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On 26.6.2022. at 23:35, maheem said:

 

 

6 hours ago, Ras said:

Ja ću ipak ostaviti tuđe reči uz potvrdu nerazumevanja ljudi za Ladybug: vrtim mjuzu u klubu, fajront vreme, loša reakcija, gazda dolazi sa molbom da promenim vajb, ok, ok, evo ti Ladybug, gazda se još više smorio ja se spakovao i otišao.

Spoiler

I'm waking up to the very sad news of the death of Patrick Adams. 

I've always rolled my eyes at the embarrassing propensity among music types to shift the focus from the eulogized to the eulogizer. However, the influence of Patrick's music on my life cannot be overstated. Cloud One's "Atmosphere Strut" opened doors in my mind I didn't even know were there. When I first heard it, it was almost unbearable. I felt lost in that way when too much instruction is dispensed too quickly. It was everything I was chasing in a recording: the melancholy, the plodding tempo, the lonely distance created with reverb (it sounded like it was being broadcast from space), the incredible, loose groove. This song even sparked new friendships as I played my cassette recording of it, a snippet from KISS-FM, to anyone who'd listen in a desperate quest for an ID.

Chance encounters with so much of Patrick's music through NYC radio is a gift I don't take for granted. Metro Area's song "Caught Up" was unsubtly named after "I'm Caught Up (In a One Night Love Affair)" by Inner Life, another song I'd heard on the radio. This track in particular was such a flawless combination of gentleness and strength, and once again, immensely instructive to me from a record-making perspective. If you read the credits on most Metro Area records, you'll find our percussionist listed as Papmus Kenton. Despite having his own Discogs page, he is a fictitious band member, and his name is an amalgamation of Patrick's publishing company (PapMus) and a brand of MIDI-to-CV converter we used at the time. 

There are so many great records Patrick was involved in that impacted me, but Bumblebee Unlimited's "Ladybug" is another that looms large. Many techno dancefloors were cleared with this record. I'd play it over and over again, dumbfounded by those who seemed insensitive (or immune) to its spacey melancholy. The horny bee vocals were so Patrick: just a string of goofy, X-rated one-liners, but when played at high volume in a dark club, they metamorphosed into something otherworldly and surreal. Patrick had that gift of being able to be playful without it coming off as wacky. And he knew it: one doesn't waste a bassline like the one found in "Ladybug" on a novelty record.

I associate Patrick with an era of being in love with New York, and much of that feeling came from all the little paths he and his collaborators carved for us younger people to explore. His music filled the record bins in NYC shops. I recall driving uptown in the rain to pick up "Get Down Boy" by The Paper Dolls (written by Harvey Miller, arranged by Patrick) at Harvey's barbershop on 7th Avenue. I'd hear "Mainline" in Fort Greene park, or "Tuch Me (All Night Long)" (yes, TUCH me) booming out of a car outside L&B Spumoni Gardens in Gravesend. His music was everywhere.

Of course, I'll never forget finally getting to meet Patrick for the first time. I was interviewing him for a never-realized 'zine I aimed to produce. I skipped breakfast because I was so nervous and headed over to Unique Studios. I thought Patrick seemed a bit cool and distant at first, but soon we were lost in stories about music and studio techniques. Eventually, I found myself in the surreal position of telling one of my musical heroes that I needed to leave because my stomach was growling so loudly; we had talked for over 5 hours nonstop! In reality, Patrick wasn't cool or distant in the least. He was charming and generous with his time. He was a brilliant songwriter and producer, but he was not a frontman. My experiences with him over the years reflected that, and his quiet, almost nerdy nature made me admire and relate to him even more.

I could go on and on. Thank you so much, Patrick Adams. You are loved and will be missed.

 

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