In a way, the N-word is tougher on White people than it is for Blacks.
You’re kidding me.
I have a point here, hyperbolic as my opening gambit might have been.
Get to it pronto, numbnuts.
You never show up this early.
There’s an alarm that goes off in the office when you start discussing race relations.
There’s an office?
If I can proceed: that word represents hundreds of years of dehumanization, the pitiful history of savage cruelty any Black man or woman must remember whenever they remember who built the White House. The centuries of operatic violence that were African -Americans’ entrance to these civilized shores left a scar that runs like the Mississippi, and just as long and wide.
On the other hand, hearing that word makes me briefly uncomfortable. So, that’s a tie at the very least, by my way of thinking.
That’s it: I quit.
STEP. STEP. STEP. STEP. CREEEEEEEEK. SLAM!
You can just leave?
All of which is a roundabout way of saying that the first 30 seconds or so of 7/11/69 in Flushing, Queens gets your attention and REQUIRES HEADPHONES. Trust me on this: I’ll let you guess who did it.
The show’s great: an uptempo dash through Dire Wolf with a ton of help from TC on the wheezy organ (it sounds like the Vatican had asthma) follows a perfect Dupree’s in which Garcia’s voice doesn’t crack even once, which might be a one-off.
But that’s nothing–nothing at all–because next up is a Hard to Handle with Garcia on pedal steel that is HoF, and by HoF, I mean Horrendously, obstinately Fartastic. Listen to it once (and trust me: once is enough) for your daily giggle; check out Pig’s defeated “Thank you,” right afterwards.
AND a ball-touchingly good early Casey Jones! What more could you ask for? Besides the whole, “Sweet Jesus, don’t say that into a microphone,” thing.