Having taken a brief 4 1/2 year hiatus from the DJ booth at Ye Olde Matador Bar & Lounge, I had forgotten how quickly these playlists come along. Like, uh, one a week it seems. There’s no small amount of busy work involved in transcribing these things from the Matador laptop (an older but still very serviceable MacBook that has no other purpose but to be home to my Matador music) to my Numero Uno laptop (a brand spanking new maxed out 2024 MacBook Pro) and then compiling all the associated YouTube links together so that you, Gentle Reader(s), can be a Gentle Listener(s), if you so desire. I have no idea if anyone anywhere ever clicks the link and actually listens to these playlists, but for some obscure reason I feel compelled to put them up regardless. It gets easier and faster the more I do it, but still… I’m sure there must be some sort of support group or 12-step program out there to gently prod me back in the direction of rationality, but who’s got time for that? Reality? Pffft! Overrated.

What can I tell you of Joe Boyd? Well, I don’t think that I would be overstating it to say that the man is a legend, but he’s kind of a stealth legend. Music people know about Joe, which isn’t at all surprising given that his extraordinary career is now into its seventh decade, but he’s one of those guys who a lot of people aren’t necessarily aware that they’re aware of… if you get my drift. If you’ve listened to music or watched movies to any depth since around 1966 or so, it's very likely that you've heard or seen Joe’s work.

It was back to the swampy confines of Ye Olde Matador Lounge on Thursday after a two-week hiatus for a journey up to the Great White North. The occasion for travel was to observe Ink Mum’s birthday—96, if you can believe it!—and to savor some beach/forest/countryside time in America’s Dairyland. A side excursion was made to see a Brewers/Dodgers game in Milwaukee on the 15th. The Ohtani effect was fully evident and a torrential deluge added to the mayhem outside of the former Miller Park. The stadium was packed to the rafters beneath the thankfully retracted retractable roof, but the 3/4 Billion Dollar Man didn’t unleash any fireworks on this day. The Dodgers ended up losing, 6-4, much to the joy of the Brew Crew faithful, splitting a four-game series. I listened to the first two innings on the radio from my rental car as I waited in an endless queue to be directed to a soggy parking spot. I had paid $200 for my third row seat just behind the home on-deck circle, so I figure the Brewers organization owes me about $50. I’ll accept a voucher for a future game, thank you very much.

Ahh, yes—those cool, rainy summer evenings in Santa Fe! They really are the best. The clouds start to build up in the mid to late afternoon and by five or six the rain showers flirting around the edge of the city—off to the west towards the Jemez mountains or just outside of town in the Sangre de Cristo foothills—get their gumption up and bust a move on the City Indifferent. The tourists wrap themselves in their plastic ponchos and scamper for the portal at the Palace of the Governors or the shops and boutiques surrounding the Plaza. The temperature begins to drop, often by 20 or 30 degrees. The showers usually clear out in a hour or so and, with a bit of luck, my old amigo Jamie Lenfesty and the good folks from Lensic 360 are able to present the summer concert series at the Plaza bandstand or the Railyard without atmospheric impediment.

What can I say? A day late and a dollar short, as usual. Or a pound sterling short, as the case may be. It seems that the good folks at Unilever were well ahead of Your Humble Narrator when it comes to the Marmite/Blob synergistics. Turns out that back in 2005 they launched an ad campaign in which customers at a supermarket start screaming and running for the exits when a gigantic, well, Blob starts rolling and oozing its way through the aisles and down the High Street. That is, until a few observant observers realize that the hideous monster is, in fact, a giant Blob of Marmite. At this point they turn and start launching themselves head-first into the ball of goo. All in good fun you might say, but problems quickly arose when reports started coming in that children were being traumatized by the ad. Some parents reported that their wee ones were not only frightened but were experiencing recurring nightmares as a result of viewing the commercial.

To those who know me or have wasted any of their precious time perusing these virtual pages, it is no secret that I am an unrepentant Anglophile. This goes so far back and is rooted so deeply in my psyche that I have no precise notion of how it got there, other than it probably has something to do with having watched the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show in 1964 (my mother thought they were 'cute'). I have visited London on a couple of occasions and have traveled by rail from the capital up to Edinburgh and back, but my firsthand experience of Great Britain is woefully limited. Despite being fully aware that it’s completely absurd, my mind has long harbored a ridiculously romanticized fantasy version of Blighty in which everyone outside of London lives in a picturesque village or small town equipped with a cozy pub and a few small but well-stocked family-owned shops run by stout, apple-cheeked men and women of jolly disposition. The general populace reside, one and all, in split-timber houses with thatched roofs and well-tended gardens. No one locks their doors and everyone gathers on the village green to participate in a calendar of spirited proto-pagan rituals that chart the course of the seasons. Having watched most of the seemingly endless episodes of Midsomer Murders I am also well advised that most, if not all, of these charming hamlets harbor a few scheming murderers patiently awaiting their moment of ascendancy. Somehow or other, that only adds to the appeal.

Another Thursday, another Matador Playlist. Even after a hiatus of four-plus years, Gentle Reader(s), it already feels so familiar. To be honest, not much has really changed. Ye Olde Matador Bar & Lounge is much as it ever was (dark, crowded, stuffy) and Katya is taking names and kicking butt behind the bar, just as in the Days of Yore. The door crew—Ian and Big Don—are new faces, but they seem like fine young men and are possessed of the sturdy gravitas that befits the position.

Well, what can I tell you, Gentle Reader(s)? I guess it was bound to happen, sooner or later. Deny it though I tried, the swan song of sweat, beer and rock and roll emanating from beneath Galisteo Street has lured me back. For better or worse, DJ Inky lives once again.