Before I inherited my sister’s bright blue 1992 Pontiac Sunbird, I used to walk home from school. In autumn, I’d inhale the distinct smell of the Midwest dying in the afternoon; of rotting leaves baked from the midday sun mixed with the sharp, day-end air. Nothing too unique about it, just when that mixture hits me now, I’m transported back to the sidewalk behind Ankeny High School. I’m strolling down the double wide concrete littered with spent foliage, pine needles, cigarette butts, and peeled wrappers, and I’m warm in my huge sweatshirt and stocking hat, but my face is biting cold, especially my nose. The conduit to the memory sticks out. Sniffer. The ground brown and green-yellow, hard and cracked. The sky grey and fading.
Earwax, too. Earwax always lingers when I breathe it in. I’m sitting on my Grandma’s couch, and she’s pulling globs and globs out of me. The TV’s on mute with an old movie on, and she’s lecturing me about staying out of trouble and always cleaning my ears and nose. This is a dream. I haven’t had it in years. Don’t know if it even happened. Rank.
“White Bronco” from professional LARGE MAN, Action Bronson is a smack of transportive autumn vibes; of dream music with Bronson flowing on the absurd and natural alike. The cascading Rhodes and heroin sax (chopped and arranged by Daringer) lift like lung smoke after midnight; like brisk fall winds around bright moonlight. A conceived world of surreal funk. Truth and story intertwined.
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