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.
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.)