David Peel & The Lower East Side
Have A Marijuana

Step 1: lay out on the table a substantial dose of pacifism, a lighter filled with irreverent sarcasm, a crumpled lo-fi paper, a pinch of Caribbean tobacco (Jamaican recommended), an anti-Dylan filter, and two hands free from pretentiousness and unnecessary technicalities.

Step 2: take the dose, carefully and patiently skim through and grind it into tiny pieces of hippie culture, anarchic spirit, Godzian acid folk, Zappa-esque irony, Mc5-esque fury, punk symptoms, and reggae aromas.

Step 3: grab the lo-fi paper (for optimal results choose ultra-lo-fi quality), wrap the mix inside it ensuring to eliminate all the hard and unwanted pieces such as pretentiousness, seriousness, politeness, and consumerism, and insert the anti-Dylan filter (alternatively, the more economical anti-Donovan filter will do).

Step 4: Close it, lick along its length, press by tapping on the table from the filter side, light it up.

Step 5: inhale, hold for 5-6 seconds, and wait...

Step 6: wait a little longer...

If the procedure has been executed correctly, from the little cloud of smoke rising in front of you should emerge a friendly face with round sunglasses and a rolled bandana on the forehead.

Do not worry; it is neither the devil nor Zucchero but the good Dave Peel who greets you and gives you a pat on the shoulder. He will probably ask you to pass him your creation; do so, and he will accompany you floating back in time to the latter half of the '60s, in the midst of flower-power.

You will immediately notice you are not on the golden beaches of acid-California but on a warm street corner of the Lower East Side in Manhattan. Around you are groups of people smoking, clapping their hands, and shaking their heads to the rhythm of the music that our space-time ferryman vomits with awkward vigor upon them, accompanied by a group of joyful human derelicts, quite messed up on the outside and very much intoxicated on the inside.

Without even realizing it, you will find yourself hopping to the rhythm of their African tambourines, on the inelegant excursions of their harmonica, and the carefree scraping of their acoustic guitars. All of this while always fleeing any form of concern or disbelief and perfectly blending into the context.

You are in the favorite attack post of the old David, from this front-line trench he usually shouts live to the world his sacrilegious disgust towards everything that is conformity, fashion, and aesthetics. From here, with his Lower East Side Band, he protests against the institutions and the American prohibitionist and murderous government that meanwhile is blissfully sending his brothers to the slaughter, against bourgeois values and those who claim to be alien to them only to then wallow in their privileges (Bob?), against a world speeding past too fast to be seen and appreciated.

Oh yes, guys, you are in a trench now... but the most coveted that can exist for the "against" people, a pit dug in the asphalt full of love and free of fear, where the joints that make the rounds are not those of guns and the smoke does not rise from charred bodies, you are with family now, we can all be brothers if we renounce power and measure ambition... it's time to relax... right Dave?

And pass it on!

We Love You! Yes We Do!