PETE L'OFFICIAL: IT'S THE WIND

Editor's note: Before I ever met Pete in person, I knew him from his writing 1) he's been a valuable contributor to places like The Believer, Spin, Village Voice and Salon and 2) he boasts one of the coolest looking bylines out there: "The Official Pete" (which is considerably better than being, say, Pete L'Faux). Pete's now matriculating through grad school at Harvard, wisely avoiding the imbroglio of the journalism world for the safe security of the academi...oh wait, never mind.

Anyways, Pete really took to knocking out a Summer Songs post - one that begins Uptown, ends in the Dirty South and takes detours to Jamaica and Brazil in the meanwhile. --O.W.

It's the Wind

by Pete L'Official

"It feel hot at night and shit, like, the sun ain't even out."*

Summer is something like a seduction, suspended. A seduction, because of the season's more obvious trappings (skin, sweat, gratuitous uses of words like "sultry" and "sweltering"). And suspended, because for those lucky souls of seven, seventeen, or seventy for whom consciousness of the days of the week falls blissfully away, summer is little more than a collection of moments, where each moment continually offers the possibility of the simplest of ecstasies in the next, or recalls an almost immediate nostalgia for the one that has just passed. Ennui, even of the non-air-conditioned sort, is pregnant with promise. We never mind being seduced by the summer -- we always capitulate -- even though we would like to be the ones doing the seducing. And in attempting that seduction, occasionally, we'll take a bit of help. Music is preferable at these moments, and it becomes representative of them as well.

And though, as with the summer, there are phases to seduction, you might think of it as an endless cycle -- or a playlist, on repeat. This is but one of its soundtracks, joined moment to moment.

Camp Lo: "Luchini AKA This is It"
From Uptown Saturday Night (1997)

Wild out. That feeling you got when you opened the bedroom shades on the morning of the whole of the summer. And doubled, when you came up on your man's late-afternoon jam and heard this banging from the speakers. "Oh...word?" This is why you are friends: he recognizes the importance of you making an entrance. Upon hearing this song and taking a sly look to your left, then right, your movements become the metaphorical equivalent of flying backwards through heaven with angel wings (see: about 1:17 in). Pass the "am-a-red-da."

Crooklyn Dodgers: "Return of the Crooklyn Dodgers"
From Clockers Original Soundtrack (MCA, 1995)

Max. Relax. This is what you came here for. You had crazy visions; now you're wearing them. Hang your swag on the appropriate hook; you've got a minute. Sit where you can see, and maybe even where you can be seen. Find the space between Premier's boom-bap and the smoothed-out Young Holt Trio sample (ample room: it's 29 years). No need to stress, son. It's early yet. Smile only if you have to. Head-nods -- required, once Jeru attacks with authority -- should fall perfectly on a scale between spirited and subtle.

Desmond Dekker: "Intensified '68 (Music Like Dirt)"
From Rudy Got Soul - The Early Beverley's Sessions 1963-1968 (2003)

Go in. An irresistible invitation to the dance floor. What? It ain't no more to it.

Sister Nancy: "Transport Connection"
From One Two (Techniques, 1982)

Like the title say. A rhythm, caught by two, and shared. The physicality of flirting. Something about wining. A performance of coordination and symmetry has never seemed sweeter. At this point, in this heat, merely moving performs its own seduction.

Elis Regina: "Perdão Não Tem" | "Vexamão"
From Tabelinha - Elis & Pelé (Philips, 1969)

Whispers, part one and two. Simple, glorious exchange. Names. Conversation. Laughter. Nice to meet you, and so we move in unison. (And yes, it's that Pelé.)

Juelz Santana feat. Freeway: "My Love"
From Diplomatic Immunity (Roc-a-fella, 2003)

Really feeling yourself. The high point, the crest of the wave you're currently riding. The promises that you make to one and all. What you will do. For self, others. Where you will go in three weeks. Who with. How you're going to play this entire album on repeat in the car until you get there, because it's another entire, solid summer soundtrack unto itself. Sunshine's barely contained within the looped Moments sample: "Look What you've Done," look what you can do. You. You.

Caetano Veloso: "Remelexo" | "Sampa"
From Muito (Dentro da estrela azulada) (Polygram, 1978) | From Domingo (with Gal Costa) (Philips, 1967)

Infatuation. You want to see her again. You need to know "where she rest at." You want to translate literally, because it sounds extra-cute, because that's how she does it. What girl is that who came into my life now? No one knows her window. No one knows her door. Who cares. You have the urge to write letters rather than speak, because, well, mami told you your word game is tight. Ink, known from here on in as swagger juice, is everywhere.
Hell, you even call your man to thank him profusely for throwing that party (You don't use those words, exactly). Love letters to cities that contain you, that provide the spaces you love, in turn populated by those whom you want to love are not beyond your reach, certainly not your desire. You are most vulnerable now.

Jorge Ben: "Rita Jeep" | "Que Pena (Ela Já Não Gosta Mais de Mim)"
From Negro e Lindo (Philips, 1971) | From Jorge Ben (Philips, 1969)

Wrote a song about it. So you wrote a song about it. Said it outright: heart, sleeve, etc. You want her, you want her, you want her. But wait. Does she want you back? Does it even matter when you can manage to sing so joyously, so playfully, so impishly about either emotion? It's the speciality of the season, or rather, the sense of the season contained in these two songs (between them?) that allows these feelings to co-exist.

Beanie Sigel: "Feel it in the Air"
From The B. Coming (Def Jam, 2005)

Spider sense is tingling. Something is wrong; was that a chill I just felt? It's now late, and all this time you thought it would never come. Now, it's almost over. It's the sound of an undoing, an unraveling (or secretly, the beginning of a fierce winding-up.); it presages a decline, a fall. Indeed.

Tim Maia: "I Don't Know What to Do With Myself"
From Tim Maia (Continental, 1971)

What to do? You can listen and hear either an exultant ennui, or the same coupled with heartbreak. This is just about right for late August, but right anytime too.

Bun B feat. Pimp C, Young Jeezy, & Z-Ro: "Get Throwed" (Promo Only)
From Trill (Rap-A-Lot/Asylum, 2005)

What to do with yourself. What else is there to do now before it's all done? Get throwed, one last time, obviously. Or so the men say. Wise men, they are.

Lesson learned: Whether it's around 3 minutes, or 3 months, one ought to love every minute, because there's always a limit.

*see Raekwon, "Spot Rusherz," Only Built for Cuban Linx...," Loud/RCA/BMG, 1995.