Monthly Archives: September 2010


“Charlie Hustle, I got a few mathematics,
I’m doing a compilation, should I go with Phunky Phat Graph-X?
I tell them, ‘Hell yeah that’s a done deal, dude them be off the hinges
Dude them did my cover and my bus benches”

E-40 ‘Hope I Don’t Go Back’

Today I’m talking about tote bags…I’m just fucking with you. I’m talking Phunky Phat Graph-x. That was the company’s name incidentally—I haven’t just returned from a Tory workshop on “yoof” speak. A couple of years back, my good friend Nick Schonberger asked me to write a piece on the well-known (even if it’s with a certain smirk) Pen & Pixel album cover empire, which ultimately, despite late ’90s ubiquity is line with the explosion of major-licensed empires like No Limit, Suave House and Cash Money appears to close doors to make way for Smart Face Media Management and Creative Resource Managements (though Shawn Brauch has mentioned plans to distill all 19,0000 covers in his archive into a book), their rival before Pen & Pixel truly owned the market was Oakland’s Phunky Phat Graph-x. Hardly as prolific but still commonplace in my tape collection, if you liked B-Legit, JT the Bigga Figga or early E-A-Ski (and the homie Maxime at ‘Sang Bleu’ knows the deal), you were drawn in by some lurid act of brutality by O-Town’s album sleeve maestros.

If, inexplicably, despite being a pasty Brit, you laid hands on Mista Boss Mann’s pimptastic output, you probably knew the power of Phunky Fresh. There was rarely ghetto glamour on commissioned work. After effects, yes, but significantly more grime. According to legend, Master P tired of their turnaround times and while P had been loyal to the Phunky Fresh for TRU and other early releases—even back when the company was called Underwood Works after founders Thomas and Tracy Underwood—and switched to Pen & Pixel. Sick Wid It seemed to stay loyal. There was room in my heart for both creative outposts. Phunky Fresh defined this curious aesthetic before I ever set eyes on their rival’s work. I still don’t know what happened to Thomas and Tracy (that’s what the comments section is for, after all), but vice-president Johnel Langerston runs a company called PHATEFX that offers a similar service. It’s too easy to sneer at a curious time for the industry as dynasties were forged before politics, gullyness and the dreaded right-clickers put a dent in those gold-plated mansions.

There’s no Bay Area sounds currently blaring via my iTunes—just an unofficial but slickly packaged Cam’ron and Vado mixtape called ‘Polo Sport’ that flips some of Lauren’s branding effectively on the cover art. The lineage is in full effect. Tastes changed, but the cult of lurid art lives on in the mix and street CD circuit. More often than not, these are part of a tactical leak, and are barely seen outside of a hi-res jpeg, but at least the spirit’s there. I hope all involved continued success, and remain in awe of their street-level excesses. Whether the Retweet takes prominence over curious or brilliant design to shift an album isn’t even open to argument. It’s done, but I still keep hope alive that another powerhouse of go-to guys will arise, and maintain this level of lunacy.

Filthy Phil reportedly killed a police officer and released this tape while he was on the run. Hence the name.

It’s worth noting that this entry was originally meant to have some jacket talk too because of some fine new acquisitions from Arc’teryx Veilance and Dickies and some talk of the new Rig Out too, but it jarred too hard for the above—even by my usual standards the transition would’ve been deeply awkward. I guess the Dickies associations are certainly there.


When Vado dropped a Polo tribute that barely took it further than an underwear tee, he got a bit of a blowback. Supreme’s Polo-themed collection a few years back seemed to cause an E-kerfuffle that’s been swept under the carpet too—while Ralph’s output is a household name, it still carries an aura that unofficial brand guardians are keen to retain. Despite their frequent felonies, every original Lo-Lifer deserves commission for the gear they popularized. Remember Kanye’s “Ralph Lauren was boring before I wore him” line on the Rhymefest track aggravating FI-LO and company? It’s a powerful thing. How many emcees rocking the horse on their gear were genuinely down? It’s hip-hop’s equivalent of the Sex Pistols in Manchester. Many claim to have been down since the beginning, but few were. Legend has it that Zhigge were down, and there was talk of Fabolous being an affiliate. You know Meyhem Lauren is officially down—check his site, because the gear pictures are phenomenal, and the “Suicide Crew” shot (below) is the tip of the iceberg shirt.

