In Which We Chat For Hours On The Phone

Hard to Say is This Recording’s weekly advice column. It will appear every Wednesday until the Earth perishes in a fiery blaze, or until North West turns 40. Get no-nonsense answers to all of your most pressing questions by writing to or by dropping us a note at our tumblr.


How much time is normal to spend on the phone with your significant other? I ask because I have been dating a girl I will call Angela for about eight months. Things are going well. In the early days of the relationship, I would call her a lot and we would sometimes have “erotic discussions” over the phone. (She was away for the semester in Brazil.)

Now we see each other a lot and there doesn’t seem to be as much of a need for long conversations on the phone since the “getting to know you, getting to know all about you” period is over. Despite this, Angela expects a phone conversation of over an hour most days. I’d rather use this time on other things so that I don’t have to be doing other things when I’m spending actual, in person time with her. Am I wrong to feel this way?

Allen C.

Dear Allen,

Most people have their phones all the time now. The answering machine was a magnificent invention rendered obsolete by the shortsightedness of the human race. What you need is an ironclad reason why you would not be using your phone at a given time that enables you to ignore a certain percentage of Angela’s calls. Physical pain from holding the phone should waylay Angela for a bit while we find what she really needs: another phone partner.

In fact, maybe you should find her a new boyfriend, since you seem unwilling to do what’s required of you.

But seriously, if you just pretend that you have tinnitus, lie about a trip to the doctor you took, explain that he recommended short phone calls for the safety of your ears and long hand jobs for the safety of your penis region, this problem should fall by the side rather quickly.


My boyfriend Aaron and I have been seeing each other for six months after meeting on Tinder. He is something of a nervous guy at times, never more so than when we are being intimate. He is extremely well-endowed so has nothing to worry about on that front. Still, he gets a little anxious and as we start, begins narrating every aspect of ahat is happening. The amount of apologies on offer is amazing, but quickly gets old. If my head is accidentally bumped he will stop completely and ask me if I am OK. Once, completely unprompted, he left to get me ice.

I have tried to talk to Aaron about this, but even after I explained, he looks verbally constipated during sex and I can tell he’s not himself. Is it possible to get him over this hump?

Lucianne R.

Dear Lucianne,

I despise puns.

Some men are brought up to think women are very delicate. At the same time, they ignore pretty clear evidence that Angelina Jolie keeps the souls of the men she couples with. Do you think she was like, “Hey Brad, I’m heading for your anus” on that fateful first date? Some things are better when you don’t know about them beforehand, like Ellie Goulding and the Batmobile.

I suggest physical intervention in this case. Aaron won’t shut up, but he probably wants to, so put your finger on his lips and shush him as you take over. Failing that, cover his mouth and nostrils tightly. When he begs for his life, remind him, “I thought I told you to close your trap.”

If you are keen on a more psychological approach, tell him a story about a friend named Marcia Hamsbottom who had an ex-husband who would not stop quoting The Big Lebowski, no matter how many times she told him she hated it. If he says that the name Hamsbottom sounds made-up, wonder aloud how he has not heard of RCA recording artist Duracell Hamsbottom. I think he was in Outkast?

Illustrations by Mia Nguyen.

“Open Wide” – Say Yes Dog (mp3)

“You Want My Love” – Say Yes Dog (mp3)

Screen Shot 2015-09-23 at 10.01.12 AM

In Which The British Come To America

Comfort in the Role


Doll & Em
creators Emily Mortimer, Azazel Jacobs and Dolly Wells

“American women are much more direct,” Emily Mortimer, 43, explains to her writing partner Dolly Wells. “They’re more aggressive, more comfortable in themselves.” There is a famous scene in Nicole Holofcener’s Lovely & Amazing with Mortimer where she takes off all her clothes and demands that Dermot Mulroney criticize her body. He fails to find any significant flaws. Mortimer, lately of The Newsroom, does a very good imitation of being an American in her HBO series Doll & Em.


She lives in a large house in Brooklyn, a far tinier place than she could afford anywhere else in the world. Her son and daughter, played by Wells’ son Ezra and daughter Elsie, view her as any children see their mother. Her husband (Wells’ husband Mischa Richter) expects dinner on the table. She is most often in this apron:

Doll & Em is designed as a feature-length film chopped up into discrete twenty minute segments. As a television show it feels a bit disjointed and emotionally inadequate, but strung together Doll & Em starts to have a more pronounced effect of creating sadness in the viewer. It is so clearly the work of people who have never known the slightest bit of inconvenience that you begin to realize that this is it, their only problem, their only distraction from their wonderful lives. If only they did not know each other, they would be completely happy.

