I felt like I had a handle on The Electric Prunes (unless I got them mixed up with the Chocolate Overcoat), but I never pegged them as Christian rockers—so what gives? So I had to resort to the ol’ ’ternet and got something like this: after the band’s first couple of records, their producer hired a classically trained composer to write this religious based concept record—but the guys in the band couldn’t play the crap—so they brought in studio musicians. That’s the crazy Sixties for you! (If they’d asked my opinion, I would have suggested, at that point, that they rename the band—The Eclectic Prunes.) I can only imagine some turmoil there, but the good thing—some version of the Prunes is still together to this day! Oh, wait, that first song, “Kyrie Eleison” is familiar—it’s in Easy Rider—I think the gross dinner scene in New Orleans, just before they get wasted at the cemetery. It’s a scene that always really creeped me out for some reason—it must have been this music! (It’s almost as creepy as the dinner at the commune, earlier, with the mean hippie.) I guess I have to credit that movie, anyway, for compelling me to give psychedelics a wide berth! (I had enough problems with the store-bought and all.) Anyway, I almost took this 1967 record off the player and flung it somewhere—within minutes—if I wanted to listen to chanting, I’d put on beads and an itchy brown robe. Which might be appropriate—after all, the name of the record kind of spells it out—and the cover shows a silver crucifix hanging from some multicolored beads, hovering over what I can only guess is an… itchy brown robe. The back cover, however, is a collage of b&w band photos, with instruments, including one with a dude playing an autoharp—and that one must have sold me. I mean, there is some fine guitar, bass, and drums here, but chanting in Latin—it makes me want to run in any other direction. And I took Latin in high school—wait… maybe that’s at the heart of my aversion. Though, I’ve gotta say, it’s kinda growing on me. (Don’t know what, exactly.) Could work as mood music—if your evening includes incense, bota bags, and shrooms.
Archive for the 'Excess' Category
Paul Horn “Dream Machine”
One nice thing about checking out a new (well, 1978) record is the excuse to go back and listen to others by that artist—in this case, the excellent “Visions” from 1974—and seeing if that short span of years is as catastrophic here as for many recording artists. Certainly, you wouldn’t connect the two album covers—from hippie drawing (that one) to this one’s larger-than-life, full headshot, which looks like the promotional poster for a motivational speaker. Nice. Recorded a week after my 18th birthday—not a record I would have bought my first year of college (when I budgeted one LP per week)—so it’s just had to wait for me somewhere for 46 years—ha! The next thing that catches your eye (back cover credits) (besides a list of excellent musicians) is Lalo Schifrin (“Composed, Arranged & Conducted by”)-—so this is kind of also a Lalo Schifrin record. But it’s first of all a Paul Horn record—it’s a flute record—flute from start to finish. I like it. All the musicians are good—what stands out to me most (besides flute) is some of the bass playing. Credited is Abraham Laboriel. As with flute, I’m no great judge of bass playing, but I know what I like, and some of these lines make me stop and wonder if I’ve left something burning on the stove.
As for the songs, I most associate Lalo Schifrin with some great movie scores—so will this be one of those records I’m best able to relate to by envisioning movie scenes? Why not. Six instrumentals that may as well be named anything, so maybe. The first one, though excellent, doesn’t take me anywhere, specifically, so I’m going to engage my imagination more. Next one, I’m seeing a slightly futuristic world and we’re following some kind of cop (naturally) through his daily rituals. This is the future where the cars got much cooler (as opposed to the one we’re living in) and 1970’s fashions (including moustaches) stuck around. Next song is a deal going down. Side Two starts with a kind of split-personality song that alternates from “too cool to even be bothered” to TV show about a well-adjusted high school teacher who only helps kids get the highest SAT scores possible and has no dark side. And then… a song called, “Quite Early One Morning,” which is, as you’d expect, quiet, meditative—one of those mornings more focused on beauty, mortality, and the meaning of life than, say, coffee. But, as coffee is as inevitable as death, we progress into the day with a sad coolness. Finally, then, “The Juggler” is a bit clownish—and since I find a happy clown unbearable, I’m imposing my own sense of irony on the proceedings and choosing to imagine a protagonist who juggles love affairs, bank accounts, and wellbeing—with disaster. The End.
