my inner-sandra-cisneros wants to be able to romanticize each moment my writing session in the yard is interrupted by a car stopped at the corner light with its music turnt up. there have been points where i’ve enjoyed this kind of scenario, like when i moved to brooklyn in 2009 and all the cars bumping “empire state of mind” made it feel like a summer-long welcome procession. or a couple years later in my apartment across the street from the apollo, each week “ruff ryders anthem” blared from the speakers of the actual ruff ryders motocycle gang as they descended upon harlem from yonkers. but these cars in venice???? i just need them to roll up their windows and get the fuck off my mango street.
to be fair, i’m only vexed by certain cars playing certain music. it’s LA after all, so when someone pulls up blasting “pistol grip pump” i immediately drop whatever i’m doing and run outside like the ice cream truck is coming. any snoop, dre, or pac is also just considered part of the natural sonic environment of my neighborhood: ocean breeze, cawing seagulls, gin and juice. i can even let slide whoever was at the light earlier playing norah jones’ “if i were a painter” at full volume, off the strength that you’re probably hella hard if you’re confident enough to be playing norah jones’ “if i were a painter” at full volume in 2020 or ever.
even my fondest memories in beijing are owed to the guy outside the mall every night hawking roasted yams from a wheel barrel while playing “eternal flame” on loop from his mini-PA. what i’m trying to say is, public amplification of music is all good as long as it’s a song i like.
but whenever someone here rolls up and fills the block with whatever the fuck teeniebopper DDR soundtrack nonsense they’re playing, i have to stop and ask myself the horrifying question: is this what it’s like to be one of those white people who moved near howard university and tried to make the boost mobile on the corner shut down their go-go music?? i remember balking at how aloof those people were, how their ignorant violation of d.c. protocol sparked a period of guerilla go-gos throughout d.c.. is my annoyance this morning actually a gentrifying infringement on venice’s deep cultural heritage of douchey beach techno?
when jordan davis was gunned down in jacksonville for playing his music loudly in his car, i recalled the time in 11th grade when my friend rashaud was almost yanked out of his window by an officer who stopped him for disturbing the peace in the pizzeria uno parking lot at fremont hub. what i’m trying to say is, when the music in a car is turnt up, the actual threat usually isn’t the person behind the wheel.
when i was a teenager with a crisp new driver’s license, turning the music up loud felt like a rite of passage. i remember the anticipation of queuing up my toyota previa’s cd player so that the hook to my carefully-selected track would play right when i rolled into the parking lot at logan high (some of my go-to’s were earth wind and fire’s “that’s the way of the world,” black star’s “re:definition,” jay z’s “it’s hot,” and for a brief dark period in my life, jedi mind tricks’ “genghis khan”). i felt like turning up my music was a genuine offering, a way to evangelize any poor soul out there who hadn’t been put up on mos def yet.
one of my favorite periods are my years in d.c., where the turnt up music of choice in my neighborhood was 90’s r&b slow jams. the smooth and heartfeltness of it at night was like a balm to the daytimes that were filled ubers honking at buses and the jarring motorcade sirens that came up my street everyday like clockwork. the slow jams usually came from a black lincoln or benz, parked with its headlights off, sometimes a soft neon purple glowing from inside while al b. sure lullabied the district to sleep.
and that memory reminds me of another one: a few years back on record store day, lovely and i were at som records on 14th & t, flipping through limited edition vinyl along with a bunch of other equally-pretentious music aficionados, when all of a sudden a man in his 50’s burst in and bellowed, “Y’ALL GOT ANY KEITH SWEAT CASSETTES??” everyone paused for a moment, until the owner responded that, unfortunately, they had no keith sweat cassettes in stock. when the man left, people in the store softly chuckled while returning to their self-important digging, tickled by his novel inquiry, oblivious to the fact that keith sweat cassettes would be exactly what we would all be looking for by next year.