Category Archives: Apartment 680 is amazing

Life, Love and Faith. And Cocoa.


No color-saturation trickery or anything, guys – look how pretty this came out! I fiiiiinally got Toussaint’s Life, Love and Faith, which made me think about other epic/stark/lovely black or white or black & white album covers, which sucked me down a rabbit hole all Sunday afternoon, which come to think of it is always where you can catch me on Sunday afternoon, every Sunday afternoon, with sporadic breaks only to stretch and refuel and check Deadspin. (Special appearances by my favorite red dress, my mug of hot chocolate, & because I’m fucking sick to DEATH of the Cowboys, Days of Our Harbaugh, and As the Manziel Turns, the Aldridge-less Blazers being unkind to the Knicks on my TV.)



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).



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.)

I’ve no remorse so squares beware

IMG_5787I AM A nightmare walking, psychopath talking, king of my jungle blahblah and I’m still trying to organize but goddamn I’m finding so much forgotten beauty buried in my stacks that I get distracted and embark on caffeine-fueled stunts like this. (“Ooh, I should make a RECORD RAINBOW! SO RAD! SUCH A GOOD USE OF MY TIME!”)

I’m hopeless. I’ll never change. My record collection will never die – just multiply. Colors.

Following the Joy of Witnessing USC Snatch Stanford’s Soul Out its Chest on a Forced Fumble, Los Angeles Woman Attempts to Organize Konfusion, Contemplates Suicide