This cornball Stan Kenton cartoon-album-cover cheapo masterpiece starts off with what sounds like a college marching band version of “Live and Let Die” (which every marching band in the country did, you recall, after that movie came out—despite the not very positive message of the lyrics). Still, I like it, as well as the ridiculous version of “Body and Soul” that sets me right in a movie set in Las Vegas. It’s all movie music, actually—the liner notes refer to “now” music (bordering on rock) (thus, the “earth shaking” reference). The datedness comes across as (to me) charming. “Down and Dirty” is a detective movie theme with a great bass part on top of which horn ridiculousness makes okay sense. If you can hear “Country Cousin” (a Gene Roland composition) without seeing 1973 mustachioed Burt Reynolds in tight pants, you’re too old (or too young). Their take on the Strauss (Zarathustra) is a weird one—as is, I suppose, every take on that oddball theme—it would be fun to rank them. All in all, this LP goes with my party records (as intended, I’m guessing)—I only wish I had a dedicated “Rec-Room” with a wet bar (whatever that is), a psychedelic mural, and blacklights. Hopefully the party would last much longer than the duration of this record, but “It’s Not Easy Bein’ Green” sounds like the mellowed to exhaustion climax, when people put their arms around each other and it seems okay (at least at the time). What to make of, then, that jaunty “Godfather” theme? Maybe it’s just a sequencing problem. Or maybe I’m wrong about the party. “Blue Gene” (another Gene Roland) is another movie, this time with that weirdo James Coburn. How does that guy seem to keep getting weirder, over time?
Iron Oxide “Bass Response EP”
Iron Oxide is a “Noise” band from Cleveland, Ohio—Jeff Curtis and K Stewart—I’ve known both of them for some time and I played in several bands with JC. I believe they refer to themselves as a noise band, but I’m not sure—still, that would be my assessment—though, at one time, similar music might have been called “industrial” or “no wave” or “experimental” or even “punk.” What’s in a label? I don’t know if they’re still performing as Iron Oxide, but I did have the pleasure of seeing a live show featuring them back in 2013, at a bowling alley, memorable for me because of the inspiring performance—at one point Stewart “played” a taco.
This is a 2005 release—it’s an “EP,” due to having two songs a side, I suppose—though it’s 45 RPM. I suppose you could try playing it at 33 RPM—though it’s not recommended. It’s got an attractive red and black cover with some stylized “modern” art which would have been comfortable in the Sixties. There are humorous liner notes, written in an odd way that makes you feel a bit off-balance—my take is that the style mimics English as a second language—and is somewhat a parody of the “audiophile” records from… I guess, the Fifties and Sixties, which exploited the new (at least for the squares in the suburbs) fetishization of hi-fidelity sound equipment. The label is “Coffee-Hut Records” (named after Youngstown, Ohio’s legendary Coffee Hut), and the vinyl, which initially appears black, when you hold it up to the light reveals that it is actually coffee colored! It’s the best vinyl color I’ve ever seen—and may be the only coffee-colored vinyl in existence (though probably not—it’s a big world).
There are four songs. Starting with Side A: “Anglegrinder”—a word which describes it well—just in the title. An instrumental. I don’t think I have the authority to elaborate. Next is a cover, “Not Moving”—which is a DNA song, written by Robin Crutchfield. There is singing in this one, lyrics I can’t make out, except for the chorus: “Not moving, not moving, etc.” This also features the Farfisa organ, and some complex noises, the origin of which I can barely guess. Oddly, I recognize this song! From the DNA tracks on the “No New York” record, a concise document of some 1970s downtown New York “No Wave” bands. I’ve told this story before, but it’s a funny one—after I worked at the Strand Bookstore for a year, 1985, 1986—I moved back to Ohio, and reunited with my records (didn’t lug them to NYC), I got out the “No New York” LP and said, jokingly, let’s see if there’s anyone I know on here—and then noticed Robin Crutchfield, who worked at the Strand. Sadly, I hadn’t gotten to know him—he had worked in a spooky computer shack in the warehouse (as I recall). There’s a lesson here (which I still haven’t learned—because I’m not exactly sure what it is).
