Monday, January 23, 2012

So get out on the floor to the record store/And girl, get it how you live.

“Okay, everybody cough up some green for the little lady.”

- Nice Guy Eddie (Reservoir Dogs), 
on tipping a woman who has a blog works at a diner and needs cash to buy records pay her rent 

If you are human and sometimes feel bad about yourself and your appearance, nothing tops Reservoir Dogs' slowmo stroll during that intro for a self-esteem booster. It's a sugary slice of cinema cake that I try to replicate in a sundress and some George Baker playing in my head during my walks down the street on most hot days in Los Angeles. (Ladies: Cameo's “Candy” has a similar effect on your psyche. It'll make you feel so pretty! Gentlemen, I'm not one of you, so I can't give you advice here. “Lend Me an Ear,” maybe?). Tarantino stole the suited-up crew idea from John Woo, Danielle who went to film school tells me and which I have since verified, and I have infallible disdain for troupes of phony Gs who get church clothed and then say lines that have no real connection to their actual lives (MMG REFERENCE - oh, what I meant was “Poorly-Thought-Out Vehicle Tie-In Branding Music Group” reference).  Fakery appeals to me so hard in the scene, I hate to admit, but the appeal of the movie is largely just because future life partner Danny Brown and his cousin and friend were dogs once.

Smart and grouchy, shit-talking fake gangsters eating pancakes and drinking coffee, every last one of them at the breakfast table are reciting lines to which they have no real connection in their non-acting lives. (I mean, other than Lawrence Tierney, who probably killed a guy at some point.) I am seduced nonetheless, though, thanks to the charms of Keitel and Roth, with a dash of Madsen thrown in because I like 'em tall. The scene was filmed at Pat and Lorraine's, in Eagle Rock. And a mile and a half away is Permanent Records, where I went last month, spent money, hung out with the store kitty, and bonded with the female proprietor over old men, sexism, and records (“'How could someone with BREASTS possibly know who Robert Fripp is?' AHAHAHA” – her and me, joyously doing our impressions of cranky old men shaken by ladies looking through their records at yard sales).

We quickly became the best of friends. “Your money’s no good here,” she said when I took my selections up to the register, and let me have my whole stack for free. J/K! This happened in my daydream during my drive home.

“Straight shots of sternum.” Avert your eyes from my bony collarbone for a second, and you'll find there's a naked lady in this picture.

Watch for my new VH-1 series, Get On My Level, starring me as a Joan Didion/Erica Mena hybrid.

Various, Just A Taste (ABC/Dunhill Sampler, 1971).

It was the cover that caught my eye - the model doing an exact naked replica of my pose every time I'm within 100 yards of my future life partner Danny Brown - but the contents were acceptable enough for me to hug it to my bosom and declare it would be coming home with me. A sampler of artists recording for the ABC/Dunhill label's upcoming releases for 1971, it's got John Lee Hooker, Genesis (progrock signed to Impulse, SO DOPE! - Impulse folded into ABC/Dunhill in the early '70s, hence Genesis' appearance on this comp), and “Journey to Satchidananda*,” by Alice Coltrane and Pharoah Sanders. Hey, did you guys know Fly Lo is related to Alice? It's kind of an industry secret. He doesn't really like to talk about it, except in every interview and on his Facebook wall. Also, based on my habit of typing pharoahe instead of pharaoh like spellcheck would prefer, it's clear that Monch's hold on my brain continues in 2012 despite the fact that I (shamefully) haven't listened to W.A.R. all the way through as of this writing.

(Bonus, maybe-it'll-turn-up-on-Jeopardy!-someday fact: Pharrell's dad's name is Pharoahe  Pharaoh.)

* “Sachidananda is a combination of three attributes: Sat = existence, truth, real. Chit = consciousness. Ananda = bliss. Conscious blissful existence.” Why thank you,

Side C, track 1: “Every Day I Have the Blues,”  B.B. Kaaang, who, no disrespect, has always been more compelling as a doo-wop-ish type than a bluesman. “I Count the Tears,” Leiber-Stoller na-na-nananana loveliness, is always my pick on the table mini-jukebox at the '50s-themed diner in my hometown. He's got a beautiful voice that I want to hear singing a goofy love song rather than a heavy  blues song, and his success teaches me that diabetes is no match for the human spirit! Even that HACK Adam Morrison has TWO championship rings! Guess how many non-diabetes-afflicted Vince Carter has, you guys. Oh wait, no. Don't do that. It'll make you sad. He has the same number as Baron Davis, McGrady, Elton Brand. And for my semi-old-timers in the place: Iverson. Wilkins. Kidd. Sadness! Reggie Miller's part of this club too, but he can fuck off.

