We were recently informed that Summer started a few days ago, so, baffled as we were to find out we were so behind the times, we here at Black Tooth instantly began to commission – via text messages – Summer mixes by those who are awesome at making Summer mixes. And we are proud to bring you the first of many we have in the pipes today.
Coming to you from somewhere that we feel very uncomfortable visiting, Cock D., the scourge of Yelp.com, brings you a mix in 3 acts. All vintage Soul and R&B. All love and heartache. He so graciously wrote an introduction to the mix, so I’ll concede the floor to him, but if you are unaware of the myth of Cock D., be sure and check out what is left of his Yelp reviews here. Vile, profound, and always funny, Cock D. uses Yelp the way it was intended to be used, yet his enlightened state is – more often than not – too much for the mainframe, straight-laced owners of both Yelp.com and the establishments he visits here in Nashville (with one venture into Vegas, naturally) so they are often taken down. We recited his (since deleted) review of the Nashville pillar Roteirs around campfires, the Seasonal Gathering of the Elders of our Tribe, and to our lovers way too many times to count.
With an ever-increasing league of followers and people starting to demand FREE COCK D on the Yelp message boards, we are pleased to announce – A BLACK TOOTH EXCLUSIVE – that Cock D. has made the decision to go rogue and start a blog where he will be free from to totalitarian-terror regime that is Yelp.com to bring us his world view. All bleary-eyed and sticky. We will keep everyone updated on its arrival as soon as he gets sober enough to start it.
So without further ado…
Cock D. here,
I want so goddamn bad to share a simple life of unconditional, real and perfect love with a beautiful and respectable woman. I want it so goddamn bad I struggle not to drink myself to death most nights. Could I get her? Maybe. Maybe I have. Maybe I had her once… but I’m weak, and I feel weak, and the only way I’ve learned how to feel strong is somewhere between the pale, bruised legs of an affordable whore. So, at the end of another hard night, when my proverbial dick is resting flaccid at the bottom of a very real bottle and my toe is hovering over that proverbial trigger, I listen to soul music, and I make believe I’m not a fucking idiot just long enough to slip into a blackout, and it saves my life… every goddamn time.
So now, here’s this, a mix.
Soul music is the heartbreaking expression of the trueness and beauty of love in its inception and in its loss… actually, fuck all that, love isn’t constant or true or any of that Redbook bullshit. Love is sex, and it only exists briefly, like a perfectly crafted two and a half minute song, never longer than the legs of your next lover. Love is not letting your blue jeans fall below your knees as you attempt to tame a wild Texas mare over the tailgate of her daddy’s Dodge Ram in a vacant Kroger parking lot. It’s going to sleep with your dick in something, and waking up with something on your dick. Love-making is one bourbon and a sour glance away from hate-fucking.
Soul music IS sex. From Sam Cooke to Little Richard to Etta James to a six-year-old Michael Jackson, all they ever wanted to do was come. Soul music is escapism for the soulless.
I challenge you to play “Bring It On Home to Me,” immediately followed by “That’s Where It’s At,” for a decent but impressionable woman and NOT get laid. I owe half my conquests to Sam Cooke (the other half would be middle school and/or cocaine). He was a beautiful man, shot down in his prime by some bitch of a whore in a shitty L.A. motel. He died wearing a blazer… and nothing else. He was only 33… and that’s fucking sex.
So, this mix is dedicated to Sam.
If and when I die, I’d prefer to go out like Sam. Maybe the motel’s somewhere down Dickerson Road. Maybe not. Maybe it’ll be some whore, maybe a scorned lover, maybe I trusted her. Regardless, I’ll be facing the wall, Red ablaze, eyes closed to the light of a single bedside table lamp, and there I’ll be, a shadow on a wall, staring back at a better man.
Sometime after, when I’m rambling through the darkness, he’ll guide me into the light and the two of us will grace the streets as ghosts, naked and humming about, cloaked in lowliness, lost and a-lookin’ for my baby.
Cock D. out.