Side B starts off with a live song called “Heat Death”—again, an apt title. If you can imagine the massive gush of flame coming from the mouth of one of those dinosaur-like Japanese monster movie monsters, you’ve got the first part—followed by something less menacing, but no less grim, like a haunted sawmill, back in operation just for the hell of it. It’s not unlike the unknowable drone coming from some part of the hi-rise apartment building they built next door to me during the lockdown—except that noise is unpleasant and ceaseless. The song on the record is intriguing and… it ends. Then, finally, another Farfisa song, the organ part repetitive enough to make you second-guess your needle’s dedication to the groove’s progression inward. Interesting—the organ is about six inches in front of you, and then further back there is what sounds like something happening—involving barrels and electricity—but I mean really, really further back—like a block away—yet in the same building. Then it ends, confidently. Did I mention that there are multiple bass parts, throughout—I’m guessing electric bass—bass guitar—not the fish.
If you’re wondering how many Mickey Newbury records I have, the answer is eight. This one is from 1978—wasn’t the Eighties yet—still the decade of the bleak and hopeless. It’s got a very weird cover photo—it’s super grainy, color washed out except for the reds that pop out. It’s a low angle shot of a young, barefoot girl in a white dress, carrying a large, red flower. I don’t know if she is a young girl, actually, or a small, young woman. She appears to have brown skin, fairly dark, though the photo is low-light so it’s hard to tell. You also can’t tell her nationality, for sure. Even though the photo is somewhat blurry and abstracted, you definitely get a sense that she’s overwhelmed—maybe frightened. In the foreground are painted street lines—she’s in a city street, maybe very early in the morning. In the background, the bottoms of enormous skyscrapers. Also, some older buildings and a “Jesus Saves” sign. I find it a little disturbing—and what does it mean? Will the clues be in the lyrics to one of the songs? All I can do is listen and speculate.
It’s a quiet, melancholy record, really pretty songs, with forlorn lyrics. Everything is very quiet and understated. There’s only one jaunty hillbilly song (“Gone to Alabama”) and even that takes a soulful turn. There are plenty of Jesus references (the title song, in particular, which is a traditional Christian song), but it’s all about needing the strength to go on. That is, it’s not about glory, but about survival. My favorite on the record is “It Don’t Matter Anymore”—a particularly pretty song—it’s short and sweet, and bleak. Mickey Newbury can write a beautiful song, that’s for sure. They are pretty much all beautiful on this record—it may be my favorite of his yet. I think I’ll leave this one out for a while and treat it like I just bought it at the 1978 store and see what it does to me. I guess I’m thinking that the cover might have something to do with the first song—“Juble Lee’s Revival,” because it’s also the last song, “Juble Lee’s Revival Shout”—I’m not really sure what it’s about, but it’s certainly peering, somewhat, into the abyss, by the end. As is the whole record, to some degree.
The astute reader (of this blog) (is there such a person?) will note that I reviewed Sammi Smith’s “Help Me Make It Through the Night” Mega Records LP on March 19, 2021—and I just went back and read that one (I rarely embarrass myself by deliberately re-reading my old shit)—and I can live with that write-up—in fact, I’ll even recommend it. So why am I reviewing it again? Well, it’s not the same record. As far as I know, there might be any number of her records with that title, seeing how if you have a big country song hit (the title song in question), they’ll repackage it and resell it for as long as there’s good ol’ boys, truck-stops, and honky-tonks. The label is Hilltop/Pickwick, who I guess re-released budget versions of popular records, which you’ll be able to keep finding until the end of time (or as long as there are antique and thrift stores). So how are these records different, and which one is better? First of all, the one I’m writing about now has a blue cover with a pixilated (TV image, or unintentional sci-fi holographic image) portrait of Sammi Smith that is quite beautiful. Seeing how these budget re-releases are often half-assed in the art department, it’s like someone got really lucky—or what I like to imagine—someone really cared. The back cover has four nice black and white photos of her. It’s one of those records where the back cover is literally a big sheet of paper that appears to have been glued on a bit too wetly—or maybe someone has spilled beer on it.
