Wordy Rappinghood: Issa's Sunday Service, #79

[Because of the holiday, there was no post last Friday.   Regular Friday posts will start up again this week]

This week, I got to thinking about some bands I hadn't thought of in a long time and, it turns out, I've come up with a selection that wasn't on my list for Issa's Sunday Service.  I got a hankering to hear Tom Tom Club, a group made up of a number of members of Talking Heads, a sort of side project that became much more than that.  I decided to listen to a couple of their albums, which I did, and realized that one of their big songs, "Wordy Rappinghood," makes for a great weekly selection.  

There are many versions of this song; back in the day of dance "club" music and free flowing coke, there were more 12" remixes, extended versions etc. of songs than rolled up Andrew Jacksons.  So, if you like what you hear above, you are going to be delighted with the following 12" extended play (count me among the delighted):








Of course, the song takes its title from the early fairy tale of the oral tradition entitled "Little Red Riding Hood," versions of which were done by both Charles Perrault and the Brothers Grimm (no 12" remixes that I'm aware of).   Just this, and the homage to "words," would be more than enough to qualify for the LitRock canon, but the opening lines adds another dimension:

What are words worth?  Words.
What are words worth?  Words. 

If you'd like to know what Tina Weymouth was thinking about when she co-wrote "Wordy Rappinghood," here's a brief film from 2009 about just that topic (you'd never think the Dalai Lama would get a well-deserved shout-out on this one but, well, there you go):








This has all got me to inexplicably thinking about Tiny Tim, but perhaps I'll save that for another time.

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This week's selection comes from the Lilliput archive, issue #117, from June 2001; two poems by the incomparable Albert Huffstickler, neither of which have here appeared before.  Enjoy.

I have measured
my solitude on
the scale of
my being
and come up with
a formula
for converting
ashes into sunlight.

Albert Huffstickler

For my funeral
write me a requiem
of herbs and wild flowers
and play it on the wind.

Albert Huffstickler

onlookers
at a funeral...
the autumn wind

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

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