainstream drunk into a very confused, conservative, mainstream drunk…. ‘During college (1987-1991), my friend Rob and I would go up to drunk partygoers and recite this entire piece in their ears (one in the left, one in the right). Steve Robey sent this to Justin, along with this amusing story: Approaching the fractured glass, dripping in light, he spoke: “I’ve just looked at myself, and from here to here it ain’t far enough, but from here to here it’s too short.” “And circles don’t fly, they float,” Pena exclaimed and went on to say, “Sun sure did shine this year. And the rainbow baboon gobbled fifteen fish eyes with each spoon. Their wings arranged with pictures out of the past. And several white porcelain trays were rolled in by bumblebees. Hot silhouettes in a convertible gave this applause. A white phosphorous raindrop dropped in the sky. The rubber turkey was gobbled up by the night’s dark rubber mouth. And out looked Panatella, naked and not ashamed, without no clothes. Honking, the wind puffed into the clumps above the lattice rows. A dark wooden moustache deposited below above Chinese red varnished lips that dented slightly into the evening. It slightly gathered and wrinkled at the holes. The bridge held a large gold pair of spectacles. Quick eyebrows danced cutely above a mole. It bled into a red “O” and smacked behind accepted fangs.
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One large tomato was immediately peeled skin red. Its small pulp speaker burst into a scream. Newsprint thumbed through nicotine fingers, a dark olive was turned on. A straw hat squeaked on the brim of a feather. Teeth let go, tobacco juice, an oiled balloon, brown eye in an egg white, black tar bubbles and stripes. Erase into marks that pour the dye of darkness.
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Red thyroid sunsets, flame in speckled chemistry. Neon plants swim like green seaweed to a deep rhythm of blues. One celluloid stay exposed through his nibbled collar. The woman silk nude tie painting his chest. I’ll trade you a domino this size, mothball-scented. Originally appeared on Ice Cream For Crow