Both are 1970, or ’71 (depending on the release)—and I’ll refer to the other one as Mega and this one as Hilltop—and hope that doesn’t sound too much like a monster truck grudge match. Well, they are close to the same record—they have five songs in common, including the title song, and what was originally the title song (before “Help Me…” became such a big hit, I guess)—which is a great song called “He’s Everywhere.” I’m not kidding—it would be the best song on any country record it appeared on (possibly including this one, depending on how passionate you are about the Kristofferson). “He’s Everywhere” was written by Gene Dobbins and Jean Whitehead—who I know nothing about (after a fruitless five-minute internet search). Well… there’s this tidbit: On an early 1970s David Bowie US tour, goofing on the tour bus, Mick Ronson came up with an “iconic” riff—to which Bowie replied, “What can I sing to that, mate, ’sides ‘I’m a man,’ etc.?” At which point Sammi Smith’s “He’s Everywhere” came on the radio (they were in the South). After stopping at a payphone to call the radio station, Bowie discovered the singer’s identity, as well as the name of the songwriting duo, which was the seed of the lyrics to “The Jean Genie.” Believe it or else. You heard it here first, folks. But anyway, I simply like to imagine them as a Nashville songwriting team who, after a long, successful session, would stop in a diner together and get greeted as “Jean and Gene.”
So, anyway, not the same record. The Mega has six songs not on this one (including “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down”)—but also, this one (Hilltop) has four songs not on the Mega, including a couple really fine ones—“Isn’t It Sad” and “Then You Walk In.” I mean, they’re all good, but those two are killer (and I’m assuming are on other Sammi Smith records, but I’m not going to look it up). The Hilltop is shorter (only nine songs) and no liner notes—so, if I had to recommend one, I’d go with the Mega. But why not just buy both? They printed a lot of these records, so you can easily find them (they’re the easiest Sammi Smith LPs to find)—and they shouldn’t be a lot of money. I can tell you, right now, where to find this one (the Hilltop) (as well as the other, for that matter) for $3 each—if you’re in Milwaukee—Clocktower Antiques, 1134 S. 1st Street—the second floor, the guy who’s got a ton of $3 records—in the “Country” section. Actually, my copy (I’m listening to it now) really does sound like someone spilled beer on it—it’s a little scratchy—so I might beat you over there and buy myself a second copy.
This is one of those records that just sits out there by itself—don’t really know what to do with it—well, I put it on the turntable a lot—I haven’t gotten tired of it yet. I guess it would go in my “desert island crate”—if I’m allowed a crate (on the S.S. Minnow). Every song is really good—John Phillips is a great songwriter. It’s essentially a country record—with the Wrecking Crew, some country legends, and great backup singers—in the studio. It’s one of those that I prefer to listen to as a whole rather than as a collection of songs—but if I had to isolate one, the sing-a-long, “Holland Tunnel” is the one I’d put on every mix tape—if I still made mix tapes. This is a record where I’ll buy an extra weed-saturated copy whenever I find it, intending it as a gift—but then decide I need a “backup.” Also, you’ve got to consider the gift thing, because with John Phillips, there’s a lot going on. You need little more than the internet to read some pretty awful stuff about him—which may or may not be true—so, you’ve got to decide yourself if your eyes are bigger than your stomach—or something—wrong metaphor—if you can stomach even the rumors. I read some of his autobiography, Papa John (1986), and there’s a part where he said he left members of the Rolling Stones to babysit his kids while he went into town to score drugs. I don’t know if it’s worse to admit something like that or brag about it, but besides being kind of funny, and horrifying, pathetic, (maybe charming?)—it gives you a taste of an unimaginably exotic and messed up world. So it’s up to you, the listener (and reader—you don’t have to read this) how you want to spend your money and time. The money’s not going to him (he died in 2001), or the label—it might be $3 going to your local used record store.
The other thing, for me, is even more imaginary—something about John Phillips’ image over the years, as a larger than life character, rock star, what have you. I am a big fan of the Mamas & the Papas—though I wasn’t when I was a kid. I don’t know when that happened. I guess some of their songs somehow managed to stay fresh for me—even after hearing them a thousand times. (See: Chungking Express (1994).) They were a fascinating band. I’m spellbound by any old, live (or fake live) footage I come across. Mama Cass was the real star of that band—but it cracked me up how John Phillips seemed to be trying to disappear, hide behind an acoustic guitar, despite being a head taller than the rest of them and wearing some nutty fur hat to accentuate that. Then, later images of him, you can imagine the personification of the creepy old hippie. But this record (1970)—somewhere in between—strikes me as kind of the pinnacle of his recording career—him at his best. Did he feel that way? And how much of the sordid stuff is just Hollywood-style conjured image? Probably a lot—but the back cover of the record—a photo of him on the beach with a demonic grin, sporting a top hat and fur coat, and looking just really dirty—horrified me and fascinated me to a degree that I attempted to write a short story about it. I planned on placing it as the last story in a book of stories—and I attempted to draw (with oil crayons) a version of that photo on the back album cover—intended for the back of my book. I ended up rejecting the story—not sure why—it didn’t work. But it occurs to me now that that story is why I’m getting the nagging feeling that I’ve written all this before. So, no, I’m not high, and it’s not déjà vu. And, okay, I’ll admit it—it’s my favorite record.