There’s a lot of fanboys globally claiming Lo-Life status but missing the point. Kids are keen to remake 1992’s wardrobe, but while the respect for the originators is there, you can’t buy status second-hand or earn your P-Wings on eBay. The gear might be superb, but you need to appreciate the context.

Lo-Lifers helped push Polo and Polo Sport into an arena that needed an injection of style beyond weirdo dress shirts, unattainable Dapper Dan bootleg styling and Starter coats and sportswear. They altered rap’s aesthetic for the better, and that didn’t come easily. For those that love to hear the stories, the Lo-Life movement was rife with injuries, deaths and incarcerations. Paragon was terrorized. Apparel and assault sent members to Riker’s. There were foot chases and near-misses. little was paid-for. To claim to be on the same level for paying indiscriminately for any ’88-’97 ‘Lo output insults the originators. It’s inevitable that every authentic act is followed by a hundred weaker imitations that lack the same nerve. You can’t just throw together anything lurid and vintage either. You need to rock it properly. Everyone loves Polo and everyone hoards Polo. One group of Brooklynites just took it way further. Respect the originators. This is a moment-in-time, a group of groundbreakers taking it too far and one of the definitive eras in apparel obsession. OG Lo-Lifer Shillz Da Realz’s Blogspot is a trove of information too, and hopefully that book he’s just started putting together will see light-of-day.

It’s a repeat performance on this blog (it was thrown up here earlier last year) but just because it deserves to be constantly available, the Lo-Life story from September-November 2000’s editions of The Source is below. It’s a little story that must be told. yeah, garment preoccupations are global, but the Lo-Life contribution is legendary. These guys took it up a notch. It deserves documentation.


Almost every day I’m guilty of multiple acts of insincerity. An insincerity spree as it were. I tell people I like things, firmly shake their hands and pretend to enjoy being in their company. Whether it’s work-related, during a commute or feigning nice-guy on a social basis to prove that I’m not some self-harming misanthrope, I’m prone to it. I’ve said nice things to get free things or laden paragraphs with superlatives to keep people happy. Like I said, I’m prone to insincerity. 

This blog however, is—unless I’ve become so pathetically self-serving and false that I’ve forgotten how my true self actually feels about anything—something a little more honest. I’m not ashamed of my vacuous, phony antics as I generally surround myself with people I genuinely like. So if I see something I like and chuck it up here, it’s not just because it was flowed my way—it’s because I genuinely like it. 

I have stacks of booklets, pamphlets, fold-outs, USB sticks and lookbooks clogging up my living space that, as a hoarder, I can’t dispose of. Much of it never got beyond a blank glance on the train when I was fishing through a goodie bag to see if there were foodstuffs or promo-cigarette papers in there (all goodie bags should have cigarette papers somewhere in the mix…plus matches). If you’re one of the few who follows these updates, not only do I love you for that (I really mean it) you may have gathered that there’s a preoccupation with workwear and basics round these parts. I love Ben Davis, I love Carhartt and I love Dickies. Nobody had to flow me product to say that. 

Still, I’ve always wanted more archive Dickies information—it’s always seemed a little tougher to obtain than the details of Hamilton Carhartt’s hardwearing empire. During the recent Crooked Tongues BBQ, Juergen at Dickies was—in what’s arguably the era of the bullshitter—the most efficient, friendly and professional individual we’ve ever had the pleasure of dealing with. The same goes for all Dickies team and affiliates operating in Europe. Keen to elevate the brand, Juergen handed over a startling level of creative freedom to my old agency haunt (and spiritual home), U-Dox to create a brand bible. Truth be told, on hearing about the project, I anticipated something solid, readable, but along the lines of Carhartt Europe’s excellent promo book series, following that well-worn trail of history and product preview.

On seeing some untreated snapshots and art director Jay Hess hard at work during a preview of the Hideout capsule collection—and in the knowledge that gentleman and scholar Jason Jules was editor and creative director—I’d clearly grossly underestimated the scale of this project. ‘Love Your Work’ is inspirationally good. Busy without being over designed, there’s an air of ‘Sang Bleu’ (If you don’t know by now, you’re never going to know) to the look and playful use of paper stocks. Stocks, finishes, fold-outs, inserted factoids about key Dickies designs and bonus interview applications, foil printing, pop out colour-coded circles…for a simpleton like me who enjoys the tactile side of the reading experience, it’s a joy. Jason’s even such a gent that he thanked me in the NYC hip-hop map section, despite a contribution that bordered on fuck-all. Bar the wack shoes on most of the ladies in the group shot, it’s consistent too.

