Loverboy, Get Lucky (Columbia, 1981)


I was going for “Eddie Murphy in Delirious” and ended up somewhere around “Canadian bandanna-synth rock.” Ah well.


Your memory banks have forgotten this funk.

Dave the Cobra

If this isn’t the best MLB/Parliament/Jimmy Buffett collab post you’ve seen today, please keep it to yourself and let me keep up the charade. Don’t hurt my feelings.

Citizens of the universe, recording angels, I have returned to claim the pyramids and also to remind you that Dave “The Cobra” Parker fucking ruled and I absolutely HAD to do a tribute post. (T-shirt courtesy of Homage – thanks, guys!; glide in my stride and dip in my hip courtesy of genetics – thanks, Mom and Dad!)

I have zero allegiance to the Pittsburgh baseball Pirates, but I know the importance of names like Stargell, Clemente, and McCutchen, and I damn sure know the importance of Dave and his shirt of interplanetary galactic radness made possible by the combined efforts of the cotton industry, the really pure coke of ’70s northeast America, and George Stanley Clinton, jr. I just watched the 30 for 30 about the ’89 World Series, during which I realized that Rickey Henderson isn’t the only Athletic I adore – Dave was also on that squad that swept SF, prompting me to remember the existence of this picture and then do a tribute to him.

[I didn’t have a Pirates uni to put behind me like Dave in his picture, but the A1A album by Jimmy Buffett will do, as it contains “A Pirate Looks at Forty” (the song that made me realize Buffett can write a great song and is more than just “the ‘Margaritaville’ guy who sometimes gets thrown out of Heat games”)].


Freddie Hubbard, The Black Angel (Atlantic, 1970)

Hubbard Black Angel

I was going to parlay this post into a plea for Angels tickets – there are 15k of you following me on Instagram; surely ONE of you knows Moreno or Scioscia or Toriiiiiiii Hunter or some random Dominican scout who can provide the hookup-? Sadly, the team rolled over and played dead and now I’m focusing on trying to get Clippers tickets, which I just realized is the true purpose for which God created Instagram.

This cover has been a long time coming, and in doing a little research, I discovered that a 20-year-old Freddie was roommates with Eric Dolphy (!), making those dudes the Hutson-Hathaway, or perhaps the Love-Westbrook, of midcentury, hard bop NYC. The lazy sports journalists of the world will tell you that Westbrook “plays with a chip on his shoulder,” when really a more accurate description would be that he “’plays with a Tasmanian Devil pumping HGH and meth straight into his bloodstream while Stone Cold whispers angry motivational phrases in his ear’ on his shoulder.” I can relate to this, as when I bought 3 Blind Mice (Freddie in “Blue Moon” is gorgeous), a helpful gentleman at the store informed me that I had made a “good choice” and that “the bass player on here is a guy named Jymie Merritt.” First of all, yes, I KNOW it was a good choice, but thanks for your approval, and second, yes, I’m familiar with Mr. Merritt and how he got sick soon after this very fruitful recording period for Blakey’s band so he brought in Reggie Workman, and despite my estrogen and hips, sir, this little lady knows a ton of useless jazz history. I am unsure as to why I care so much about strangers knowing that I’m well aware of the timeline of Blakey’s bass personnel*, but you know how they say Russ plays with a chip on his shoulder? I DIG with a chip on mine.


*I’m petty and ridiculous

Redman, Whut? Thee Album (Def Jam, 1992)


Way wayyyy back in the land of 1992, Erick Sermon was immersed in his Roger Troutman infatuation, my cousin was bummed ’cause Run-TMC was over, your uncle made disapproving comments when he saw those Michigan thugs in their black socks on TV, and a professional American sports franchise called the mother fucking REDSKINS (!!) won the Super Bowl. (Really – that was the name of the team. I’m not kidding. Can you imagine??!?!???)

