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.)
“WHY IN THE FUCK would I listen to Physical Graffiti when this new Funkadelic record just came out? USE YOUR HEAD.” – me, being all indignant during the spring of 1975, if I had been around back then. (Incidentally, “Use your head” is also my go-to strategy for getting a backstage pass. George Clinton was so taken with the idea he wrote a song about it.)
Later on in ’75, I would fall in deep deep throbbing love with records by the Meters, the Isleys, the Players of Ohio, Rufus, Burning Spear, Tom Waits, Heart (YEAH I SAID IT), and Curtis. But that spring was pretty epic – Chocolate City came out in March and Let’s Take It to the Stage came out a month later because George Clinton is the god damned devil.
(Special thank you to Natalie for handling black Sharpie duties)
Sly Sex, it turns out, is not a bunch of songs about that summer I spent on tour with the Family Stone being Sylvester Stewart’s coked-out plaything. Sly Sex is nothing more than Redd Foxx being filthy and hilarious, you enormous dummies!
Depending on when you catch me during the day, I’ll either insist that this should’ve been called Slyy Sexx for continuity purposes, or I’ll say nope, that’s stupid, such a title would be overkill and kinda corny. There’s just no pleasing me, you guys.
(I hate how I look in redd but this cover kept calling me. It was just so damn easy to recreate. And besides, how could I not pay tribute to Mr. Sanford?)