I see familiar faces throughout, but this isn’t a biscuit wank on paper. Employing the minds at Astro Man to create revisionist ads in an early 20th century style was a great move too. Deeply impressed by the work here and looking forward to the next installment, I’m also deeply jealous that I never got more involved. Launched on monday at an enjoyable exhibition with a neat “takeaway” gimmick, it also allowed me to meet a personal hero, Kevin Rowland, very briefly (“Nice to meet you Kevin. I ‘m a big fan of your work.” “Thank you very much.”). This entire project elevates my appreciation of Dickies as a brand, and I think that’s a job well done.

It’s free too. I hope all involved love the work they’ve created. 

The usual vitriol will resume this weekend…


I wince every time I see someone with an outlet for their witterings, be it a blog or inexplicably, a place in a magazine starts calling themselves a writer or, god forbid, a journalist. You can hurl the dictionary definition my way that might say otherwise in a most literal sense…shit, you can hurl the whole dictionary at me for all I care, but chances are—and this is especially applicable in my vapid field of work—you’re not. You just string a few sentences together to make a PR happy, to get free things or win the respect of your equally one-dimensional peers. You are most likely, like me, a chancer. Nowadays, if you can button up a denim shirt, you’re putting “stylist‘” on your CV. If you beg friends on Twitter, you’re in “communications“. If you watched ‘Helvetica’ and can crop on PhotoShop you’re a “designer“. If you’ve can do all these things, maybe you can claim you can offer some “creative direction“. Chances are, you’re a prick.

If you’ve written an uncritical, bombastic paragraph about a new t-shirt company by slightly deconstructing the promo-guff someone emailed you as a PDF attachment and are patting yourself on the back I’d like to get semi-literate for a second and point you in the direction of the books above. George Orwell’s ‘Down and Out in Paris and London’ isn’t necessarily journalism, but as an act of utter immersion, and even if there’s a few liberties with the timeline, as a lesson in scenic setting, characterization and pace minus the pointless sentences that lower eyelids, it’s a necessary read. Don McCullin’s rise from East End snapper to the photojournalist’s photojournalist, risking life and limb in any hellhole you care to name (‘The Bang-Bang Club’ is highly recommended too on a similar topic) is an inspiring and humbling story. He’s an excellent writer too.

Michael Herr took a typewriter and a notebook to Vietnam rather than a Nikon, on assignment for ‘New America Review’, ‘Esquire’ and ‘Rolling Stone’ – he writes with abstract eloquence in heinous conditions, and ‘Dispatches’ is the greatest of all war reports. Then there’s Gay Talese—the impeccably-dressed master of the written portrait. His pieces on Frank Sinatra, Joe DiMaggio and Floyd Patterson are flawless, and if traditional tailoring and the inner workings ‘Vogue’ are of interest, he set precedents with profiles there too. The minute I got my name in print, the sheen was buffed by the corruptive presence of ad money. I enjoy writing, but it’s stifled by cash-led limitations. As a result, I can’t claim to have done much more than write advertorials. But at least I know my place.

The aim here isn’t to belittle what you do, but to offer some perspective. Reading the above will broaden some horizons, and with luck, bitchslap you into hesitating before you bellow those journalistic credentials. I can’t imagine that Orwell, McCullin, Herr or Talese could flourish in pixels alone. The more intelligent and lucid the writing (though The Sabotage Times has been taking up my web time in the best way possible of late) or imagery, the more the screen makes me squint. Maybe I need glasses, but it leaves me wanting to see it on paper. Any time anyone pays me the slightest compliment, I return to these books to understand my position in the scale of things. You can be okay in the field of fashion footwear, but it’s like being the skinniest kid at fat camp…compared to everyone outside the camp you’re still a waste-of-space.

Digression One

It’s rare that I mention my employer here, just because it has its own online presence and this blog was started as its distant cousin, but Crooked Tongues is 10 years old this year, and that warrants a mention. That’s a long time in E-years. Many sites have comes and gone—even much of Crooked’s pre-2005 history has been lost for this or that reason. While I seem to have taken some role as a mouthpiece for the site (and the next hack that claims I created it gets a slap), the site’s history pre-empts me by years. Shouts to Russell (the HNIC), C-Law, Chraylen, Acyde, Kahma, Tim, Grace, Niranjela, Dean and Phil, plus the likes of Jeff and Al, and of course, my partner-in-crime (now-Vans) Morganator and the current roster of Mumbi, Tom, Amberley and Jade. Oh yeah, and Zaid, Jaymz, Leo, Chris, James and all the rest. Plus everyone else who ever passed through and many more who were there before me.