Dorothy Donegan “at the Embers”
Album cover photos don’t get much better than this one—four well-dressed people sitting at a bar on movable stools, the kind without backs, and tubular steel footrests at the bottom. Two women are on the center stools—wearing skirts and stockings (the photo is cropped above their waists)—and they have slipped off their shoes, which are on the floor below. It’s a rather suggestive photo for 1957. Also, a little weird. I’m not exactly sure what it says, but it seems to say a lot. One would like to assume it’s taken at “The Embers”—and there is music in the air. Drinking is going on, definitely. The men may be more focused on the woman than the woman are on the men. The band is a small jazz combo, sounds like a trio, dominated by piano that I assume is Dorothy Donegan—and her playing is kind of nuts, if I can say it. A lot of energy, and then some. Mostly standards. I have always particularly loved the name “The Embers” for a bar, nightclub, or restaurant—it’s the best.
I wouldn’t call this music “jaunty,” exactly—but it’s definitely not laid back. I might call it “caffeinated”—which I like more than jaunty (the word and the sentiment). It’s certainly energetic. It’s kind of like… why not play 100 notes, where one will do, if you can work in 100 notes. I read a little bit about Dorothy Donegan—classically trained, from Chicago, put out a dozen-and-a-half records from the Forties to the Nineties, but was best known for live performances. Wikipedia notes she was “the first African American to perform at Chicago’s Orchestra Hall”—in 1943. She criticized sexism in the music industry. She was a protegee of Art Tatum. She “was known for performing stride and boogie-woogie, as well as be-bop, swing, and classical.” When you put all those together, what do you get? Rock’n’roll. I’m just kidding—but listen to the short number called “Donegan Walk”—which sounds more like rock’n’roll than most music that calls itself rock’n’roll—it’s my favorite on the record. It’s credited to Dorothy Donegan, as is another one called “DDT”—another rockin’ out number that I’m guessing isn’t named after the insecticide. Maybe it’s “Dorothy Donegan plus something that starts with “T”—(Time, Terror, Tyrannosaurus?). I also very much like some of the standards I know—in particular, a nuts version of “That Old Black Magic,” “Just in Time,” a nice slow version of “My Funny Valentine,” and a hot version of “Lullaby in Birdland” that won’t put you to sleep. All of them are good.
Even though it’s an album cover you might want to hang on your wall, don’t do it! For one thing, you’ve got to protect the record. And for another, you’ll miss the liner notes on back—pretty good ones, though uncredited, which is weird. Even more weird, whoever formatted the liner notes obviously didn’t read them—I won’t go into details, but there are errors—how does that stuff happen—even in 1957? A lot about the Embers—a nightclub/restaurant on East 54th Street in New York. It was on East 54th Street, I guess—I looked it up—long gone now—just hideous skyscrapers there, now. Though it’s (was) just around the corner from Dee Dee Ramone Corner. I guess they served food there, too, and for a moment, the liner notes seem to want to turn into a restaurant review—or maybe the author was just hungry! Mostly, it’s some glowing words about Dorothy Donegan and her very popular live performances. A Time Magazine writer is even quoted: “Dorothy shuts her eyes. Her feet begin to pound the floor. Her face contorts as if she were in agony. What comes out is pure Donegan. It has the customers shagging in their seats.” What’s that mean? Well, either they are baseball players, catching fly balls for practice, or they’re f**king!
Mott the Hoople “The Hoople”
There is no way in the world I can listen to this record with the least sense of objectivity—even after 50 years! Yes, it’s been 50 years since I bought this one, and it still plays great—I think it’s my original copy—and it was, indeed, when I was 14 years old, my favorite record for a while. I played it obsessively, obsessed over it, and never got over it. I suppose there is something kind of hopeful about the fact that when I put this record on it takes me right back to that time and place and the person I was then. That’s the power of music, but so much for objectivity. Though—of course I hear it somewhat differently—in that I’ve had half a century of listening to other music, and listening is always a learning experience. I’m sure I hear more, now, and I hear deeper and with a greater degree of understanding and sophistication. So… I’m happy to report that it actually sounds better now than it did back then.
