As I type this, I am under sonic assault. It is 8:15 PM on a Sunday night, and we are entering the fifth hour of high volume party jams from a DJ down on the corner. Sitting in my house, I can hear every beat and every word, even with the doors and windows closed — but the weather’s too nice to keep the windows closed.
Somebody’s grandma died. Some of the party-goers are decked out in “dead man shirts” commemorating their matriarch. This is a big street party in her honor. Lot of folks from the Fischer, or so I gather.
Apparently grandma was heavily into old school New Orleans bounce. Or maybe that’s just the DJ. I’ve got to say on a purely technical level I am mighty impressed by the power of his setup. I mean it is loud and clear, no distortion.
The party got started around 3:30. I caught these lyrics:
So eat this black music and tell me how it taste now?
And fuck Jesse Jackson cause it ain’t about race now.
That’s the Game, in case you didn’t know. Those lyrics really confuse me. If it ain’t about race then why did Mr. Game just label his music racially? But maybe I’m putting too much science on this.
Oops — It’s 8:20 PM and the music has stopped. That’s five hours almost on the dot. Xy predicted they’d shut down at 9:00.
I’d say our block sees an event like this about once a year. They always end before it gets too late. I appreciate that.
I regard such parties as a sacred ritual of sorts, especially with Grandma’s passing. Given the sheer volume of the event, we’re kind of forced to become part of the ritual. Our heads are in the party whether we want to be or not. My only objection is that, under the circumstances, y’all could at least offer up some of that good-smelling BBQ. We didn’t know the dearly departed, but we’re hungry too. Maybe share some drinks while you’re at it. Is that so much to ask?