Dolly Wells, 43, has come into an almost supernatural beauty as she enters her forties. It makes no sense whatsoever that the people around her would not hold her in awe, but instead Doll & Em makes a big show of how awkward-seeming both women are.

Wells is by far the star of Doll & Em, to the point where Mortimer’s incessant nattering seems like a distraction from her partner’s more intriguing emotional development. Emily and Dolly write a play about their association, deciding to stage it in the theater of Mikhail Baryshnikov, who plays himself as a bit of a hot-and-cold agnostic.

In the process of staging their debut play, they cast Evan Rachel Wood and Olivia Wilde as their younger selves. It is meant to give off a situation where the two British veterans feel upstaged and misunderstood, but instead it is really just more of a tribute to them, that they could be convincingly portrayed and betrayed by such stunning models. Every review of Doll & Em that I have read acts like Doll & Em gives insight into the actual lives of these women, which must be a compliment, since they believe the show is something like a documentary.

It isn’t. These are happily married women in Real Life, with wonderful husbands and families. In Doll & Em, Wells doesn’t even have a husband or children present in her life. She stays in the room of Mortimer’s au pair, lurking in her friend’s shadow, overhearing more intimate conversations than the ones is conducting. Emily Mortimer barely even speaks to her husband on the show. He is a peripheral figure, like some kind of stooge she prepares food for so he will be gracious enough to give her hours and hours with her friend Dolly. (Mortimer’s husband Alessandro Nivola is a producer on the show.) Men are only lurking at the boundaries.

It is actually a British thing, a remarkably English thing that has sustained them through the decline of empire, to believe you are the absolute dateline of the entire world. Americans get shit for being self-centered, but the truth is that the anarchy of their homeland demands they recognize that being American now means so many different things. Being English still only means one thing. Fortunately it is the best thing a people can believe about itself: that it is the people.

An interview that Mortimer does with a reporter where she fawningly and patronizingly explains how she became a U.S. citizen would be funny if it were not downright offensive to see such a thing mocked and used like a line on a resume. New York, and maybe America, is not a place either woman really wants to be in. But it’s difficult to stay mad at either Emily Mortimer or Dolly Wells, even when Doll & Em becomes faux depressive or completely ridiculous. There is a right, an important human right, to be unhappy.

Alex Carnevale is the editor of This Recording.

“Make Them Gold” – Chvrches (mp3)

In Which We Have A Woman To Thank

Tramp Stamped


creators Martin Gero & Greg Berlanti

A crazed Asian man with only cursory weapons training has completely subdued FBI agent Kurt Weller (Sullivan Stapleton). Some trampish looking woman (Jaimie Alexander) he has thrown a bulletproof vest on before heading up to the top of the Statue of Liberty saves him by shooting that disturbed Asian, who is so disconcerted at his mission that he is panting and crying. NBC’s new tonedeaf TV series Blindspot is most disappointed by the Asian people of the world: as bad as fanatical Muslims are, at least they never weep when they hold you hostage.

Everything except the word murder was censored. Think about that, or better yet, don’t.

The week before, Weller learned this Jane Doe was in a duffel bag, nude in the middle of Times Square, tattoed from head to toe with his name across her back. A lot of people have asked me what I thought of this last Republican debate, besides the utterly obvious response of being embarassed for the people CNN hired to moderate it.

My second answer was that except for Ted Cruz, who is a gorgeous looking lawyer-type, everyone looked especially unappealing. Looks are everything, don’t let anyone tell you there are not. I mean Jennifer Aniston gave Justin Theroux several million dollars and he still refers to her by the not-so-gentle nickname of Madam. You have to look your best.

Since you can’t look over your shoulder in the mirror because of reasons, we’ve photographed this tattoo for you and entered it in the permanent record.