Side D, track 1: “WATCHA GONNA DO????”, which is not that song about the possibility of giving it to you and then asking what you'd do with it if you were to receive it. WTTP, SAN DIEGOOOOO.

The Isleys, Brother Brother Brother (T-Neck, 1972).

Ron Isley has a stronnng creepy-old-guy kind of vibe to him, which, sorry, I will always insist upon despite your protests, and when I am feeling like doing a Dre or Quik impression I'll just say “truth hurts” to wrap up my point. Don't tell me you don't see it in his face. I’m just saying what you’re thinking, you guys - the Terrell Suggs of ladybloggers; that's me. Ron's face desperately tries to say Panties off, ladies, I’m 70 years old but I still got it, laydeeeees (even though he does not, in fact, got it, and did he ever, really?). He can’t help his creepy face, though. I should be nicer, because my face apparently says I love cops given the way they flock to me at Starbucks. My face therefore says nothing about me as a person and what I hold dear. It's just my face; nothing symbolic there. (So I'm sorry, Ron. I'm sorry I said that thing about your face.) That face and his tiny stature (he's what? 5'3"?) takes nothing away from his stage presence, as this proves. It also proves he's always had a case of creepy-old-guy face, even at age 24 in 1965. (Sorry again, Ron. Your persona on those Kells collabs was believable but I'm still mad at you for thinking you could get away with the line Copped me some weed now. OH GRANDPA, STOP.)

“Brother Brother” will probably make your eyes well up if you have a brother, a stepbrother, a friend of the family you grew up with who's like your play-brother, or if you just have a human soul and can feel things, shout to Carole King. But “Work to Do” is godbody and I listen to it thrice weekly even though I cannot identify at all with the protagonist, a man who wants his woman to understand he needs to get shit done. It’s typical of me that I love it, given the thematic consistency between “Work to Do” and Mos’ “Travelin’ Man” (I'd rather lounge around nakedly with you than do anything else, but someone's gotta pay our fucking rent, WOMAN). Real quick, Chris Jasper on keys: thank you, sir. And since it's been 3 paragraphs without a Detroit rap mention: Vessey's “Work to Do.” Yep.

The Isleys were from Teaneck, NJ, so their label is T-Neck. Cute pun and I love it, just like when extremely talented and non-gimmicky music professional Tyga says Got my shirt off/The club too packed. The club's 2 Pac-ked! Pac Blood! Pacs on Pacs on Pacs! All middle finger on a gurney everything! Shirtless back! Really, though, that's a pretty great line. There's no way Tyga wrote it. And though there were other Isleys on the record, the main Isleys were a trio on Brother so their publishing company was called Triple Three Music, which, no disrespect, is stupid and redundant. This is just like that time I heard there was a song called “100 Hunnit,” or as I correctly call it, “Ten Thousand” (100 00), with a visual featuring Meek and Wale in an Olive Garden parking lot, out-grinning each other and trying to downplay the erotic tension between them. It's exactly like Rabbit v Doc at the Shelter, according to your 12-year-old cousin who genuinely believes the big bag of lies MMG is selling. According to me, it's a video redeemed only by the fact that I find Meek Mill to be quite charismatic in front of a microphone. Wale can still fuck off, though.


Latimore, It Ain’t Where You Been… It’s Where You’re Goin’ (Glades, 1976).

One time I heard it's not where you're from but where you pay rent. But then, just when I was coming to terms with that concept, then I heard it's not what you make but how much you spent. And there was something about a shinebox and a gypsy. Turns out that, years earlier, Latimore brought the important message that it ain’t where you been - it’s where you’re goin. So moved by this belief, he turned it into the title of an album and did a cover photo shoot on the set of “The Symphony” video or, wait, was it the set of “Scalp Dem”? Either way, 'More remembered to bring some raw emotion looking at the camera lens, probably thinking to himself Don't stop, get it get it (they say that in Miami, where the Glades record label originated). He also tied his shirt at the midriff without losing an ounce of masculine fire, a thing that Prince is able to accomplish in everything he's ever done, ever.

The album's got the break from Gangstarr's “Royalty,” with the line about puffin lah that lyric websites hear as "puffin lye," which is much more painful and the mistake makes me cringe. I feel embarrassed for the Internet like it's a person, the same embarrassment I feel in my tummy whenever I hear the hideous earnest goofy Beatles version of the Isleys' “Twist & Shout.” 