Now it’s 2014 and a lot has changed – Jalen Rose is still super charismatic & likable, yes, and Tim Hardaway still plays except now there’s a “jr” after his name, but rap don’t sound like this no more and the horrendously racist “Redskins” name is no longer supported by idiotsOH WAIT NEVER MIND WHOOPS. Anyway, regardless of the passage of time and the world changing, the fact is “Time 4 Sum Aksion” will forever be the greatest high school basketball squad warm-up song ever made. Forever and ever amen.


Chuck Berry, Sweet Little Rock and Roller (Pickwick, 1973)


Go ‘head with your sexual preferences, fellow humans. Enjoy. Far be it from me to judge – UNLESS OF COURSE you’re Chuck Berry and one of those preferences is fucking TAPING women in the bathroom without their consent. Then you’re a pure unadulterated creep, a realllllll dirty bird, just disgusting, and I reserve the right to point it out whenever I see fit. There’s always been something a little off about Chuck – some subversive shit that gives me the creeps, and I’m not just talking about his perm. I have ears and a soul, so obviously I enjoy the riffs, the pacing, the chord progressions, his fondness for super hip white women who love black music (ahem), and the fact that he’s a southern black man who is actually given credit for being an originator of southern black man music and has profited from his own creations for decades now. (I also really loved the casting of Mos Def in that otherwise pretty terrible Chess movie.) But then Chuck goes and writes “Back in the U.S.A.,” a song about 1959 Americuh being nothing but sock hops and jukeboxes and hamburgers on the grill, some real fucking whitewashed Happy Days nonsense, a full 6 YEARS before Missouri became desegregated. (I had hoped he wrote the song for purely financial reasons, to appeal to white kids buying 45s, but nope – the lyrics are as earnest as can be.) Now Chuck’s always wearing that creepy captain’s hat like creepy old Hugh Hefner and this does nothing to lessen the creep factor. CREEP. Christ, those RIFFS, though. Those riffs.

Go home, kook

record jungle 1

O Perfect Saturday, how I adored thee: the weather cooled down, I got a haircut so I finally look presentable when I meet with Goodell to discuss my concerns*, had a milkshake, found out that Muhammad Ali’s grandson plays on that Bishop Gorman team with Cordell Broadus(!), watched USC win, and I got all these pretty pretty records including, yes, fuckin Foghat, deal with it.

I’m pretty Locals Only when it comes to my favorite record shops because I’m a jerk and I only want the good things in life to happen to me and nobody else but me. So even though this looks like a pretty rad haul from Record Jungle, owned by the wonderful Andy who prices everything way lower than he could (because he is wonderful), it’s really not up your alley. I mean, ew, they let fake record nerd girls shop there, so you’re better off just staying away.


* of which I have MANY


Gene Page, Hot City (Atlantic, 1974)

Gene 1

I officially hold office as the mayor of Know-It-All City, including the unincorporated areas of Anxietyburgh, Self-Loathing-Ville Because of my Undying Irrational Love of the NFL, and Feminism Township. When I put on my slinky blouse the color of delicious orange sherbet, however, I feel like I could also run Hot City like a real boss.

This record is far better than I thought it would be (sorry, Gene! Sorry, Barry!) and fills my apartment with lots of excellently throbby bass and string action. Get it.

(Not sure why I’m just not that into Don Renaldo/Philly Int’l strings, but I adore Arif Mardin’s and I have Unlimited Love for Barry White/Love Unlimited Orchestra strings. I am a complex creature.)

Willie Nelson, Honeysuckle Rose soundtrack (Columbia, 1980)

honeysuckle 1

The first purely country cover I’ve done, in memory of the turntable in my childhood living room (hi, Dad) and in tribute to one of the Highwaymen, Willie Nelson! He did a mediocre movie with that lady who’s always courtside at Laker games, and produced the soundtrack that fills me with joy. A lady cannot subsist on Shider riffs and Hathaway cascades and big fat Organized Noize drums alone, people.