I only joined just over half-way through that decade (I wrote some crappy LP retrospectives that Chris Aylen graciously didn’t delete on sight on April 2000 for Spine Magazine)—freelance for Crooked only commenced from mid 2004, leading to a full-time role from January 2006. Ah, memories. There was little like Crooked Tongues before (Nikepark, Shoe Trends and Altsnks were ill though). Were it not for the trusting minds behind the site, my life would be significantly shittier right now. For that, I’m eternally grateful to Russ and the duo of Christophers. I don’t care a fuck for what you think of it now, nor that you’re “over” sports footwear, but Crooked changed the game. The big dogs paid attention. In many ways, it may have been partially responsible for the boom in theme pack “limited” crap, as brands started to take more and more attention to the sneaker weirdos. You may not see overt linkage to it here (it’s my day job), but I’m immensely proud and honoured to be involved. When it happens to piss brands and retailers off, I’m even prouder of it.

From wandering to the site (and ‘Cavemilk’s) launch party at the Great Eastern Hotel in January 2001, wearing Zoo York and Wallees, to the 2004 BBQ, an attempt to capture a “block party” vibe (which I believe, was originally meant to be in a basketball court according to nascent planning), to the April 2005 DMPHI book lunch, to the 2005 BBQ in the same venue as the year before, to the adidas ‘Black Monday’ 2006 event, to the BBK 2007 BBQ, to 2009’s party, the real-world events have been remarkable, forging more than a handful of friendships. While the food will run out fast, and people will angrily text me for being left waiting outside, I hope tomorrow’s tenth anniversary BBQ will be equally memorable. Still, at least we’ve got goodie bags to give away.

Digression Two

C-Law posting up the House33 New Balance 576 recently reminded me I’ve still got my one of ones in the loft. I can give or take the orange laces, but the carbon effect ‘N’ and forefoot is a winner. Can’t forget the PUMA Clyde ‘Warnett’ edition either. The stitched rather than printed lettering makes me love these an awful lot. Like I said, Crooked has afforded me some excellent opportunities.

Digression Three

I’m collating some examples of Slayer self-harm (plus a more professional but equally disturbing ankle scar artwork). These guys really mean it more than Jimmy, Cam, Freeky and Juelz ever did. The chap in the ‘Live Intrusion’ who gets it carved on his inner forearm in the ‘Live Intrusion’ VHS gets extra points for having rubbing alcohol ignited to cauterise the wound. Flaming Slayer skin slashes aren’t big or clever, but I find it an oddly inspiring act of devotion. If you want to leave negative comments surrounding self-harm scarification glorification, I suggest you keep it to yourself-maybe you could carve it onto your thigh or forearm instead. With Slayer, it’s never a cry for help—it’s just a thrash metal war wound.


I have a big head. Not in terms of arrogance, but in the literal sense. As a result, buying sunglasses is a pain. Most pairs make me look like a third-rate coke dealer, sex offender or—with my deathly pallor—a vampire. I aspire to be one of those folk who can throw on a pair of standards, like the Wayfarer or Frogskin, but it doesn’t work. My sleep patterns and caffeine habit should, by rights, make sunglasses a necessity, but the width and height of the damned things makes me utterly self-conscious, and if you aren’t comfortable in shades, it shows. At least I’m aware of this.

I’ve got a few Ray Bans that are immediately rendered uncool on my face, and a pair of Stussy Michaels (which I always assumed were themed on Michael Caine’s Oliver Goldsmith favourites) that felt right once but don’t any more. I would wear cheap locs like Eazy-E and accept defeat but save on expenditure. Except they make me look even dumber. When the quest for appropriate sunglasses leaves you so adverse to readily-available models you’d rather squint your way around a seafront, something’s gone very very wrong.

But at least I’m aware of my sunglass-unfriendly face. Many aren’t. The second rise of the Frogskin—particularly in bolder colours—truly highlighted buffoons in box logo hats on skinny bikes as ones to avoid. It’s a classic design, and the Eric Koston variations are particularly strong, but it isn’t to all heads. Some need to fall back. Then there’s those who should be held up as the masters of darked-out glass. John Ford remains an unheralded style general. For ‘The Searchers’, ‘Stagecoach’ and ‘Fort Apache’, his legend is cemented, but he heads up this legends of sunglasses cavalry with his pipe and rounded frames.

