words.
AMANDA.
One night around the Christmas holiday, I remember seeing her face as I was food shopping at the supermarket and that was it. But I remembered very well because she reminded me of a popular female poker player on TV. Those things you just can’t forget.
A couple of weeks later at the same supermarket, I saw her again but behind the register. Her faced looked familiar from the last time I saw her. She was real pretty with her long black curly hair and pink skin, a purple long-sleeve shirt and tight black jeans.
I went on line to check out and I noticed that she moved extremely slow when she was checking out the lady in front of me. When that lady left I asked the girl if everything was OK. She said very kindly that she was battling a cold. Then I asked her if she was brand new and she said that she was only here since the holidays. The conversation grew into what I purchased and spilled into why I was shopping at her market and where I worked, all the while trading smiles and nervous laughs re-assuring her that she was doing a fine job. She gave me my change in which she thought she dropped a penny but I said it was OK, and then finding out that it was a nickel.
The following week I found myself at the same market with the same groceries with the same girl at the same register. Deja vu. There she was and everything went well with a smile. This time, she asked me if I was the one she rang out last week. Even better, she asked me for my name and I gave it to her, then I saw her name tag. ‘Amanda’. She came out of last week’s cold and showed signs of recovery. I took a closer look and she reminded me of my friend that wrote with us at the Stony Brook Press not too long ago, and I always thought there was something cute about her.
While talking to her, I felt that it could’ve went further. I received those smiling, flirtatious looks from her while she was talking to me. We were still being nice and nervous with each other and those were the usual signs of things going forward. In the end, she said goodbye to me as she said my name, as I also the same, as I said I looked forward to seeing her next week.
And it was a good thing. At that point, I couldn’t wait. Anticipation was on my shoulders.
Weeks passed as I shopped at the market I was accustomed to by hard times. I did what I usually did by taking my time buying the week’s groceries, but she wasn’t there. I went on a Wednesday instead of a Tuesday for one week. Then for the next, she called in sick. After that, I saw new staffers working at the market. Then I felt bad because what I really needed wasn’t there. I figured that she neglected to take her job seriously, that she wouldn’t show up to work on purpose and not call out, or was just fired for poor performance. I wondered what happened to her and if I really would see her again.
This week it was business as usual. I offered my neighbor that day to buy him some soda and pizza at the market and he gave me a Lincoln to go do it. I went to the market and just grabbed what I had to. Over my shoulder an employee was talking to her manager and said that she just called someone up to see if she would come in but hadn’t heard from her. Hope was not lost?
On the side, I pulled the manager over. I asked her if Amanda was working there anymore.
“No”, said the manager.
“Really?” I exclaimed. “Did she quit? Was she fired?”
“Unfortunately, Amanda passed away this past weekend.”
**********
No way. I could not believe it.
I pressed her manager for more answers because nothing of that nature should have come out of her mouth with such half-handed emotion, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt.
From what she told me, she said that Amanda hadn’t been to work for a couple of weeks and her neighbor contacted the store to tell her that she died in her sleep. The manager told me that neither herself or the neighbor knew the exact cause of her death (at that very moment I was adding or subtracting that it could’ve been cancer or some sort of terminal issue) and was waiting for a future response. I asked if it was something much worse or dire, in which I was told that she herself was not sure yet.
Five minutes had passed and it did not set in because I still did not believe it. I said ‘hi’ to the cashier who knows me as a good shopper at his store. A good guy. I saw in his face a stumbled expression, trying to peer niceties through what was on his mind. I mentioned that he didn’t feel so good and asked him if everything was all right. He told me that he had bad news. So I heard. He was saddened by what happened and shared my sentiment of her being such a nice girl in which I wholeheartedly agreed with him. Her birthday just passed as well. Sympathies were exchanged and I’d see him in a couple of days.
Confirmed. I left the market wondering why and what happened.
I was spiraling to figure out what exactly happened. My mind was falling apart bits-and-pieces even thinking about this. I knew there were more of the puzzle to be put together. The question was: how?
My co-worker friend Gina usually pops up online once in while to see what’s up. She was too busy re-locating hence us not being in touch for a bit. I didn’t want to start the conversation off on a bad note (a death note, even) because at this point I had more than enough of drama.
Recently I was told of a death of someone else I knew, a friend of my brother whose funeral was on Friday the 13th. That alone was wrong because it happened. Gina intersected with her own stories of bad experiences of deaths of other people she knew. When I told her about this one, she knew exactly who I was talking about. She mentioned Amanda, and instantly everything stopped. I asked her how in the hell she knew about this. I didn’t believe Gina at first but we traded notes and found out it all matched up.
