Category Archives: Record store high jinks

The Cars, Candy-O (Elektra, 1979)

The Cars

“Museum directors with their high shaking heads/They kick white shadows until they play dead.” Everybody knows “Let’s Go,” but really, how interesting is it to like the nightlife, baby? It’s not. “The Dangerous Type” is the real and true banger on this album. Shout to Greg Hawkes for the delicious synthy goodness and Roy Thomas Baker for being a general ’70s studio god (QUEEN).



Horacee Arnold, Tales of the Exonerated Flea (Columbia, 1974)

Horacee Arnold

Peace to all the concern trolls who keep turning up on Instagram expressing anxiety about my wardrobe choices. Here’s a nice jeans-and-turtleneck combo to please you, though I should warn that you may still be able to detect I have hips and breasts through the fabric : (







Isaac Hayes, Truck Turner soundtrack (Enterprise, 1974)

Truck Turner

I’m told that this topless gentleman was an important figure in music; more importantly, I know for a fact that he put babies in women on 12 separate occasions, making him the music game Antonio Cromartie. I try not to post album covers that remind me of my home country’s gross insatiable hunger for firearms, but I’ll overlook it in favor of laziness. (I needed an album cover this week and I had the jeans and plastic gun required.)

Ween, Chocolate and Cheese [Elektra, 1994 (RE)]

I am fucking going to WrestleMania yall


Update: IT FUCKING WORKED. I AM GOING TO WRESTLEMANIA. Thank you for the tickets, Eric Perkins, whose uncle works for Vince McMahon. You are immortal in my eyes, sir.

Jon Lucien, Rashida (RCA Victor, 1973)

Jon Lucien


As long as you’re strong, you can quest with the ‘Questers/Jolly like a jumping bean or a jester/Lucien, Lucien, Lucien, Lucien





Belle and Sebastian, Tigermilk [Electric Honey/Matador, 1996 (RE)]

Belle Sebastian

Best thing outta Scotland after whisky, Groundskeeper Willie, cozy Fair Isle sweaters, Bon Scott and the Young brothers, David Byrne, the flute guy from Jethro Tull, Average White Band, and the exceedingly NON-Average White Lady known as my great-grandma, who puts her full support behind women mastering historically male-dominated activities and who also encourages me, somewhat pimp-like, to “Show em your nice shape, honey,” because these 2 things aren’t mutually exclusive for me as a woman, you see. (Sorry, @sexistdudesofinstagram! xo)




Simon & Garfunkel, Bookends (CBS, 1968)

Simon Garfunkel

Cuz Queens is the county, Jamaica is the place!

J/K it’s Flushing and Forest Hills, respectively, for Simon and Garfunkel. Regardless, though: to my peoples throughout Queens, God bless your life.



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