Dignity, authority and power is reflected in those lenses, and they were noted by another legend-Akira Kurosawa, who idolised Ford. It’s refreshing that an oft-imitated genius (yeah, I said it—prove me wrong on that burst of bombast. I triple-dare you), like Akira felt inclined to imitate himself, by aping the old-West master’s dark-glassed appearance, but adding a flat cap (though Ford was no stranger to headwear himself), creating his own iconic look in the process. Then again, the Wild West genre would pilfer from Kurosawa when it came to the lucky number seven, so it was swings and roundabouts.

Beyond the auteurs, on the sonic front, the master is Martin Rev on the synthesiser, creating a drone with concealed eyes, and aiding in antagonizing Clash fans. It’s law that most bands benefit from an aloof individual manning keyboard, synth or drum machine, hiding behind shades to amplify that blank aesthetic. Rev helped cement that musician rule. His sunglasses were often preposterous—vast ski numbers pre b-boy contradicting his wiry frame. But that was part of the look, and Martin pulled it off with the illusion of effortlessness.

Eric ‘Eazy-E’ Wright remains criminally un-Twittered on his death day, despite a vast musical legacy and one of music’s most striking looks, from the boxy Pendletons to navy chucks, old-English fonts, Jheri curls and the formidable corners of his disposable swapmeet sunglasses. The perfect accessory to crank up a mean-mug. Listening to the cartoonish violence of ‘Louisville Slugger’ , Eazy merrily embraced a cartoonish persona, and these glasses helped define that character, but as with the previous trio, he never let the sunglasses wear him. Always the other way around.

For me, the quest continues. It needs to be resolved by next Summer.


We’re all guilty of living in the past, but the point when you developed a fashion awareness seems to leave an indelible mark on the psyche that means regressive revisits are an inevitability. That’s what seems to have put us in this retro rut where we just keep going back to the point where we’re rocking olde world railmaster attire. We’ll be in Dickensian garms before long. Beyond sports footwear experiences as a young ‘un, it was Def Jam patches on MA-1s, Suicidal Tendencies caps, Vision Streetwear and some regrettable lurid grails in the clothing stakes that really set me off. Then a Stüssy preoccupation and the rumours of Troops costing £150 followed by unwarranted racism allegations that effectively put that brand to sleep. The rudeboys round my way were the true style masters who really activated my preoccupation with apparel and footwear.

We’d had the piss-trickle of shit Le Shark, bad Hi-Tec Micropacer knockoffs and pastel trousers that casual culture instigated (the Italian Paninaro crowd played their part there too), but the terrace-inspired gear hit harder with a generation above me. I was transfixed by the ragga-inspired pinroll, Burlington, vast Chipies (or for us Bedford dwellers, Chipie copies from the market) and Chevignon (or as before, a knockoff with an appropriately Euro name) and the footwear oneupmanship. This rudeboy look never really seems to get the reverence it deserves beyond smirking “Do you remember?” forum threads, or regrets over hefty purchases that were immediately robbed or out-of-favour. I think it’s one of young Britain’s (alright., it’s a London thing) greatest looks. The parallels with so-called casual culture —the cost, the dole money, the rivalries and the swagger are there, but while it might not have sustained like a Massimo Osti masterpiece, at the time it seemed more youthful rather than teens dressing beyond their years. Rather than damage in an organized tear-up, the fear here was getting jacked on the shop doorstep after handing over colossal amounts of amassed coin.

Being a towny, by the time we got any trends, they were long gone in London. As a 13-year-old you could only gaze helplessly at ‘The Face’ and ‘Sky’ and see what you were set to get the arse-end of after it was onto the next one in the big city. Only kids as school with shotta bothers or guilty absentee fathers came close to keeping up, and that was sporadic. They’d be wearing the same Filas and puffa jackets for a few months too as a result and the awe would wear off. but still—and this is certainly the case on the trainer front—this was a peak. We never really moved on, and the ’94 Jordan reissues paved the way for us to churn out variations on a theme to the present day.

In the ensuing years we reverted to suede basketball shoes that harked back to 1968 and rocked check shirts, but boundaries blurred and subcultures seemed to merge. I’ve not seen a youth style as defined as the rudeboy look of 1990/91 emerge again. The worst casualty was oneupmanship, where wearing the same or even similar gear was frowned upon, and oddball choices would either win respect or crash and burn. But at least you tried.