Gina had a friend who knew her. Two degrees of separation. Gina then gave me a link to a message that was posted concerning about someone dying of alcohol poisoning that weekend. My mind feared the worst and everything else was speculation amidst dissecting words, updates, and pictures and making them into possible answers. Expectations were shattered. My head shuffled itself as to who or what she really was.
The pictures that Gina found and showed me of her caught me off guard and I was very sure her co-workers that she used to work with didn’t know who she really was (until they found the cause of death). One picture showed her posing with only a bra on with a snake around her shoulders. Another photo had her looking like black-metal evil. Mean eyes, mean mouth, mean make-up. Expectations were shattered. It was her. Gia assured me everything would be OK in the end, and wished me to feel a little better, as always.
That same week, I asked my co-worker Sergio, who had associated with Amanda in the past, if he’d heard anything about what happened the prior weekend. His girlfriend’s friend said that it was a heroin overdose and was pretty sure about it. He knew her only a very little and said that she was more metal and goth than anything, but she was also the silent type. Verification complete.
Gina and I also spoke again that same week. I had told her the news and this time she was blown away. She mentioned this girl Natalie Ciappa, an 18 year-old girl from Massapequa who recently died of a heroin overdose and the filthy turgid animal of an ex-boyfriend who recently was arrested in a massive Nassau County sting. It was all over the news. She was a model 18 year-old who excelled in every aspect of scholastic life. Possibly, the perfect student. She died from the drug over the summer and became the unfortunate example for one of the most tragic stories of last year. So tragic that her death made the front page of our newspapers, and laws in her name were passed.
The thing with Gina was that she was extremely concerned knowing the dangers of the said drug, and really hoped that with the current bust we just had in Nassau that the epidemic would finally die down.
**********
It was all too surreal for me. So fucked up. It all never should’ve happened. And I felt deeply sorry. Someone of potential value now gone. Who I used to see as precious now lifeless.
How often do I wake up in the morning finding out that news of someone’s death is waiting for me? Who will it be? What was the cause? How does it all fit? What mark will they leave on us? Did the means justified the end? When you stand in front of a work of art, what do you see? What message do you want to tell yourself about it? What does that work of art really want to tell you?
People are shocked when news like this arrives unexpectedly. When people’s eyes and minds don’t align with their expectations, they get caught off guard, surprised. People see what’s in front of them and they have their notions that they’re confident to keep. I had mine. I imagined a sweet, caring, and innocent girl and I am now thinking of just how the opposite she could have really been. I could have been wrong and I hoped to God I was. I found out I was wrong. The only thing real was true.
I will never understand why people will take chances with their lives over something so trivial. People don’t realize what good they have and they blow it all away. They flip two-headed coins, roll loaded die, and spin wheels of the same denomination where the odds are against their favor from the start. They believe they can play the game not knowing those odds, or worse, not know how they’ll be cheated. They think they can win and beat the Deathdealer. In the end, they play the game and pay the price with their lives.
I thought to myself “what if?” What if she never died? What if this had never happened? Eventually we would’ve traded numbers, our taste in music, or even meet up for dinner or be somewhere exciting. I wondered at what point when I would’ve found out about her abuse, if there’d be something that I could have done, or how long I’d hold on before I’d decide to get off.
Instead, I’ll never know. She has now become an * in my life.
What I’ll be thinking about instead is how her family will cope with their loss and how her closest friends will deal with it. And that’s the heart of it all. What matters the most to me were those very few times I met her. In the end, it didn’t matter who she really was. What matters was that she was very genuinely nice to me, and that I’ll be very happy to take with me.
ULTIMA.
Any producer, vinyl enthusiast, or sample searcher will tell you that record-collecting is a never-ending habit. One recommendation leads to another, and before you know it you’re off to the races to scour the racks for some obscure or ever-elusive finds. Of course, you could also stumble upon some groups where diggers are more than happy to post their finds for everyone. That was the case with Vinyle Archeology: Crate-Digging & Excavation. I’ve shopped for jazz / fusion, soul, and R&B vinyl since the turn of the millennium for the return ritual of keeping in touch with myself through the music. It’s visiting a world I’ve bypassed and have been chasing to fully connect since. Vinyle Archeology took it to the next level. Their diggers have introduced me to uncharted territory while keeping the theme and aesthetic that I’ve longed for and enjoyed through discovery.