It Ain't Where You Been was produced by Steve Alaimo, who also did that lovely Timmy Thomas song (featuring me in the video, wearing my finest brown wig - but not the other Tim Thomas, the true Tea Party patriot) and Betty Wright’s “Girls Can’t Do What the Guys Can,” a song that speaks the truth – Girls can't do what the guys do/And still be a lady—except when it comes to being President and collecting records and liking sports. (We can do those 3 things without compromising our femininity.) It Ain't Where You Been also has the “A Million and One Questions” break on it - Premier evidently never went anywhere without his beloved Latimore record in the late '90s - but Latimore III is the superior album. Latimore also thought More, More, More, Latimore would be an acceptable name for an album. Cute, but not as good as my “Womacks on Macks on Macks.” I say this with conviction but still softly (as if I played piano in the dark).

Earl Klugh (Blue Note, 1976). 

Wikipedia would like to gently remind you that his last name is pronounced “Clue,” because Wikipedia evidently thinks you're an idiot (But there’s a G and an H, Wikipedia! Surely it’s pronounced “KLUG-HUH”).

Purchased on the strength of the credit “Harvey Mason on drums”* and the presence of a song called “Slippin' In The Back Door,” which I like to think is the sequel to Main Source’s “Lookin’ at the Front Door” and the prequel to War's “Slippin Into Darkness.” Aw, but these 2 factors are not enough to save this record from back-of-the-shelf banishment and I'm glad it was cheap. If Jeezy's payin Lebron, I'm payin Marcin Gortat; bye bye 4 bucks, which is fine because nothing about the thing speaks to me. I listened to it once, then returned to my priority activities of reading the "purple banana" discussion on the Prince message board, watching that Gibbs video and cringing at the Beats by Dre cornball product placement but smiling at the "studio in the bedroom closet" scene, and listening to that freaking Cee-Lo banger and daydreaming about romance. Ooh, or that Kool AD one, and daydreaming about bass, sweet JESUS what a song.

*Google, please. Google the hell outta him. Then listen to Withers’ “I Wish You Well” and marvel at the simple/powerful backbeat courtesy of Mr. Mason – but don’t steal my idea and play it in the delivery room when your firstborn enters this crazy world. IT’S MY IDEA. STEALING IS WRONG.

Spirit, Best Of (Epic, 1973).

The only way I could ever tolerate Tebow and his Christ-y dullness is if he were to enter and leave every press conference to the sound of Norm Greenbaum's “Spirit In the Sky.” That would be so fucking incredible, I mean, can you imagine. I'm sort of a weak person and music drives me to make bad decisions sometimes, especially if it's beautifully-produced music that starts with an echo-y guitar riff that leads into handclaps powered by the pure gospel truth, so I'm telling you that intro/outro for a boring Tebow Q&A session would be enough to make me start believing in things of which Christopher Hitchens would disapprove. Anyway, a band named Spirit is going to elicit these kinds of thoughts in me, which is fine because the band Spirit doesn't elicit anything in me other than I liked this LA band the first time they existed, when they were called The Doors and even then I didn't really like them all that much. Their producer was Lou Adler, responsible for producing overlapping-harmony heaven “I Saw Her Again” (BEST Mamas & Papas song, oh god those CHORDS), siring talent-deprived dirtbag Cisco Adler, almost redeeming himself by directing Up In Smoke, and, during his golden years, bravely taking on the chief tasks of counting his racks and filling a regular courtside seat at Staples next to Jack. Spirit just wasn't very memorable band. “Mechanical World” is spooky and dope, though. That intro is a killer.

Grover Washington, jr., Paradise (Asylum, 1979). 

Like me, Grover loved basketball and Bill Withers. Only one of us dedicated a song to Dr. J and played sax on “Just the Two of Us,” though. “He should go play smooth jazz,” James Brown once claimed about Grover, as told to Jonathan Lethem, and I concur. It was a cold thing to say, but sexy in its coldness because it was true. “We got something else going...nothing smooth about it," James added, ice-ing things up even further. Paradise is smooth, for sure, but it's also boring, apart from the controversy a few years back when Grover had to change the name of his song “Icey” to “1017 Brick Squad.” It was a pretty big deal; not sure if you remember. The rest of the album is smooth and deadly boring, including the title track with a video full of images of the alleged glory of nature (whales breaching, squirrels squirrelling, a butterfly landing gently on a flower),

