Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Shawn Biggs, Photo by Misha Vladimirskiy/ Butchershop Creative
Pretty sure that Theophilus London is always somewhere more tropical, well, definitely sunnier, and fancier in his mind than wherever he ever really is. It doesn't mean to suggest that he's never anywhere sunny, tropical or fancy, because that would be terrifically false. He flings himself into the closest approximations of these environments that he can find and then he just melts right into them, becomes them. He's one of those superhuman sorts of people who puts stock in the idea that if you can just believe it, you can be it. He seems to have willed into existence this fantastic life - one that dreams are made of - fit for very mischievous, stylish, suave, cool as fuck and horny as hell kings. His fictions have all become realities. He looks like a million bucks and we'd guess that he feels like closer to ten million bucks, maybe more, possibly lots more. It draws the ladies to him and then he gets to write his name across their breasts and stomachs in chocolate syrup. Boy, is that ever a charmed life.
This session brings so many of London's passions even more into the light. He can be heard talking about the lengths of nipples. He can be heard making a Super Bowl prediction that the New York Giants are going to win the whole thing - and this feels even more omniscient than one might think as this session was recorded at our spot in San Francisco the day before the Giants came from behind to beat the 49ers in that same rainy city. He can be heard, at one point, saying, "'Goof Troop' just crossed my mind," recalling the cartoon from the 1990s that he surely grew up on, but had forgotten until that very moment, for no discernable reason. For the most part, though, it's the girls and it's the far-flung and exotic places that he's hypnotized by, that he's drunk on.
He's living in the lap of luxury, even if he's having to counterfeit the bills to get him there. It really doesn't matter and he couldn't care less than if he only has a one-way ticket to such places. He muses on a new jam, "Let Me See You're Pretty," about which car he's going to take his girl out in that night. He's got a car - so he says - for every day of the week, but this particular night is a Friday and so, he's determined to bring out the cherry. He's bringing out his Leap Year car, the creamy one. He adds, "Guess where I'm gonna take you/They call this shit the diner/You get the finer things at the diner/It ain't the regular diner/And let me tell you somethin'/You better show up man/You better put on somethin' nice/I'm gonna give you five minutes to get dress, alright/Cause there's a lot of player's there/They wear a lot of player shit." I love where he exists, in the arbitrarily breathed to life playgrounds, where the heart's content is all that matters, where he can say to a fox, "Before you enter the palace/Take your fuckin' shoes off/And sit down on this bed girl/Let me talk to you." His places are those places that sparkle even in the dark.