More than six months after founding my radio show, I had the idea to give back more of this sampling, vinyl, and crate-digging culture where available, and see if that would change my listeners as our former hip-hop dee-jays did to me at the turn of the millennium. Those stories are very rare if anyone makes them. It seems like I’m the only one I know who does. Though Vinyle Archeology, I found things that went deeper, divergent, and more obscure; all while keeping the spirit that these vinyl finds had me connected to. Brazilian jazz. French jazz. Italian movie scores, Japanese pink records, Israeli and Middle Eastern vocalists. African funk. Prog-rock. Religious music. Space rock. De Wolfe, Themes International, Bruton. The overlooked, the under-rated, and all that’s released that we never knew existed. This was it.
My first finds of this caliber? James Mason, Geoffrey Stoner, Sunburst, and Tarika Blue to start. Never heard of them until now. All artists should’ve been bigger names but for what reason didn’t. Now they’re given a second chance in the eyes of collectors and producers. (A Band Called) Death, however, did get just that. Now they’re in the history books. You never heard of Manzel, not by any shot, but you certainly heard of their drum break sampled for Cypress Hill’s “How I Could Just Kill A Man”. Almost unknowns in Smoke, Mighty Ryeders, Arawak, and Cortex. I never heard of them until Vinyle Archeologie. Have you? I never heard of Frank Ricotti and Francis Monkman either until I came across the Bruton music library compilations. Some fine bullseyes in T.S.U. Tornadoes and Chick Carlton & Mesmeriah (“One More Time With Feeling”) whom not many people outside of Carlton fans know about. Sounds from Mort Garson’s “Walk In Space” and a true oddball from Dick Hyman, his cover of James Brown’s “Give It Up Or Turn It Loose”, are timestamps of even a specific time gone and written. 7”’s and 45’s no one knew even existed until now. Then The Blackbyrds and Herbie Hancock, maybe even Flora Purim, are all-too-familiar names people do know about.
What do they all have in common? They’re connected to my Brooklyn youth, no matter how obvious or nebulous, that connects me to this very day. Find any record in that specific decade, no matter how similar or disparate it is from the surrounding others, and they’ll share that certain quality, note, or vibe that equates to a time and place that I’m still trying to grasp. To this day, I tread and discover uncharted territory that people once visited before but have left for good. Only a few days after joining Vinyle Archeologie, I had enough finds to assemble what would be its first bonus broadcast of its’ kind during my show’s Year One. While it’s unfolding, these same finds would also paint another picture of a very specific Summer decades after the fact.
**********
July was one of the most pivotal months for both Cath- and I after more than 100 days of seeing each other. Our second chance became a reality for both of us. She did drop a bombshell the day before we met after six years of not seeing each other. She confessed that she made the wrong decision, and that she should’ve chosen me all along instead of some random stranger who ended up becoming her first boyfriend. He was the one who got her drunk, introduced her to heroin, took her V-card, and ended up spending the night with her. He was one of the reasons why I didn’t see her for six years.
Whether she could’ve avoided her addiction is up for debate. Some say she chose to get involved because she needed more and more to ease the pain. Others say it was in her waiting to be unlocked. Who knows if I could’ve swayed her from signing an opiate contract with a full needle. I am only one person out of many who could’ve influenced her otherwise and every day I tried like a greyhound chasing that electric rabbit lure. But here we were now. After all of her arrests, blown plans, strange encounters, revenge-fucking and one-night-stands who bailed out on her, she’s here with me again.
Cath- and I decided on a locale to go to and Babylon Town Hall Park it was. I have never been there but I assumed it was closer to her jealous boyfriend Smith’s house in Massapequa. We were in the middle of what was Long Island’s longest recorded heatwave (seven days). It’s a fiery blaze across the Wednesday sky, heavily distorted by said head and everyone were dying like dogs. Hot, stifling mid-Eighties. Hazy, overcast, blinding white overheads and unbearable humid. I eventually pulled up right beside Cath- with our windows down and heard her say “hi” to me in a dull sullen manner. She was feeling down as usual. What else is new?
We got out of our cars and started walking around to catch up since we last met. We veered off the beaten path and ended up getting lost in-between the town hall buildings with no one around and encountered the outdoor benches and tables, commenting on how sweltering the evening air was. Cath’s silly playful self laid down flat on one of those tables, never offering a moment of pause during our conversations. Then her phone rang…
It was Smith. He’s at the neighborhood 7-11 and saw an underage girl all slutted up as he waited in line for his snacks. He was so shocked by what he saw that he had to call Cath- to tell her the news. Wow, you don’t say, Smith? I was so relieved that he didn’t call her up about how infuriated he still was when I bought Cath- and I tickets to see one of our favorite bands, or how he assumed that she was with me to fuck me. He knew who I was and I knew who he was. I never met him and no plans to, because I wouldn’t allow my presence to be near any fucking minus sign. She didn’t tell him who she was really with though. That was a good five minutes lost for nothing. I shook my head and told her not to pick up the phone again. But that’s the power of mere mentions.