in what has to be the most solid example of heavy-handed earnestness coupled with goofiness since Shock's/Humpty's verse in “We're All in the Same Gang” (KDAY with the assist - yesterday during my drive home from Trader Joe's). Kill a black man?, Hump says, Yo what are you - retarded? I understand that the question is probably not directed at me, but I'm not retarded, thank you; I'm simply trying to sort through this pile of conflicting emotions you've just laid at my feet, sir. What am I to do here? Do I laugh at your big funny nose and the fact that you just said “retarded” (always funny), or do I go volunteer at the local community center? And is it possible to combine liberal emo social-problem heartache with a groan and eye-roll? It is! I just did it!

The smoothness of Grov's alto sax cries are a nice contrast to the semi-rough/rugged history of Asylum Records, started by the tiny and rich David Geffen, recipient of a Spector punch in the face that one time, according to that Mick Brown bio I read. Geffen was also the ringleader of the first gay mafia, as opposed to the more recent gay mafia about which Fat Joe informed me. Grover's smooth cover portrait is by John Collier; I don't know if it's called Venus Flytrap with Saxophone Turns to Monasticism, but it should be. Collier was known for painting scenes of Christianity as a Caucasian sport and I do not know what this has to do with smooth jazz. So is the cover image sincere or ironic? Unclear as of this writing. I have the same question about Don Trip's “King Kong” tat. Whatever man, the record was 99¢. Nonshoutout to me for not picking up Walking with a Panther from the same bin, though. Oh, I'm sure I'll see it again, I think to myself all the time in these situations, because I'm an idiot. I do see it again -  but it's not until a year or two later.

The MC5, High Time (Atlantic, 1971).

Danny Brown knows and speaks highly of one third of the Belleville Three (Juan Atkins), and this pleases me. I feel like musical persons from the same part of Earth should support each other, except for the case in which it's me and the person I'm supposed to support for geographic reasons is Game. Apparently, just being tall and foxy and raspy-voiced is enough to get the Fader to post your mixtape, so I should be listening to Mr. Blonde's banger right now instead of here with all of you. (Are You Gonna Bark All Day, Little Doggie, or Are You Gonna Bite, it's called. Produced by Skywlkr except for Jake One on tracks 6 and 10). Getting back to Detroit, though - no bad punk rock, and no corny rappers! None! Right? I mean, Royce is ridiculous sometimes, but if I were from Michigan I'd sock you with the strength of Ndamukong Suh's cleated foot if you talk bad about Royce. Loyalty, bruh. Then I'd swaggeringly be gone in the night wearing my baggy shorts, like those hoodlums the Fab Five. Anyway, the Motor fucking City 5 got some Dopehead support, and this pleased me too (I smiled and said Awww). Now all I need is Danny to drop I Done Kicked 'Em Out (his next mixtape) for the circle to be complete. 

The record was produced by Geoffrey Haslam, who also produced Eddie Harris' Bad Luck is All I Have and I Need Some Money, album titles which reveal that Eddie "Rugged Schleprock" Harris is the Sean P of midcentury hard bop. (He has the alternate nickname Eddie "The Reason Why I'm Talking Shit" Harris, which was not produced by Haslam but is no less Sean P-ish in title). High Time was recorded at Artie Fields Studios in Detroit, where 2 years later the Ohio Players would record Pleasure, making the studio a brick-and-mortar embodiment of a Danny Brown song - Detroit, sexual pleasure, bass, a song called "Miss X" (Ohio Players), and a song called "Laid It" (MC5), on an album called, no less, High Time.

Dave and me, bout to eat some cookies and play a spirited round of Yahtzee.

David Banner, “Like a Pimp” 12” (SRC/Universal, 2003).

You ready for this? You sure? Because it appears that you are not. Listen, there are people in my face, damn near every day, askin a million questions like Logan where you stay. But when this comes on, meet me down at the local dancefloor because, sweetie pie, it's goin down. Chad Butler's voice on the hook (“Take It Off”), the very same Chad Butler to whom one Daniel Brown pays tribute, flow-wise, in “I Will,” is what gets me out of my dress, but he's gone and my affection for him can only go so far in the living world that I still inhabit. Therefore: Banner for President, the bumper sticker on my Prius says.