Given that Donald Trump looks like his face was run over sometime during 1997, I’m not sure where he gets off on commenting on the physical appearance of others. The rest of the group was similarly unappealing: John Kasich looked to be having some kind of potentially dangerous stroke, Marco Rubio just reeks of being super cranky, Jeb Bush looks like Mrs. Doubtfire, and Scott Walker reminds me of a paperboy. Rand Paul seems like he checked out of Earthly existence sometime in 2007, and none of us would be surprised if it turned out Mike Huckabee was the Antichrist. This is a motley group.


The FBI and CIA have apparently realized the importance of having beautiful people involved in their operations. Every CIA agent I ever met looks like Larry David’s fat cousin, but on television they are all impossibly thin waifs with time to do several layers of makeup before being found in a paper bag. (Have you seen the previews for ABC’s Quantico? I immediately called the ADC and asked what they planned to do about this after the NAACP remained silent on Empire.)

It subsequently becomes clear that Jane Doe chose to forget her past as a part of a mission for the FBI. She never remembers even what kind of food she likes, just sobs in the mirror looking at her tats and kills Asians when the time comes for that important duty. Not a single person asks this Jane Doe the all important question: who put on your foundation?

He’s very inconspicuous with that walkie-talkie hookup.

Alexander is a wretched actress with two key strengths: the ability to look constipated/uncomfortable and disturbingly deep blue eyes. Fortunately show creator Greg Berlanti (Everwood, Arrow) allows the events of the show to play somewhat along her strengths. Arrow is a boring mishmash of serially unlikely events, and Blindspot chases its sister show down those same lines. Each tattoo on Jane Doe’s back somehow leads to a different crime being set in motion by some disavowed FBI agent.

Based on what’s on her hand, could we be dealing with Spiderman?

Blindspot is reflective of all of NBC’s recent drama efforts. It has the same absurd overuse of close-ups, making the series feel like a bargain-bin Law & Order without ever giving us a broader sense of the locales in which it intends to capture.

Its plot and general tone is adopted from the bizarre success achieved by its creatively bankrupt predessor The Blacklist, which remains slightly watchable only by dint of the tangentially amusing performance of its star, James Spader. He is not in evidence here, and there seems to be no reason anyone would watch Blindspot other than for the enterprising work of the makeup artists who have to apply Alexander’s body art before shooting.

“So, you went out for the role of disturbed Asian terrorist? And you got it?”

There is a broader, important lesson about the limitations of imitation. Yes, Friends was a success, but no one wants to watch it anymore except for maybe Kyrie Irving. So many of the Republican candidates seem like echoes and imitations of politicans of the past. In a world full of fakes, there exists an even more intense longing for a genuine article, which is why Trump sounds off on Megyn Kelly and the like. We do not want someone who is afraid of saying anything to be our president. This is such a fundamental aspect of humanity is amazing that the political advisors gainfully employed on rival campaigns never took its measure.

Ted Cruz will be my candidate, not just because he appeared to have the IQ of all the rest of the candidates combined. At one point Jeb Bush was asked whether his brother made a mistake appointing Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts. Cruz interjected and explained why Bush did that in the first place. There was no political point to doing so; he was just man enough to educate the American people on why certain people are chosen as Supreme Court Justices and some aren’t. “It’s largely based on how much makeup they are wearing,” he said, and waited for the next question.

Dick Cheney is the senior contributor to This Recording.

“Map of the World” – City & Colour (mp3)

“Lover Come Back” – City & Colour (mp3)


In Which We Do Not Bake Cookies

Grandma and the Charisma of Old Age


dir. Paul Weitz
78 minutes

Old ladies are having a moment. From the box-office to the bestseller list, women of a certain age are coming out of the woodwork. This is a remarkable shift for a culture that tends to ignore women over thirty. (Recall Maggie Gyllenhaal’s recent revelation about being too old, at 37, to play the love interest of a 55-year-old man.) If older women are typically rendered invisible and expected to practice what critic Kathleen Woodward calls the “pedagogy of mortification,” then this is certainly a moment of unusual prominence. From this summer’s Blythe Danner vehicle I’ll See You in My Dreams to the biopic Iris to the documentary Advanced Style, it has never been so cool, so interesting, to be an “older” woman.

One easy way to explain this trend is to read it as consolatory cinema for Baby Boomers, who have long grumbled about becoming seniors, extended midlife into the sixties, and even coined the term “new old age” to evade the prior terms of growing old.  And yet, even if we can attribute this trend to a market eager to see themselves – and their age category – in appealing ways, these films nonetheless do some important cultural work; they ask us to reimagine growing older in creative ways and to see maturity as complex, fraught, and individual.