Cath- was real thirsty. Who wouldn’t be in this insufferable weather? We left the park and drove to the 7-11 a mile west on the highway for some drinks. A mind trick if Smith ever invoked one on us. We loaded up on some of that sweet stuff as she asked me how tall I was. What prompted her to ask was beyond me. “Five-five-and-a-half” I said. She had the idea of turning around and putting her back against mine, put her hand on her head, then mine, and proceeded to trade notes. “Five-six!” No surprise. She told the entire world this on her social media account once up on a time. We set our ice drinks up on the counter. I ponied up the receipt for both of us and we left. We drove back to the park and stayed for good this time.
Cath- wore her white woven dress with matching white stockings like I’ve seen her weeks prior. A blue-and-white-laced bra strap slipped out of sync with her dress and off her shoulder. It was enough of a nuisance that she kindly asked me to help put it back on with all the respect in the world for her. Good thing that was taken care of. Her phone rings again. It’s Smith again for fuck’s sake. I told her not to pick up, but she did it anyway. This time he wasn’t outraged about another random less-than-17’s dress code. It’s about a fix he’s setting up for the both of them. She has her side to me while she asked a bevy of questions. “Who’s delivering?”, “How much?”, “When’s it getting there?”, “What time you want me there?” That’s another ten minutes of me standing there while she inquired about another batch to save her from those disgusting withdrawals. The day wasn’t getting any cooler by any means and I wasn’t getting any younger, but the phone’s down. We finally had a moment to sit.
Cath and I sat next to each other, her to the left of me, on a metal grated bench doing what we did best; talking, asking, listening to each other to the fullest of our abilities. Good news: we each made progress finding second jobs. Cath- nabbed both a position at a hamburger place and an office-supply store. She was weary of being jobless and broke, and was scratching to move on with her life. I got my foot into a big-box electronics store while the other still stalled at the supermarket. It took me five years to finally get an out and my manager flipped out on me when I told him. I was super fortunate that for those five dreadful years that not one of my co-workers or his son’s friends happened to discover her name through stalking my Facebook and tossing her name around the boy’s club like the wind-up merchants that they were. She knew all too well of the crayons, finger-painting, and building-block free-for-alls that I was dealing with.
I noticed that two or three times our hands brushed up against each other’s with no objection or notice as we still kept the discussion going. We still continued shuffling categories and traded questions for answers; answers that should’ve been easy solutions to what had become a crippling difficult situation for Cath- to untangle. It veered towards herself as usual: how she felt like garbage for the last eight years of her life because she wasted her potential that she threw out; the unusual predicaments she found herself in and the results bestowed. She was still conflicted even though she was making moves. She was still without money. Her ma’ simplified everything to a nice and clean compartmental visual for all who inquired to protect her family image. Dad showed tough love denying her tax refund checks and dishing daily personal attacks towards her in an attempt for her to wake up. Not I. There was nothing sanitized and Disney’ed about her addiction. No need for name-calling, criticism, belittling, or forcing the obvious. I heard it all. I saw the worst she’s posted. I understood, even if it was hard to take.
She stood up, stretched a little from being sore of sitting, then proceeded to walk a few feet towards the water. I slowly got up and trailed her while she was talking to me about her recent down moment. She stepped up on the rocks at the edge of the water where several other patrons stood. I stepped up and stood next to her. I put my arm around her waist and she leaned into me. Everything went quiet.
I consoled her as she stood silent, listening to the encouragement I’d given her. All the families and siblings of two, three, and four pre-occupied themselves chit-chatting with each other, running around while they admired the water beside us. For a few minutes, we brought ourselves down to a personal hushed level. I didn’t know what she was thinking other than stopping to realize that maybe this was the moment she needed.
We came down from standing on the rocks and slowly walked back to the bench. We both sat back down together and leaned into each other. My arm once again around Cath- as we both held hands. Time stood still. We were in our own world unaffected by the voices of families and their small excited children playing together, the cheers from the coaches and the impact of aluminum bats coming from the field as the orange sun descending down the gray skies. Only the two of us mattered now. All her eyes could do was look down while we spoke as she took in the moment.
