L.A. Carnival

This funk collecting thing is beginning to resemble Roger Patterson’s famous and debated Bigfoot Super-8 film. Tales of near glimpses and claims of non-existence, hunters camping out in unlikely geographic locations – the search for secret funk could just as well be the search for the Yeti. Some of the records now being reissued on this and other dedicated labels may in fact be rarer than the Sasquatch itself, with count-on-the-fingers copies surviving the thirty year wash. Word of mouth was how a Pacific Avenue record was sold in early ‘70s Omaha, and word of mouth is how the record found the interested parties thirty years later. One collector tells another that he may have trapped something that resembles the Real Thing, and that other collector does the necessary legwork to prove its correct existence. For the arm-chair tracker, new records such as the one you are holding in your hand should incite feelings of mystery and privilege as direct as those felt by the compiler upon discovering a long forgotten parcel of soul. In the case of the L.A. Carnival, a small snapshot exhumed from the depths of the Midwest provided for a full-length movie in the form of an unreleased long player. Like unknown footprints set in plaster, the 45 RPM single has provided enough clues to uncover the entirety of the beast in its full glory.

The Midwest is full of surprises such as the L.A. Carnival, but it takes dedication and a little courageous sleuthing to tempt them from their lairs. The home has become the new warehouse, as large deposits of 45 records (clues) have largely gone the way of the Dodo. The basement of someone’s mother’s house has become the den of mystery when trying to locate recordings that were only distributed to family and friends. Collecting today has seemingly reverted back to the earliest days of record scavenging, with canvassing neighborhoods not entirely out of the question. The hammered, barely playable 7-inch rescued from the garage of a careless owner might be the last clue remaining on earth as to the aural identities of an unknown minority. Clues are gathered and the hunt begins. But as we know the Yeti is a roaming creature, and so too are musicians. The trapper sighs in dismay when a particular record’s credits read only T. Jones or R. Williams, for the territory is far too expansive to locate an exact match. Yet the search continues.

This LP stands as a definitive indication to the breadth of the Midwest funk sub-strata, and there are still hundreds of other undiscovered recordings slowly disappearing into the earth with their original owners and makers. This document should be the crying sentinel, it shall announce to the world that funk is as American an art form as Blues, Gospel and Jazz and it is right time to stop ignoring and discounting it. Fleeting glimpses of this strange animal will never be enough, for we need engrossed exposure in order to fully understand its beauty and relevance.

On his deathbed, Roger Patterson denounced his scintillating film as a fraud, momentarily smashing the hopes of the faithful and elating the naysayers. Yet there are still staunch disciples of the wild creature and it has firmly concretized itself in the American folk patchwork. The emerging being that is unknown funk will never have last breath vituperations because it is itself a breathing and vital organ in the body of American music. Antipodeans beware, this is music to be believed in.

Dante Carfagna