The new film Grandma is a strident critique of longstanding assumptions about old age. Grandma explodes the connotations attached to the cultural position of the grandmother. Played by Lily Tomlin, the eponymous grandma is Elle, an adjunct professor and lesbian poet, à la Eileen Myles. She wears a faded jean jacket and sneakers, drives her late partner’s antique car, and generally exudes an iconoclastic, devil-may-care attitude. In the film’s first scene, she ends a relationship with a much younger woman, underscoring the point that advanced age does not negate sexual desirability.

The plot is set in motion when her teenage granddaughter, Sage, shows up asking for money to pay for an abortion. Their names themselves are a cheeky reversal of age norms as well; the grandparent is not the Sage, but rather “Elle,” or “her,” the focus of our attention and the film’s subject. Elle has no savings and has cut up her credit cards, so they embark on a kind of lesbian-feminist quest narrative, driving the beat-up car to cafés and tattoo parlors, asking old friends and lovers to provide cash.

Typically, what drives a film is young romance, but Grandma quickly reveals its primary interest in Elle’s private life. Very early on, it is clear that the dalliance between Sage and her thuggish boyfriend is cliché, shallow, and unworthy of further attention. Instead, it is Elle’s relationships that take center stage: her grief over the death of her long-term partner, her ambivalence about a new relationship, even her apparently impulsive, brief first marriage to a man. Where older women have long been marginalized as sources of humor or wisdom, Grandma sidelines the younger characters, foregrounding Elle’s personal life as the more compelling. Indeed, the movie manages to call our attention to the sex life of a seventy-year-old woman even though it seems to be premised around a sexually active woman fifty years younger.

When old friends and lovers prove too impoverished or stingy to provide the needed funds, Elle and Sage have no choice but to ask Elle’s middle-aged mother/Sage’s estranged daughter (Marcia Gay Harden) for the money. A corporate type, she is walking at a treadmill desk and wearing a magenta skirt suit when Elle and Sage find her. The film seems to scoff at her conventionality. In fact, if Grandma liberates old women from tired stereotypes, it tends to reify other age categories in predictable ways: adolescence and middle age are rendered familiar and one-note.

The film’s feminist message extends beyond its mere act of making an old woman an appealing protagonist. It also offers an extended discussion, almost a tutorial, on abortion. After encountering violent protesters outside the clinic, Elle asks whether the procedure will involve a D&C, the doctor explains that she will use a vacuum because “we’re not in the dark ages anymore.” This scene is not only medically frank, but it highlights that abortions can take place in modern, clean facilities with kind doctors. We have, in other words, moved beyond the dangerous operation that Elle endured in her youth, and the film clearly wants to ensure that we continue to make such abortions available to women who need them.

Grandma ends with Elle walking, alone, at night, down a poorly lit urban street, exactly the kind of place where grandmas traditionally fear to tread. Like the film’s candid discussion of abortion, this final scene also upends the tacit rules that have elided and restricted the representation of female experience. And this scene emblematizes the film’s overall project: it enables us to envision old women beyond familiar, circumscribed scenarios, offering us instead a road story that resists closure, holding open multiple paths and possibilities for how to negotiate advanced age. Grandma is not really about family; it is definitely not about domesticity; and the only cookies in sight are store-bought.

Sari Edelstein is the senior contributor to This Recording. She teaches American literature at the University of Massachusetts-Boston. She doesn’t tumbl or tweet.

“Fener” – Beirut (mp3)


In Which We Have Executed Ourselves In The Wake Of This Tragedy

Gandalf the Feminine


The Bastard Executioner
creator Kurt Sutter

Gandalf (Katey Sagal) detects a prophecy that a white guy will free Wales of the English. She says the word shire quite frequently; her entire body is tattooed with what she is. She stabs the pregnant wife of the white guy (Lee Jones) with a knife right in the blonde babe’s swollen belly. Upon witnessing this tumultuous scene, Fox executives immediately greenlit The Bastard Executioner to series.

How bad is The Bastard Executioner? Miles Corbett (Stephen Moyer) plays the main villain. He has become older and more powerful than we could possibly imagine. Moyer stands about 5’5″ soaking wet, and he gets a cute scene where he is anally penetrating a servant. The man who discovers him — his brother — dies within the hour.