There are rules regarding dignity in lyrics. With the exception of the hit 1996 song "My Boo" by Ghostdown DJs, for example, the term freak me, boy should never be said out loud by a grown woman. Nobody but Schoolboy Q can get away with the string of words "raining in her cervix," which is oddly sexy because I'm a weirdo.  And unless it's a song by David Banner, a song addressing a lady self-loving on the dance floor should never happen. Lavell, you got it. If your game is on, gimme a call. Don't try to cage me in an attempt to convince yourself you're ready to settle down with a lady with a master's degree, though. I'm not Captain Save-A-Rapper, you feel me.

Banner for President, mostly for the fundraising parties that I'd totally come to, not least because I suspect it has an open bar and he'd ask for donations to Heal the Hood at the door, thereby combining my two loves of charity and getting tunrt up. What the hell possessed him to do that “Air Force Ones” remix, though, is a mystery that I shall never figure out. It is the darkest of secrets, like what lies in the sludge of the Mississippi River's bottom. Remember the original, though? A terrific song about a thing I do not fucking care about (men's shoes). 

“You go to Tougaloo, but I know you still flip” is the most accurate and succinct description of every post-feminist young woman in this country I believe I have heard yet. This song’s an ass-friendly, bass-y criticism of our collective tendency to think in stupid, overly simplified binaries ("college degree to use for one's future career x acting out sexually? IMPOSSIBLE" - America), plus it's 9 years old but has gathered no dust. Running trains, bad table manners, shake something, bitch, HA DAVID I DON’T THINK SO, NICE TRY, BUDDY. The seductive power of melody coupled with words that rhyme in a steezy cadence over said melody makes me believe it as truth, until I catch myself and remember the seduction is necessary for capitalism to flourish but the words behind the seduction might not be the most genuine. David Ruffin says beauty’s only skin deep, promises he’ll take a sweet girl over a pretty girl any day, and then he brings hot piece Tami Terrell to the Motown Picnic to show her off. And the dude rapping about pourin it up, not giving a fuck, and girls’ mouths doing him and his friends favors might actually have a master’s degree and do charity work, just like the schoolteacheresque girl behind you in line at Trader Joe’s might have been listening to “Like a Pimp” in the car on her way to Trader Joe’s. 

Eddie Kendricks, Vintage '78 (Arista, 1978).

In planning another record-store-conquest trip - this time to the deep American south, because I want to feel even closer than ever to Banner now that "Like a Pimp" is in my head - directs me to Birmingham and what they refer to as a "goofy statue of Eddie Kendricks," which offends me down to my bones. The word goofy in describing anything Kendricksian upsets me. It's undignified. (I take the reputations of musical men whom I do not know very verrrry seriously.) If you're not as sensitive as me and you're able to continue your search for record stores in Tennessee and Alabama, I recommend the Let's Go guidebook series. I want you to be happy, so here's a treat: when you type let's go into the Amazon search box, Trick Daddy comes up as the #2 result! (Accidental joy is the sweetest kind of joy.) I hope to return from the trip with my hatred for SEC football teams intact and a picture of myself hugging up on Eddie. The statue. In a highly dignified fashion. I mean, I'll probably wrap one leg around him like he's the pole at Magic City, but then I'll make a big,  dignified donation to the American Cancer Society to counteract my childish behavior.

Wiki says Eddie left Motown in 1978, with the requirement of signing away the rights to his royalties, which saddens me because 1) what the fuck, that's missed-out-on boatloads of cash  from baby boomer movie soundtracks alone, and 2) what the fuck, why had I not heard this before since I am a Temps obsessor, real fucking talk. But then, De Passe Entertainment, all rights reserved, alleges that Eddie did coke with David Ruffin in a key scene from that late-'90s Temps TV movie and I don't think I can really trust that source, either. The album was produced by Jeff Lane of B.T. Express fame, AKA Jeff Lane of “Do It ('Til You're Satisfied)” fame, AKA Jeff Lane of “Jeff Lane, Logan Is Eternally Grateful to You” fame. But Vintage '78 won't get a ton of play in apt. 680; it's mostly mid-tempo and boring. “One of the Poorest People" is about being rich and really sad, song-subject territory that Drake has taken to soaring new heights. Otherwise, the album is I'm in love; I love you; Do you love me; I'm a fool because I love you. Eddie was in his late 30s when this came out, and that's a tricky time for an R&B god, I suppose, unless you're one Robert Sylvester Kelly from Chicago, IL, who is not bound by age and who will be sexy R&B Jesus forever and ever amen. But "How's Your Love Life Baby" is a pretty opener, sparkly and melodic with sad lyrics, like this band the Smiths that your older cousin taught you about. 