Kevin Sampson’s piece on casual gear from ‘The Face’s August 1983 issue marked a turning point in the culture’s documentation (and the ensuing letters pages for articles on the topic were always hilarious), but ‘Ruder Than the Rest’ from the March 1991 issue, a Chipie-centric 14-page article written by John Godfrey, Derick Procope and Kark Templer, with some excellent location photography by Nigel Shafran was incredibly enlightening. Each postcode prided itself on their progressive style. Hammersmith kids dissed the South Londoners for tucking rather than pinrolling. Nobody was telling where they got their Vikings from. We were informed that, “If you’re into rap, if you’ve got a hi-top haircut and live in Harlesden, you’re known as a pussy.” By the time the article went to print, all-involved had almost certainly moved on in terms of lusted labels.

It makes me nostalgic for something in which I was never involved—something I merely admired from afar. I still feel it warrants more documentation.


I don’t want this to be one of those blogs where the curator merrily hurls every piece of freebie tat hurled their way into a post, or makes a limp promise to a PR that “coverage” to a handful of readers and friends should warrant a freebie. Nobody needs to be exposed to the work of a lame blogger like that. But you probably know that I like magazines, and my respect for New York’s (formerly ATL’s) FRANK151 has cropped up here time and time before. Back when I posted an ill-fated list of magazines last month I even noted that this publication not making the top ten was something of a bozo move.

I first grabbed a FRANK151 as part of a package from an online rap retailer based on the same city as team FRANK (Sandbox? All I recall is being made to “fax” my Mastercard via an antiquated scanner before they’d treat me as anything more than a criminal before waiting more than a month to grab my vinyl. While the shipping by weight was no joke, the freebies were what made it a superior E-spot. Promo CDs, stickers, XXL tees, hastily signed CD booklets, white labels and occasionally…very occasionally, magazines.

A decent publication called ‘Mugshot’ turned up in a heavily sealed mass of cardboard, but it was FRANK151 that fired my imagination. It seemed utterly self-indulgent and totally focused on specific matters. I can’t even recall the chapter that proved a gateway drug, but it wasn’t until I grabbed a copy of 14 circa 2003 (with SSUR at the helm) that I truly grasped the guest-editorial nature of this project. My experiences with it in London have been fleeting. Beyond DPMHI’s heyday, I’ve never grabbed it in the same location more than once. It seems to deliberately elude me.

While you’re out trying to get your print project off the ground expecting me to high-five you just for picking pulped paper over pixels, whether it’s physical or not, garbage is garbage is garbage. FRANK151 rarely lets me down. It feeds my enquiring mind. I’ve broken out copies copped overseas and opened them back in the UK to reveal French and Spanish language editions. But I’m not mad. I stacked and saved those too.

Some editions have not been entirely themed on subjects I’m barely interested in, but they’ve proved educational regardless. You can’t go and demand your money back either, because it’s free, even if some stores keep ’em so far into the shelves that they’re practically daring you to reach over, look them in the eye, take a copy and wander out without buying a damned thing. Collated, I may well have spent enough time feigning interest in hanging racks of heavily marked-up cotton just to pick my moment to grab a copy and leave to watch Leone’s ‘One Upon a Time in America’ in its entirety again, even if it’s just the butchered VHS version from the ’80s and ’90s. That’s a lot of time spent lurking.

The book’s book-size defies freebie disposability and smuggles itself into lofty company with the books I pretend to read on my book shelf. It’s a survivor in that regard. Somehow I feel the urge to collate them and leave them be while less diminutive perfect-bound magazines in my living space get pulped. I spent a long, long time hunting down the Soul Assassins chapter, only for Estevan Oriol to kindly give me a copy recently, but not having the ALIFE, No Mas and recent Seventh Letter crew editions was eating at me. Until FRANK151’s Managing Editor Adam Pasulka clocked my rambling magazine entry, showed forgiveness for my oversight and sent me a “care package” of 13 FRANKs. It made it from the USA in a matter of days as well, unlike the lengthy vinyl limbo the likes for Sandbox and Hiphopsite used to leave me in.

Chapter 42 is the Cuba edition. For the Mellow Man Ace article and Michael Halsband’s account of Hunter S. Thompson running wild in the heat alone, you need it in your life. Cheers Adam.