Sutter loves killing off characters, which explains why The Bastard Executioner has so many. It makes sense on the most basic level — with such a massive retinue, there must be one you will like. Unfortunately The Bastard Executioner often seems like a parody recasting of actors from Sons of Anarchy roleplaying at a Medieval Renaissance Fair.

I understand that Kurt has a marriage, and happy wife = happy life, but having Sagal write the terrible music for his shows and overact like crazy in every single scene she appears has gotten tiresome after a solid decade. I mean not even Rossellini put Ingrid Bergman in every single one of his movies.

The langorous boredom of The Bastard Executioner is intermittedly interrupted with bouts of ultraviolence — a man stabbed in the back of the head, a woman (Flora Spencer-Longhurst) taking penis doggystyle with an annoyed expression on her face, the disturbed visage of a completely burned man (Kurt Sutter) — but about an hour in, for just a moment, things begin to get truly interesting.

Gruffudd (Matthew Rhys) is far and away the best performer in the entire ensemble. Martha, his fake wife on The Americans, so frequently called out “Claaaaark!” and it is her siren song we hear when Rhys makes his appearance as a leader of a rebel group plotting violence against Edward II. This man packs more charisma into his soft facial hair than Kurt Sutter has in any single one of his protagonists.

The best bet would be to scupper the entire rest of whatever this bizarre pre-industrial Robert Altman mishmash that Sutter has created here, offer Rhys millions and make him the complete and central focus of The Bastard Executioner as he should have been from the word go. Keri Russell could play his prostitute.

As long we are just using entire casts to make different shows, Breaking Bad should be reimagined as a series adaptation of Robert’s Rebellion. I’ll show myself out.

Alex Carnevale is the editor of This Recording.

“Every Time I Fall” – Holychild (mp3)

In Which We Turn On This Nancy

Hard to Say is This Recording’s weekly advice column. It will appear every Wednesday until the Earth perishes in a fiery blaze, or until North West turns 40. Get no-nonsense answers to all of your most pressing questions by writing to or by dropping us a note at our tumblr.


My boyfriend Satchel has a female best friend who I will call Nancy. I never really get the sense that Nancy is overly interested in Satchel – she runs her own business and tends to date older guys. On a regular basis, however, she will come up with some semi-dire emergency where she will require Satchel to pick her up or help her move.

When I think about it, it’s no more than some friends do for each other, and it’s not like Satchel is ditching me to be with her. At the same time the fact that he comes at her call can’t help but rankle me a bit. Am I wrong to be upset, and what should I do about this fiend Nancy?

Sara U.

Dear Sara,

It sounds like Satchel has some feelings for this Nancy. Unfortunately saying anything about it is likely to exacerbate the situation, and this is the rare situation where reverse psychology can backfire greatly. You cannot be pushing them closer together and you cannot be separating them more apart.

All you can do is subtly alter Satchel’s view of her with descriptive language. Nancy is

– desperate

– needy

– you feel ‘sorry’ for her (omit this if your boyfriend is a bleeding heart I Want To Save Her type who is creepily turned on by the suffering of others)

– escort

– awkward

– “hanging all out”

You also should by no means keep your anger completely inside. The key is not to annoy or carp at him. Instead, address one specific situation and never mention that there is a larger problem. Suggest Nancy is manipulating him this one time and act surprised, like you didn’t think either of them had this sadistic of a friendship and he’s a shithead for running to her.

Whatever you do, don’t make them address their friendship. This could turn out badly for you. And if you are the kind of woman who has troubling asking for help, you had best shed that particular inhibition, because that is a quality Satchel enjoys in other people. Escort.


My girlfriend, let’s call her Olive, has a group of friends. These women love to go out together and get dressed up. They want Olive to go with them at least once a weekend. This kind of boozing just is not my thing, nor are the places that they go any fun at all – they look like the cocaine hangouts of Patrick Bateman.

I care about Olive, but having this lifestyle be around my own life — I am very career focused and prefer to spend my free time going to movies or museums — is a real drag. Plus, it seems clear her friends don’t really like me, probably because they have detected my disapproval of them. I don’t want to be the person who holds my SO back, but I can’t love these people or like what they enjoy doing.

Bernard T.

