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 ersonally, I don’t even think about getting naked unless I have some control over the musical selection. This is due, in part, to obnoxious DJ tendencies that arise from an obvious and fraught desire to make music myself, combined with the crushing knowledge that I have no actual musical talent. At the same time, it is my firm belief that the right backing tracks can elevate a sticky interlude into an elegant, orgasmic ballet, at least in the minds of the two-or-more participants, which is about all that matters.
It’s just a matter of finding the tunes to fit your particular amplitude. And by this, I do not mean Al Green, Frank Sinatra, Etta James or any of the usual suspects. I'm talking about a whole new set of enablers here, artists you've probably never heard of, thanks to the septic pipeline that passes for commercial radio these days. Herewith, a dozen records aimed directly at your whomp and circumstance. — Steve Almond n°
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1. Roy Ayers, Evolution (Polydor)
The man played vibes and wore silk pajamas in concert. Can you rock it like that? This is big-band stoner funk of the sort they don’t make anymore: languorous, tripped out, thick with illicit rhythms.
Ideal surface: Anything satin
Recommended lighting: Lava lamp
Lubricant: Crank "Pretty Brown Skin," and you won’t need any.
Position: Knees over shoulders
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2. Dayna Kurtz, Postcards from Downtown (Kismet)
A disc for the deep latitudes of sex and woe. You should not put this thing on unless you’re prepared to weep at some point in the course of the session. When Kurtz sings about the "Last Good Taste" you know she ain’t talking about chardonnay. Her voice makes Norah Jones sound like a silly little virgin.
Suitable for: Breakup sex
Drug of choice: Chianti
Mouth love: Gnocchi with vodka sauce
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3. Papa Mali, Thunder Chicken (Fog City Records)
Fat people get to fuck — it’s one of God’s best commandments. I, personally, won’t touch anything that doesn’t have some decent jiggle. Papa agrees. He keeps one foot in the Louisiana swamp blues and the other in the pantry (see the hilarious "I’m the One," which includes him ordering a late-night feast). A disc firmly dedicated to the chunky rump, the abject, the deep-fried.
Ideal surface: Water bed
Drug of choice: Chicken grease
Position: Cowgirl
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4. Ike Reilly, Salesmen & Racists (Universal)
If you’re going to whomp angry, for God’s sake don’t play nice. Reilly is one of those rare beasts who can rock a sweet melody with proper punk brutality. "Commie Drives a Nova" is six times hotter than anything Lou Reed ever wrote: "I was a worker, she was a Commie/I had a job, she had fatigues/Khaki, cammie, fashion and power/She fills 'em out and I aim to please." Amen, comrade.
Suitable for: Light S&M
Recommended Lighting: Bar bathroom
Lubricant: Beer sweat
Drug of choice: Wild Irish Rose, Crack
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5. Illya Kuryaki and the Valdarramas, Leche (Universal)
Let’s put aside the fact that the cover is a money shot and that the band members look like Argentinean pimps. The important thing here is the producer: Bootsy Collins. He has crafted an album that is nothing less than a do-it-yourself porno soundtrack: bodacious bass lines, squiggly keys, boom-chika-boom guitar.
Suitable for: Double penetration
Lubricant: Coconut milk
Mandatory track: "Coolo"
Recommended lighting: Yes
Position: Doggie
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6. Geoffrey Oryema, Exile (Real World)
Oryema is a Ugandan exile who plays something called the thumb piano. I don’t know what a thumb piano is. But I do know that his songs make me feel like I’m standing behind a waterfall, naked, waiting for some native to go tantric with.
Ideal surface: Rainforest floor
Recommended lighting: Dappled
Position: Seated, facing
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7. Nil Lara, Nil Lara (Metro Blue)
Back in the '90s, Nil was the designated griot of Miami Beach. He was responsible for the better part of my sex life, such as it was. His music is equal parts Afro-Cuban chant, melodic rock, and love juice.
Ideal surface: Warm sand
Recommended lighting: Broad daylight
Mouth love: Tostones
Mandatory track: "Vida Mas Simple"
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8. Robert Bradley and the Blackwater Surprise, Robert Bradley and the Blackwater Surprise (RCA)
Bradley has one of those voices that seem only to belong to blind black guys, an instrument of crushing beauty and effortless abandon. His rockers sound like vintage Stones, back before the sag. His ballads of lost love and found lust are the sort that tenderize the heart while flushing the gonads.
Suitable for: Makeup sex
Lubricant: Spit
Mandatory track: "After Your Love"
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9. Teitur, Poetry and Aeroplanes (Universal)
It takes a certain courage to fuck to the various wimp rockers of our era (Elliot Smith, Bright Eyes, et al). Teitur’s music is even dreamier, an utterly sensitive pastiche of piano, violin, and Nick Drake-ish vocals. It’s like being back in college, but with more genital control.
Ideal surface: Sweaty futon
Recommend lighting: Scented candles
Mandatory track: "I Was Just Thinking"
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10. Marisa Monte, Memorias, Cronicas e Declaracones de Amor (EMI 2000)
Languid sambas, highly suitable for the soft crash of love. Monte makes Jorge Ben’s "15 Minutes" sound like Lady Marmalade in space. Yum.
Ideal surface: Slippery
Drug of choice: Sangria
Mouth Love: Ceviche
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11. Boris McCutcheon, When We Were Big (Cactusman Records)
Whomp music for the itinerant farmhand in all of us. Imagine the Band with Sam Cooke on lead vocals. Now imagine yourself dirtying the waters of a claw-foot bathtub. Slowly.
Drug of choice: Peyote
Mandatory track: "Santa Rosa Plums"
Position: Reverse cowgirl
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12. Joe Henry, Fuse (Mammoth)
Mr. Henry is the most compelling musician in America, and this record is his tribute to the horndoggle nation. He built the thing from the drum loops up. "Angels" is all languorous groove and dreamy sax, while "Fat" features the greatest sex diss in the history of sound: "Her tongue’s fat as a thumb, her heart’s a dime/pick your poison, leave me mine."
Suitable for: Neighborhood orgy
Ideal surface: Shag
Recommended lighting: Red
Mouth love: Sliced mango
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Bonus disc:
13. Cee-lo Green, Cee-lo Green … Is the Soul Machine (Arista)
Cee-lo is the only hip-hop star who engineers his music exclusively for the flesh-knockers among us. His tracks should be illegal in red states.
Lubricant: Baby Oil
Mandatory track: "The One"
Position: Girl on belly
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| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
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Steve Almond's new essay collection is (Not that You Asked). It is, like much of his work, filthy. |
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© 2005 Steve Almond and hooksexup.com.
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