He wants to be the boy you love most of all. As far as we know, he does not want to kidnap and eat children.
The Boogieman - The Legendary Fictional Creature Everybody Fears
There was an actual boogie man: Robert W. Walker, a Florida radio DJ. He was the Boogie Man that brought all the funk and the good feeling and the vibes to the people every morning. Once you know that tiny bit of backstory, it makes perfect sense.
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By , the rest of the record business had caught up. Record pools — mailing lists and record-sharing clubs for DJs — were a big deal. A song for a specific DJ was a logical next step. With that song, their whole thing just completely clicked. For its first few seconds, the song is straight-up funk: nervous tambourine beat, itchy guitar strut, subtle little piano runs.
But then someone yells out a four-count, and everything comes crashing in. There is no moment in the song that does not slap.
Think about the horns. By the time the chorus hits, those horns are doing these perfect loud-mixed blats. Each element of the song is there to augment and heighten the four-four beat. He just squawks about being there for you and asks you to turn him on, and he stays in the pocket.
His voice is effectively part of the rhythm section. So is his piano. Everything is rhythm section, and everything hits hard. If not for Saturday Night Fever coming out and becoming a cultural phenomenon at the end of the year, disco might have run its course. Casey, as we can see in the video below, tried. But the song was everything that the band had been building to — a simplistic banger of absurd proportions.
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- This Quote Is From!
The doubt over every word is paralyzing. Being paralyzed by my own self-doubts is a routine I know well. The wall wraps around the figure and forms an impenetrable tower; the figure merely a speck on the ground with no way out.
I feel like that speck. And spray painted inside the tower, as if some cruel joke, is the question repeating ad nauseam throughout my journals going back to my early twenties —. I thought I had moved past this question in when I finished my Ph. Surely, that achievement would silence the question once and for all.
When I was 10, I hand-copied words from a novel about a dog to practice my penmanship, but truthfully, I did it because I loved seeing the words come to life beneath my fingers. I was telling a story. But the idea of telling my own story terrifies me. My calling in writing seems like some ironic twist of fate. When I started writing a memoir about a painful experience as a teen, I discovered what made me abruptly stop writing in my journal and ignore it for long stretches.
The more I wrote, the more I felt I was inching closer to the shadowy corners of my mind where part of my childhood exists in hidden memories. The mind, especially one of a child, has an amazing ability to protect us from things we never should have seen or experienced. Is it possible that my brain became so accustomed to blocking out memories of bad experiences that the switch got stuck, creating a block to my creative side?
Rather, the more I write, the closer I get to myself, to the truth of my life. It might be more than I bargained for. Sign in.