In my first year of college, I lived in residence. It was a four-story building, designed after a minimum security prison, and it was brilliant. What that meant was that living quarters were around the edges of the building, and the vast middle was empty. That meant that “those in charge” could keep an eye on these for security reasons (surveil our sorry asses) and that entry/exit was controlled and always known. (That sounds a bit like Canada, come to think of it.)
Only one person had a proper stereo, and he knew how to “share it with all his friends in the entire building”. He’d simply open his door, aim his woofers and tweeters at the vast inner emptiness of the building, and twist the volume knob.
“Ladies and gentlemen, back for the third time today and about the 900th time this week, give it up for Rob Base & DJ EZ Rock!”
Ok, I took artistic liberties there. Nobody ever said that, or even thought it. Everyone I knew in the building thought, “Fuck, not again!”
Some people had stronger opinions and slammed their motherfucking doors. HARD. In a building designed like a minimum security prison, closing access to your living quarters in such a dramatic way made an impact.
DJ Minimumum Security
Once in a while, DJ Minimum Security would slide in some Public Enemy. It was strange tho, he fancied himself a DJ, and he would play the unmistakable shrieking sounds of PE instead of hitting us with the profound, namely, damn fine rhymes of Carlton Douglas Ridenhour. That’s Chuck D for my unedumacated brothers and sistahs.
I asked DJ Min/Sec what he played once in a while that sounded like PE was. He gave me a lecture: “It’s Public Enemy.” (brother be broadcasting with his beats, understand?)
But the reggae was torturous, man, torturous!
But as bad as It Takes Two on repeat and turned up to 11 was, some bull in a cell one floor up made it known that he was badder: he treated all us inmates to Bob Marley blaring at 2 or 3 am one night, and kept on reggae-ing right until the sun came up over Santa, for Christmas I would like to never again hear Bob Marley in my life Boulevard. (Editor’s note: Even before that experience, I found hearing reggae to be torturous and dreadful. I still do.)
So on this cold, rainy day, where I just read that Rob Base (Robert Ginyard) has passed away, I say Rest in Peace, dear sir. That really was one groundbreaking song.
“He WAS internationally known, and he DID rock the microphone,” comedian Dane Cook.
My thoughts are also with my friend Luigi Priolo, an engineering student and friend who lived in that residence with me. Luigi passed away in 2022, and he is missed.
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