Dear Bernard,

I think the very same thing happened to Romeo. Juliet went going to trashy bars and he killed himself because of this. That should be a cautionary tale for you.

It sounds like this is a phase Olive will grow out of, probably sooner than you think. She may keep being influenced by her friends, however. You don’t have to love her friends, or even like them, but maybe she would see things from another perspective if she disliked the behavior of one of your obnoxious friends. However, this strategy is useless if all your friends are wonderful.

If that is indeed the case, you need only make your friends her friends. Then she won’t need her old friends.

Illustrations by Mia Nguyen.

“Operate” – ASTR (mp3)

In Which We Are Exactly Like Ed Burns In All The Important Ways

To Be E.B.


Public Morals
creator Ed Burns

Ed Burns, 47, casts himself as a police officer with a wife who looks like a model. His young cousin (Austin Stowell) also works for the department and looks exactly like him: he dates and sleeps with beautiful women right and left. No one else ever gets laid on Public Morals, just Ed Burns and guys that look like him. All is right with the world.

Someone finally appreciates Brian Dennehy enough to dress him up in a suit.

Burns’ special brand of mediocrity is much more suited to television. His passion for writing Irish-American characters who fit easily into various stereotypes is on full display in New York of the 1960s. The mien of Public Morals feels decades older than that, as no one seems to have a television or even listen to the radio. They are too busy for that: they are probably gambling or if they are a woman, having sex with someone who looks like Ed Burns.

Young Ed Burns is no Ed Burns, but then who among us?

Ed Burns is a cop, except he neither solves cases or stops crime in any meaningful way. He chooses to mentor a rookie in his unit, Jimmy Shea (Brian Wiles) getting the kid to cheat on his wife and take money from a casino. His boss is dating a madam. None of the people I have described are any good at acting.

Burns’ partner is Charlie Bullman (Michael Rapaport) who is so out of place here he might as well be on MADtv. His acting as a touch-feely, whiny-voiced prig is ludicrous even in a universe where Ed Burns is king of everything he touches. Like Burns, Rapaport has two distinct facial expressions, neither of which is all that entertaining to watch. The first is Disappointed Ed Burns, and the second is Wry Ed Burns. Rapaport is even gifted the easiest scene in drama, the one where his daughter’s boyfriend asks for permission to marry the girl, and turns it into the equivalent of an awkward pep talk from a Yorkshire terrier.

There was a time I thought his high voice was expertly done through the work of a dialect coach. That time has passed.

It’s difficult to tell whether Burns’ material is meant to be tongue-in-cheek or not. Clearly the entire character of Brian Dennehy, who plays an Irish mob boss, is meant for chuckles, since he berates his brother and nephew like his heart is about explode on-camera. Dennehy’s scenes are at least amusing, which is more than I can say of the directionless plot and stilted dialogue of Public Morals.

For his part, Burns’ mother on the show is a charismatic drunk, and his father warns the woman against her consumption of alcohol. Every woman on Public Morals is either a wife or a prostitute except for the woman in a deep relationship with young Ed Burns. She just has low standards.

Guess what occupation these women have? (Feminist bloggeur is not an option.)

I feel like Public Morals erases all the important work Good Will Hunting and Anne Hathaway’s constant complaining achieved for the Irish- American community. It is important that you know that Irish people are not, however, racist. Ed Burns respects the lone black officer (Ruben Santiago-Hudson) in his unit, and encourages others to do the same. It is the law itself he does not respect, and in this appraisal he is joined by every man in his department.

HIs wife’s only dialogue is, “Ed, stop” ad nauseum, until he ceases whatever he is doing.

It is morally correct to disobey an injust law? When Ed Burns’ uncle is killed by one of Brian Dennehy’s cronies (Neal McDonough, the only talented actor on this entire show), Ed Burns is really ticked off, which you would think would lead to that all important third facial expression, but you would be wrong. He takes hus troubled son to the funeral, where the boy asks if he can touch the body of the deceased, who was played by Timothy Hutton.

Ed Burns thinks about it for a second and then agrees. All I could imagine in my head was Ed at Christy Turlington Burns’ funeral in thirty or so years, touching her body. It really must be something to be Ed Burns.

Dick Cheney is the senior contributor to This Recording.

Ed Burns’ ties to the African-American community are longstanding.

“Kitty Kat” – Empress Of (mp3)

“Icon” – Empress Of (mp3)