Dilpo + Yo

I met Diplo through M.I.A. Not personally, rather, musically. I came to know his sound and his music through M.I.A. Diplo was the DJ to give her that first break; to give her hip hopping South Asian punk stylings context. That context would be his own sonically peripatetic M.O. Apparently, he'd mixed her first single, "Galang", into his DJ set the night she introduced herself in a London club. I got a taste (of the music, people, minds out the gutter!) friday night at the Primavera Sound Music Festival here in Barcelona, where Diplo performed two full sets. One dancehall reggae set as Major Lazer featuring tiny-ball-of-fire hype man, Switch, and two thick choco sisters doing dances I ain't seen in a minute, like the Bad Man Forward, Bad Man Pull UP, and generally juss' a oscillate dem waist like it deh goin outta style*. Switch, pulled a blonde up on stage to simulate sex with, putting her face down on the stage, grabbing her legs, wrapping them around his waist, and spinning her around like a ceiling fan. He finally put her down, (to the collective sigh and relief of the crowd), only to climb on top of the 2.5 meters high speaker, drop trousers to ankles, fly off it and onto her.


His last set, and the last set of the night at Primavera Sound's popular Pitchfork stage, was vintage Diplo. A raucous, tribal mix of Euro-digital slick and every genre under the sun. Solid freaking gold was that moment when he took a remix of Jay Z's "On to the Next One" into Crash Test Dummies' "Mmmm"... laid over an afro-beat.


Funk Carioca enthusiast. Passa Passa practitioner. Friend, producer and collaborator to two of my most major music finds in the last few years: Bonde do Rôle and Buraka Som Sistema. It ain't hard to tell why Diplo and M.IA. swiftly set about making love and music together after meeting in a London club. And though the love's now gone, the music has remained. So it was with great, great pleasure that I actually met Diplo, the man** friday night past, kicking my 2010 music festival season off with a B.A.N.G.


*Sorry. I been feeling very Caribbean these days.
**Yes. That's actually him in the photo.
***Passa Passa? Major Lazer? Likkle taste? Check out THIS.

The Tuscan Son

I knew there was a reason I didn't care about our losing contact, me and the Tuscan, I just couldn't quite recall what it was. In the two years since we had last seen each other, I would see his name and photo pop up in my timeline on Facebook. Some cryptic correspondence in Italian or Spanish. The hyper-stylized profile pic, taken no doubt by some female admirer slash photographer. Luminous photos of him frolicking on the Costa Brava or through the caves along the shore. And I'd think, just for a second: 'I wonder what he's like now', or 'Wonder if he's with anyone?' Then last night, under the stars and seduction of the annual Ciutat Vella Flamenco Festival, I ran into him. Or he into me. Big hugs. Big smiles. He was as cute, and tall and cool as I'd remembered. Then he opened his mouth.

'So, I saw pics of you in India on Facebook... You've been doing some traveling,' I venture, after the long time no see's are dispensed with. 'Yes, it was beautiful!! It was a very traditional wedding with the dresses and the painting on the hands...'

'Yes! Saris! And henna! I know!'

'What do you mean you know? How could you?'

'Ummmm, half my country is Hindu. I'm Caribbean.'

'You're from New York. What are you talking about?'

Sigh. Okay. Moving on.

'I didn't like how they would run after me in the airport,' he complained. 'Like, 'Sir, Sir! Can I take your bag!??' And I'm like, No! I'll take my own bag!' I don't like how they just accept the caste system, that some people are higher than others.... Why don't they fight?'

Sigh. If there's one thing I hate, it's a fake activist. Saying fight, talking revolution, is not, in fact, revolution. Activism takes courage in the understanding that any action you can take will only shift things a bit. I don't even understand 'Fight!'. I'm thinking this when he hits me with--

'I was also in Brazil! It was amazing!'