The Best of Tommy James & the Shondells (Roulette, 1969). 

The world of straight men is generally not a mystery to me. I mean, I got thrown off a little last week, when I discovered that 1) Kyrie Irving is Australian (????), and 2) everybody think Chris Bosh is gay. I watch a fair amount of NBA and these key nuggets somehow escaped me. I felt a little left out of the boys' club. Otherwise, though, I'm pretty clear about hetero-masculine needs and desires, which are generally those of straight women except we get paid less than you do while at work and we say Awww more often and we can give life with our curvy, sexy bodies. I think I know a little bit about straight men. And "Crimson and Clover" - the sound of a straight man's brain while he is looking at a pretty woman - is a lot of the reason why. Are there any other songs on this album? I do not know.
January 1969 - Super Bowl III, Namath waving the finger. Number One. Number Onnnnnnnne. The Beatles' concert on the roof, Billy Preston's key stabs stealing the show. “Crimson” was the top-selling song, bookended on the charts by “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” and “Everyday People.” If I were around back then and I had just bought the “Crimson” 45 and invited you over to listen, I'd totally say Trust me, you guys. You want to be high for this as I'm bringing the tonearm over to the little black round spinning disc. Roulette, by the way, was supposedly a front business for the Genovese crime family, which makes the label that Tommy James recorded for significantly more interesting than the one that is currently home to Rick Ross. Roulette, self-made. MMG's just affiliated.

Meat Puppets, Meat Puppets II (SST, 1984).

The only people I want talking to me about Jesus Christ are Prince and Stevie Wonder, thank you, so keep your auntie off my doorstep. The only people I want talking to me about hell are James Brown and Cobain, even if Cobain's words about a lake of fire are not his own and are those of the brothers Kirkwood, Cris and Curt (blue & red shirt, and plaid shirt, respectively). It just felt right to add this to my stack that day at the record store, even though it won't exactly compete with Black Ivory for time on my hi-fi (it's Larry Blackmon Week in apt. 680). I had Nirvana on the brain because of those Little Roy covers. Plus you can't go wrong with supporting anything on SST Records, which Rollins will talk your ear off about during his radio show when you're driving back to LA from your mom's house. Then he'll regale you with his memories about the time he and Darryl Jenifer dared Mike Watt to not wear a plaid shirt that time in Tallahasee and it turned into a big mess of misinterpreted jokes and hurt feelings. But then Rollins'll play “Hot Pants Road” later in his set and you'll think Aw, this guy's not so bad

Thee Oh Sees, Carrion Crawler/The Dream EP (In the Red, 2011).

“Dedicated to the memory of Jay Reatard, Jerry Fuchs and Gerard Smith,” says the sleeve. I have no idea of any of these men were good people. But just like how I don't watch football for the purpose of seeing men "being good people" (I watch it for the pleasure of well-executed drives, completed passes, sacks, punt-fakes, Jacoby Ford, Mike Tomlin's Omar Epps face, and Polamalu's hair), I don't listen to music to hear somebody being a good person. 83% of my records would have to be thrown out if this were the case. Yes, even you, Sade. I'm looking at you, mama.

Where do bad folks go when they die? Tebow will give you one answer; I'll give you quite another, plus I have a Prius and an apartment stuffed with records and I do not fear female power or sexuality so I'm way more fun to be around than Tebow. I walked into Permanent with this one on my list, found it, and in a sign that I was doing the right thing, the store owners played it (LOUDLY). “Chem-Farmer” was a real pleasure as I walked around adding vinyl to my arms, probably with an extra little swing in my hips. One Eyed Fat Girl Publishing is behind the record and this only sealed the deal for me since the name is so very RA-the-Rugged-Man-esque. RA had that imprint for a week and then shelved it, remember? Oh wait no, that was One Eyed Fat Slut publishing.

1583 Colorado Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90041

Pros: Adorable store kitty! They play music LOUD, like your weed. Nice proprietors who'll give you who gave me a free bag - maybe because I spent lots of money, but more than likely because I am charming and people just like to lace me wherever I go.

Cons: No pancakes. No sightings of older-man-fetish object Michael Madsen.



Dart Adams said...

I'm still punching myself in the face over the fact that you were not only in Boston not too long ago but you were @ almost all of my favorite record haunts. Amazing. Nice haul here, by the way...


Sator Arepo said...

Just because we ain't comment much don't mean we ain't miss you posting.