the f00ls
Written by Ashley Rae
It started off with a couple friends gathered together in the backyard, trying to kill time by chain smoking and conversing. Under the broiling Encino sun, delirium had set in. There wasn’t much substance to what was being said, logical speech had devolved into the sporadic grunts of chimeric pre-humans and stream-of-conscious absurdity. Boris was perched on his usual spot, a piece of plywood resting atop some bricks that had been scavenged from around the property. Sitting next to him was a sack of potatoes. The rest of us kept it a little classier, preferring the comfort of some worn out camping chairs.
There are no limits to where the imagination can wander with a little hash and a sack of potatoes. Especially when a Slav is involved. “What if”. “What if we…”. “What if Boris carries a sack of potatoes with him, everywhere.”
Gripped by the hand of madness, we were struck by the idea that Boris MUST deliver a sack of potatoes to Rick Rubin at his Shangrila Studio and the delivery MUST be made once a week. No note, no speaking with anyone, just a sack of potatoes left outside. The idea of being on the receiving end of this now strategically thought out ordeal made us feel like we were being tickled from the inside out and provided an endless source of guileless joy – the confusion, the slight sence of the uncanny, the ultimate “what the fuck is this!?”
Now the potatoes. They needed to be the right variety (russet) and the sack had to be burlap. Unfortunately, finding a burlap sack of potatoes proved impossible to find and the plan had to be executed without delay, so Boris decided to embark on his journey and find something along the way. Traversing to winding canyon roads of the Santa Monica mountains, he closed in on the studio. Off the PCH he spotted a farm stand, Malibu’s Fig Ranch, and hoped that they would hold the solution to the problem.
They too had forsaken burlap sacks (at least in favour of paper bags), however the quality produce was certainly fit for the Compression King. Boris, a rather bizarre character to most Americans, usually shocks unwitting strangers into conversing via his brutish charisma and outlandish style of speaking. Overhearing one such conversation between him and a farmhand, a venerable and auspicious woman approached him; “Ah you’re a musician”?. He confirmed and then proceeded to state his intentions to the woman. We had discussed in advance, if the question ever arose, what the explanation for the potatoes would be. “It’s a Russian tradition that shows a sign of respect” he explained straight-faced. “What sign are you?” she asked. Aries. The answers must have seemed suitable for the task at hand. She laughed and said “the enterprise of hazardous living!”. Giving him her blessing she bestowed the taters upon him, as if they were some sort of rhizomatic talisman, and sent him on his way.
House of Fools, Encino California
A little further up the PCH Boris pulled into the neighbourhood sheathing the studio from anyone with hopes or dreams, the “dregs of society”. The obvious exception was made for the Workers. A gardener, riding around on his lawnmower, was probably delighted to exchange the break-dust-piss-mist mystery gas most of us inhale around the greater LA area for some of that pure, good ol’ Pacific Ocean nose candy. Not sure of the exact house, Boris pulled over and shouted “hey man”. The gardener hopped off and ran over to the car. He asked him if he knew of any recording studios in the neighbourhood. No. Had he heard any loud music coming from any of the houses? Yes. The gardener, suddenly taking on the role of the guardian to the musical utopia of Shangri-La, raised his arm and aimed his finger at one of the houses. As with the crossing of any threshold, you can never fully rely on any external information- there are always tricksters waiting to point you in the wrong direction.
In most neighborhoods, dropping off a paper bag at someone’s house would hardly arouse suspicion. But this one’s level of affluence caused one to be much more closely monitored when driving any vehicle valued less than $100k. Boris felt a gyroscopic sensation arise in his abdomen, then decided the actual house must be the one with cops parked across the street. Mimicking the spasmodic movements of a rodent, he returned to the tip-off point for his misplaced stash, scurried back to the car with the bag, took some potatoes out of the bag for himself, slowly circled the neighborhood, parked across from the police, and delivered the remaining potatoes.
Foolish Records is a small, independent record label focused on the synergistic synthesis of genres and eras, sourcing sounds from around the world, and always incorporating as much vintage analog gear as possible. In observing the official Day of the Fool, we invite all quarantined, stir crazy individuals to tune in to our live broadcast and celebrate with us. We will be streaming a live set by the f00ls on April 1 at 8pm pst. Visit www.thef00ls.com (double zeros).