So I'd heard. He went on to wax poetic about how warm and smiley the people are in Brazil. About how he'd survived the favela, with the favela drug lord granting him a sort of princely, protected status. And the music and the weather and how one day, he'd like to move there. I was waiting for him to trot out the pics of little negro children that Europeans love to take on holiday. I always have to fight the urge to inform that they ain't have to fly all the way to Africa or wherever, to take photos. That I would have posed for a small, small, fee.

'Yes, it's not like India and Africa, you know,' he schools. 'It can be very hard in those places... and as Westerners, you and I... you know... we always feel like outsiders. '

'Erm, you mean 'we' as in white Europeans?'

'Yes, we! You and me! You are probably more western than me.'

I laughed. 'Honey, I didn't grow up on the set of Sex and the City. Everything you're describing I grew up with. With my mom lighting candles and preparing special baths to ward off spirits. Sometimes herbs instead of medicines. You played with toys or learned piano after school. I danced with my cousins in the garage. Favelas are called garrisons in Jamaica, closed off communities where drug lords rule.'

I stop short of asking him to give me a fucking break. The charm of the 3rd world native is only amazing to him because he doesn't see himself as one. He was the protagonist of some 19th century adventurer's tale; so deep in his role he wasn't hearing me.

'I even stayed with the medicine man and he gave me a talisman.'

Now he sounded like the dude version of Eat, Pray, Love.

This is a very specific type of European man.  Initially, he seems to know so much about hip hop or reggae or African politics or Spike Lee films, that he lulls you into believing he's the best of both worlds. A hot Italian that makes pasta from scratch AND quotes Cypress Hill. He gets you. But no. No, he doesn't. He's constantly in search of some authentic experience of otherness. Always craving the consumption of blackness.... ideal, nonthreatening but ultimately earthy, exciting and affirming of his whiteness and superiority. This kind of guy I can't date. This kind of guy is at the top of my 'Not With A Ten Foot Pole' list. He looks disappointed that I'm going home. Pouting just a bit. I'm all smiles. I made the right decision letting this one go.

EuroThings.

Hollywood: You know, with all this marble, you could turn your bathroom into a steam room.

Apparently, that's what her ex did. But he makes beats for hip hip royalty. I ignore her.

Me: And I have a bidet! I've never even used it!

Hollywood: How's that possible? I mean, so, what do you do when you have anal sex?

****I used to think it was a dread and tattoo thing. A few conversations like this one, and the one last Sunday, where an Angela Davis-afro'd diva of a sister from the BX exclaimed, "I have a Bidet!! And I use it!', and I now believe casual conversating about Bidets and backdoor love to be EuroThings.

Lost in Translation 22

"In China, there is a symbol," he says and draws what looks to be a "T" off kilter. I scribble it in my notebook. "It means that human beings have to live in relation. You cannot live alone." The other four students are young, Spanish girls. The type, by now, used to marrying only "for the childs". Only because things like government help and enrolling in school, not to mention traveling as a family with the same last name, are easier. But for these in/conveniences, Catalunya churches would host precious few wedding ceremonies. The difference in opinion, between my middle aged Korean student, and, well, all the rest of us, is not only generational, but cultural. We just couldn't see marriage as necessary. I am about to say this as he takes off his glasses. Wipes them. The girl to his right interrupts.  "Oh my God! You look like Jackie Chan!!!"

From My Last Photo Shoot...

I traveled to the loft and warehouse artsy-ness of Poble Nou early on a Friday morning for this shoot. It lasted all of one hour, because Joel, the photographer, runs with the current; when he's inspired, he rides the wave, clicking until the magic's crested. Then he rests his camera on its stand and we go for coffee. My hands were dancing as this photo was captured; snaking round my face, weaving in and around one another. I was conscious of the rings, provided by my German, jewelry-making sister, Julia (for whom I'd last modeled). Alas, Joel used photoshop to darken my skin. Literally, blacken me up. Though I like the photo, I'm not sure how I feel, on principle, about being blackened up. Anything for art, right? Is that not a bit hypocritical?