"Albums these days, they come out with two, three hits then the rest is just filler. Man, Used to be, you put 20, 30 tracks on a record and EVERY single one was hotter than the last one! You'd be like, 'Damn! It just gets better!" My cab driver had slightly turned down the volume on the reggae that had been blasting since I hailed him at my usual intersection: Milwaukee, Damen, North. It was 3am and he seemed to appreciate a sympathetic ear. I was grateful that he was tossing the words over his shoulder without turning around in his seat because I was already dubious about how well he could see the road. He was so small it seemed miraculous that he could see over the steering wheel--a situation that couldn't possibly be aided by the low-hanging brim of his pristine over-sized baseball cap. At a glance, a passerby might have thought some kid was on a joyride if it weren't for his full, gray beard. I had the additional advantage of hearing his voice, which had that hazy Seventies lean to it--Watch a few minutes of a film such as The Mac or Superfly and you'll know exactly what I mean. The era of his heyday seemed obvious as he continued his soliloquy, "These days, man, that's how they get you! You hear a hot track on the radio so you go buy the record, but the rest ain't worth a damn!" I shook my head at today's lazy, non-hit-recording pop stars while the tidy and snow-bound houses of Roscoe Village watched us groove by. Those sleeping houses probably wouldn't understand, but I was floating in one of those moments I sometimes get--it's a moment when I feel that the city is perfect and there's nowhere I'd rather be. It's a steroid-sized injection of civic love. The houses wouldn't get it, but it didn't matter. It was just me and the cabbie awake in the world and, thankfully, we had some hot, hot beats to take us home.