All the cards were on the table. For the next 45 minutes we opened up to each other. Our first time meeting each other on that freezing cold day in Lake Grove. Why I chose not to move on from her after she disclosed her struggles to me. When she first rejected me over a night of ice cream. Our April day taking the train to New York City and back. The meaning and symbolism of Diamond-suited playing cards. All that we messaged each other over the last three months we now said in person. She wanted to hear it. She had to hear it. The close, caring contact. The compassion, time, and proper attention and respect she needed, wanted, deserved. These were things Smith never gave her. She shared it now with someone rational. Someone reasonable to hear her out. As it always had, is, and should be. All without judgment.
We discussed finding time to see each other in-between working two jobs or our plans towards her recovery, when I had to ask her all of those difficult questions. What would Smith say if he knew about us? Does he know about how close we were? How would I confront him not if, but when, there’d be any conflict between us? And how would ma-, dad, and her sis- Cheree receive the news that we were becoming something? I wouldn’t know, at least not yet, because Smith was calling. That’s fucking it.
Cath- got up to excuse herself to take the call. No arguing or yelling this time, but he had her attention for a good ten minutes again as I sat there impatiently waiting for her to hang up, preferably in mid-conversation. I was itching to resume the evening with her. I got up arms folded, walked up behind her with an impatient mood in my eyes and pressed her to end the call, which she finally did ten minutes later. She turned to me and apologized to me for interrupting our zen to take his phone call as she hugged me hard for a good 30 seconds. By then it was 8:15 PM. The orange sun was getting sweeter as it descended against the silver haze and the platinum clouds placed against the lighter gradients. The voices around us started to wind down, and so was our day. We finished up our conversation as we walked back to our cars to end the night.
She hugged me one last time and thanked me for seeing her again before giving me a light kiss on the lips goodbye, a nice touch to end the night. I promised I’d call her when I got home. We got in our cars and drove our separate ways home.
All I could think about during the drive home east was how it all unfolded to what we have now. How could a straight-edge person like myself – who has never smoked a single cigarette, who’s never downed any alcohol, or done any illicit drugs in their life – sought to be with someone who’s done it all? Someone who’s cut herself, abused pills, got blacked-out drunk, suffered from anorexia and bi-polarity, and was wasting her true potential on heroin while she gave herself away to some of Long Island’s most undeserving scum of the Earth who never deserved to put their grubby hands on her – all because of a poor social life in high-school that never panned out?
Simple. I only sought the good in her while acknowledging the bad. From the moment I learned she was hurting herself, I stayed. I never backed down. They say you shouldn’t fall into someone with a labyrinth of problems. You shouldn’t save them because it’s not your job to do so. But what was I to do? Leave her behind? That’s what anyone else would do. Not me. I stayed because I’ve seen and experienced something different from her than anyone else I met at this point. When the ones closest to me are in such dire straits, I help them out as much as I could.
I drove east through Route 27A thinking that my relationship with her was now a lock. Here was someone whom I really wanted to be with for once in my life. Certainly, not the long line of pitiful arms-down-to-their-sides undesirables who wanted me that I had absolutely no interest in. Not that emotional blackmail artist Molina who forcefully kept pushing her gifts and i.l.y.’s on me that I didn’t want, or Ricki who kept guilt-tripping me with meaningless conversations that went nowhere and makeshift “friends forever” greeting-card moments that I had to take part of…or else.
The night was still young to me. I decided to visit my favorite big-box on the way home and give myself a good half-an-hour to shop around. A new cap, a licensed shirt of my favorite baseball team, a fresh pair of jeans, and a new belt to go with it all. Fifteen, fifteen, twenty-five and ten make sixty-five. I couldn’t wait until my next off-day to wear the new threads for when we’d meet again. Shopping’s over, and it’s now time to worry about going to work the following day at the supermarket. Yet, I was mystified with the day’s events. Our interaction kept replaying in my mind from the moment we left the park right to when I got home as I tried to process it all.
It’s 9:30PM as I pull up at the front of my house. I turn the car off, grab my new belongings off the passenger seat, and head to the front door. I enter as my brother, his girlfriend, and my dad are all asleep for the night. I head downstairs and my usually-drunk neighbor next door is also out for the night. I unlock the door, turn the lights on, and throw my goods on my bed. I open my laptop, power on, and wait a few moments before signing-in to my social media:
“Hope I didn’t freak you out.”
