Read Slumberland for Free Online Page B

Scratchers nodded.
    DJ Close-n-Play asked, “Is that a quote from
Catcher in the Rye
?”
    It was saxophonist Masayoshi Urabe’s opening statement from his
Opprobrium
magazine interview, but I didn’t want to get into “Who’s he?” and “What’s ‘opprobrium’ mean?,” so I simply turned up the volume and said, “No, it’s my motto,” and went about naming my sources.
    â€œThat’s ‘Insider Tradin’ on My Mind’ by Penthouse Red,” I whispered, “from his
Work Songs and Office Hollers of the Corporate Elite
sampler.”
    â€œSame cat who did ‘My Trophy Wife (Makes Me Feel Like a Loser)’?” asked DJ You Can Call Me Ray, et cetera.
    â€œNo, you’re thinking Greedy Steve McNeely.”
    I went on.
    â€œAudio Two’s ‘Top Billin’ ’ as rapped in the whistled language of the Nepalese Chepang.”
    â€œI knew it!” Umbra said, pounding his forehead in musicolo-gist shame.
    I continued my list: “Brando’s creaking leather jacket in
The Wild One
, a shopping cart tumbling down the concrete banks of the L.A. River, Mothers of Invention, a stone skimming across Diamond Lake, the flutter of Paul Newman’s eyelashes amplified ten thousand times, some smelly kid named Beck who was playing guitar in front of the Church of Scientology, early, early, early Ray Charles, Etta James, Sonic Youth, the MillenniumFalcon going into hyperdrive, Foghorn Leghorn, Foghat, Melvin Tormé, aka ‘The Velvet Fog,’ Issa Bagayogo, the sizzle of an Al’s Sandwich Shop cheesesteak at the exact moment Ms. Tseng adds the onions . . .”
    Blaze raised his hand. “That’s enough,” he said. “You’re spoiling it. You’re explaining rainbows, motherfucker.”
    He let the song play out, then continued. “You know what your beat reminds me of?”
    â€œNo,” I answered, rewinding the tape.
    â€œIt reminds me of the code of Hammurabi, the Declaration of DJ Independence, the Constitution, or some shit.”
    Everyone else nodded in agreement, but I didn’t understand the comparison.
    â€œLook, dude, you’ve sampled your life, mixed those sounds with a funk precedent, and established a sixteen-bar system of government for the entire rhythm nation. Set the DJ up as the executive, the legislative, and the judicial branches. I mean, after listening to your beat, anything I’ve heard on the pop radio in the last five years feels like a violation of my civil rights.”
    We the true music lovers ofthe world, in order to form a more perfect groove
. . .
    Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated Blaze’s praise, but I didn’t like my music being compared to a piece of paper and said so: “I think of it more as a timeless piece of art, you know, like the Mona Lisa of music. Your Constitution metaphor is too political. You’re making it seem like my music is propaganda.”
    Pressing the play button, Blaze laughed, “Man, didn’t anybody ever tell you that all art is propaganda? It doesn’t matter whether you think it should be or it shouldn’t be, it just is, and motherfucker, like or not, you’re sitting on a funky Magna Carta. An unbelievably dope beat that’s this close to being the supreme law of the land—but as it stands now is no more than amusicalized Equal Rights Amendment, a brilliant and necessary idea doomed to the dustbin of change.”
    The music quieted the room with a thumping irrefutability that was indeed just short of perfection. I turned it down.
    â€œSo what’s it missing?” I asked.
    Blaze leaned back in his chair and smoothed his goatee. “Like any important document, it needs to be ratified.”
    â€œTake my track to the thirteen original colonies and get people to vote on whether they like it or not?”
    Elaine scratched at her jawline. “No, he’s just saying