Tag Archives: Gamble and Huff

Minnie Riperton, Perfect Angel (Epic, 1974)

Perfect Angel Fuck Goodell 1264

“You got to give the peeeopllllllle/give the peoplllllllle what they wannnnnnnt” – my buddy Jalen, channeling the O’Jays.

I’m not referring to the truth, the truth and no more lies, freedom, justice, and equality, though – in this case, the people have asked me again and again to do the easy, classic Perfect Angel cover, so here I go. You really do got to give the people, give the people what they want.

I chose this cover during the last 72 hours – coincidentally, the same period in which I was reminded that the National Football League does not give a single fuck about women, the violence done to women’s bodies, or the behavior of its employees – unless that behavior involves important shit like getting caught with weed or free tattoos in college.

I’m an NFL superdork with 2 Fantasy teams & a picture of 6-year-old me with Howie Long on my fridge, but I’m also a woman superdork and a person with a conscience, and the NFL is just such a terrible and gross organization that I don’t know how to cope during moments like this. The cognitive dissonance is real, people. Luckily, I’ve found some brief comfort in ice cream, overalls, and the soothing production work of Stevland Morris. And since I’m angry with the cartoonishly evil Roger Goodell but I can’t boycott NFL sponsors I never supported in the first place (Frito-Lay, GM, Anheuser-Busch, Gatorade), I believe the best way to deal with my disgust and sadness is to inform you that the NFL’s contact number is (212) 450-2000. Ask for Mr. Goodell, like I did. They won’t put you through to him, but you’ll at least reach the comment line where you can tell Rog you’re furious. I did, and it makes me feel a little better.

(I’ll probably do this same post all over again when Goodell makes a slap-on-the-wrist ruling about Greg Hardy – remember, the NFL doesn’t give a fuck about women – but until then: ice cream cones and Stevie Wonder!)

Now stop emailing me about this one, guys. xo.



Teddy Pendergrass, It’s Time for Love (Philadelphia International, 1981)

teddy p it's time 1264Before Jay-Z did it, Diamond Dallas Page did it. And before both of them, Teddy P did it – but instead of throwing his hands toward the heavens to seduce a bunch of teenage boys in the crowd, he laid back, kinda fashioned his hands into a sexy diamond made of flesh, and waited for his woman to come over like an elegant gentleman. Teddy doesn’t need to make a big show about his jewels, you guys.

Teddy doesn’t need to wear a watch, neither, because no matter when you look at it, the clock always says IT’S TIME FOR LOVE.



Chuck Brown and the Soul Searchers, Bustin’ Loose (Source, 1979)

chuck brown bustin loose 1264I’m still deeply invested in the playoffs, guys, so my album recreation output continues to be somewhat stifled. My 2 beloved worlds of televised sporting events and recorded music intersected in a weird, cosmic way this week, though, as I picked this record at random and noticed that it’s produced by LOGAN WESTBROOKs(!), a clear indication that OKC is trolling me. Nice try, Russ, Sefolosha, and Cawrong Butler.

Anyway, Chuck says “Gimme the bridge, yall” at all the wrong moments in the title track. I hate that ex-Hoya Hibbert seems to be battling some Space Jam demons inside his enormous body. Dan Snyder remains a fucking terrible human being. And John Wall lacks a Jamal Crawfordesque buttery crossover. But still – DC, I love you. Please accept my humble tribute.



Barbara Mason, Give Me Your Love (Buddah, 1972).

give me your love

I don’t really care for Barbara’s voice or the stupid babyish “Yes, I’m Ready” lyrics about not knowing how to use your body to show affection (????! Lemme draw you a picture, Ms. Mason), but this one’s got the words “Gamble,” “Huff,” and “Curtom” on the back cover, plus I already had that striped shirt, so it was destined to be.