Cath-’s message waited for me once I arrived home. I should’ve asked her that. We didn’t plan on what we just had. She was concerned that the unexpected would cost us everything, but her slight uncertainty asked anyway. That ended right after our war of re-assurance that we were on the right path. We both felt the same for each other.
“I was always afraid to pursue anything because I didn’t want to lose our friendship. You are definitely someone I don’t want to ever lose. What we already have I’d never want to ruin and I want to work to make it the best it can be. I think it’s rare what we have you can’t get it all the time and I don’t want to throw it away. You’ve always been there and not many guys I’ve been around respect my views or opinions. I love that the most.”
There’s moments where some people see the clarity and appreciation through the distorted drug hazes, pop, and smoke from years of substance abuse. It took a lot, but Cath- grasped it. Our moment was the zenith that stood out above all the other objects in the sky. It was a lot of time and work to get here, but here are the results we knew we wanted. I now had ten straight days of work to contend with in-between two jobs, but we’d make the time and effort to make it happen. I couldn’t wait to see her again.
**********
Monday midnight was approaching. Kim of Purple Starlight asked me to take over her three-hour slot. It was the first of countless Sunday-into-Monday slots I’d vacate and still do to this day. We were still broadcasting at the old WUSB studios housed into the old Union building which was erected in the mid-Sixties. Both spaces retained the original feel and architecture of the era without much change. A true relic of its time. Original egg-crate ceilings and that textbook smell of old books pressed of Helvetica titles. Solid-color embossed signs that haven’t been replaced since then. Thick doors, unpainted walls, old non-functioning call boxes with black Otis elevator buttons, and push-button locks still installed on our studio doors. Throughout the journey I could smell the apple-cinnamon scent-of-the-month aerating the stairs up from Lord knows where it’s transcending, but it would forever remind me of this specific time of doing these bonus broadcasts.
The studio itself was never an equivalent angel itself. Our Dymo-labeled boards were made in the same era as the building. Switches broken. Decaying foam walls. Disused reel-to-reel machines. Non-functioning square-foot cut-outs where the turntables used to be with non-working solid-color buttons. The carpet was atrocious-looking and hasn’t been replaced since the Seventies. Elbow microphones out of operation. Random finds of single-spindled cassette cartridges, non-working solid-state PCBs, and flat-boxes of blank Scotch reel-to-reel tapes with disused Ampex reel-to-reel machines all over. A small production space no more than six-by-six feet which used to be a news booth now housed a stack of those old reels, a musty stack of outdated papers, and a thirty year-old wide dot-matrix printer that still survived. All this was the perfect setting of what I was about to play for the next three hours.
These jazz / fusion cuts discovered via Vinyle Archeologie and played on that Monday morning mastered these moments like pressing plants master their vinyl with the music they press on. Who knows if any of the sounds I showcased on that overnight were played before within these walls of the old studios; vintage equipment intact, even. Chances are they may have. To this day, any reach of these finds makes it feel like it all happened yesterday. Cath- is no longer in my life, but the music sure is. Very much so. That Wednesday that I always remember is brought up as much as the finds I go back to. The sounds born from a totally distant time which defined an era also define new ones and personal memories decades into the future.
At least, for me personally.
Flora Purim “Angels”
James Mason “I Want Your Love”
Chick Carlton & Mesmeriah “One More Time With Feeling”
(A Band Called) Death Spiritual Mental Physical
T.S.U. Tornadoes “Got To Get You Through”
Tarika Blue “Dreamflower”
Blackbyrds, The “Love Is Love”
Grover Washington, Jr. “Black Frost”
Los Chobros “El Sonido Cano Roto”
Frank Ricotti “Vibes”
Rufus Harley “Crack”
Smoke “Shelda”
Geoffrey Stoner “Bend Your Head Low”
Manzel “Midnight Theme”
Minnie Riperton “Les Fleur”
Scope “Big Ferro”
Joe Simon “It Be’s That Way Sometimes”
Jacky Giordano “Train”
Mighty Ryeders “Evil Vibrations”
Francis Monkman “Getting Ready”
Herbie Hancock “Butterfly”
Big Barney “The Whole Darn Thing”
Joachim Sherylee “Iceberg”
Arawak “Accadde A Bali”
Sunburst “Mysterious Vibes”
Tom Scott “Shadows”
Black Merda “Cynthy Ruth”
Benoit Hutin & Joachim Sherylee “Spot”
Cortex “Huit Octobre”
Dick Hyman “Give It Up Or Turn It Loose”
Mort Garson “Walking In Space"
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