“Everyone kind of had a nickname. So I tried to fit in, and I decided to come up with a nickname, and I came up with Kool. There was another guy in the neighborhood who was named ‘Cool’ also, but he spelled his with a C. So I just changed that and spelled it with a K.”
Big big shout to the comically large egos of men who bestow nicknames upon THEMSELVES, bands with the bass player as the frontman, musicians who do songs about themselves (Kool & the Gang, “Method Man,” “Bo Diddley,” “Black Sabbath,” “Minor Threat,” etc. etc.), and albums that give me an opportunity to bust out the zebra skin rug AND my dad’s headphones from the Carter administration. People, this record satisfies me in so many ways.
I’ve been blessed with plenty of luck, I love blowing up cars, I’m full of anger and beauty and guilt and sorrow and DNA that predisposes me to alcoholism, plus my name is LOGAN, so I don’t need to do much to prove my Irishness to you people on 3/17 or any other day. But there’s never enough Lynott for me in life nor on the Internet so I’ll take any excuse to post him. And because lady record dorks (like the titular character in opening handclappy banger “Rosalie”) and supercool lanky half-Guyanese bass players both tend to get fetishized by people who love music, I swear it’s like Phil and I are forever buddies in the struggle. Happy St. Patrick’s Day, yall.
(Get this record. “Wild One” is the tragic, pretty soundtrack to me riding my horse through a cold Dublin field at night. And “Freedom Song,” about a man named Jack McDuff – but not THAT Jack McDuff, guys – has the loveliest, Thin-Lizziest chord progression you can possibly imagine. Get it.)