I wrote a “review” back in 2008—when I was less wordy—two sentences—there was more of interest in the comments. Then, around 2018 I went to the Mott the Hoople ’74 show—I think that’s what they called it—great to see Ian Hunter live. I might have said before, this is the odd band in that their best two albums were their last two (this one, and “Mott,” the year before). I mean, that’s my opinion—but it’s like they evolved into this excellence—where most bands evolve to the point where they’re at their peak for the first few albums and then it’s all downhill from there. The album cover is somewhat of an iconic one—a life-size, high-contrast photo of a woman (I wonder who is this “Kari-Ann?”) In her large, large hair are images superimposed of the band members. Ian Hunter, naturally with sunglasses. Really excellent longtime rhythm section Dale Griffin and Overend Watts (both who had sadly passed away before that 2018 tour. But the “new guys,” Morgan Fisher and madman “Ariel Bender” (Luther Grosvenor) were playing. All of them—in the model’s hair, on the cover—had great hair. At the 2018 show—when I looked around the audience, I estimated that about 80% (including me) were balding.
I’ll put it on for the… what? Maybe 2000th time… see what it sounds like. My first observation is really obvious—so much so, I guess, that I failed to ponder it over the years and listenings—there’s a funny intro at the beginning of “The Golden Age of Rock’n’Roll” (“Ladies and gentlemen…”) which kind of sets the whole album up as a kind of theatrical show—which it really is—kind of an album length hard rock opera. It’s not really hard rock—though it is, too—that would be the guitar element. The piano, strings, horns, backing vocals, and ridiculously complex song structures and over-the-top production is pure showtune. All of that can be heard in the in the second song, “Marionette,” which is kind of a mini-hard-rock-opera within the opera. (A theatrical production would feature, no doubt, full-on puppet show.) Third song already, “Alice,” is the best on the record (my opinion, but while I’m at it, I’ll say it’s the best ever Mott the Hoople and/or Ian Hunter song). At the risk of sounding like YouTube comments, I’d say this song is one of the most overlooked five minutes in the entire history of rock’n’roll. Rather than attempt to say why and fail, I’ll just leave it up to the reader who has forgotten it to give it another listen… and for those who’ve never heard it… well.
I just noticed that “Crash Street Kidds” has two “Ds” on Kidds—why? Usually that indicates a name (though, not “Billy the Kid”). By coincidence, right now, I’m reading (it’s a long book) Dhalgren, by Samuel R. Delany, which also came out in 1974. The main character is sometimes “Kid” and sometimes “Kidd”—could it be possible that the hyperliterate Ian Hunter was reading it? Who knows. The only song not written by Hunter, “Born Late ’58” is by Overend Watts (and sung by him). It was my favorite on the record for a long time—though always inextricably connected to a gin blackout—maybe a deprogramming would be in order by this point. Also, when I was 14, I didn’t care for “Trudi’s Song” or “Through the Looking Glass” (the ballads), but now I love those songs. That’s one change, over time. “Pearl ’n’ Roy (England)” is probably my second favorite on the record, and another rock showtune. As is “Roll Away the Stone,” which is the perfect bookend with “The Golden Age…” and closes out the show.
I never noticed, on the bottom of the lyrics inner sleeve, a “Write Mott” address: c/o Josephine Targo/114 7th Avenue/New York 10011. I tried searching, but just got a ham & cheese croissant on TikTok—which just made me tired. Zillow shows a closet with a kitchenette for a million dollars. It’s hard to search Manhattan—even the ghosts have been priced out. Record company person? Fan club? Who knows. At one point, when I first heard about (and read some of) those 33 1/3 books—each one about a record—I loved the idea so much I thought I might submit a proposal. My idea was to write about this record. I never got any further than thinking a lot about it. Their requirements for book proposals are pretty rigorous (as it should be), and I didn’t think I was up to the deep dive this album (and Mott the Hoople) deserves. It would be a shame not to interview Ian Hunter and the other surviving band members, for one thing. Maybe someone’s written one of those books about this record, or another Mott LP, by now—I haven’t checked lately. I think it’s a deceptively difficult project—I mean that size and scope of a book. Not easy to write something that lengthy about a record (especially one you love) without fluff—and at the same time—if it’s your favorite record ever—that short. But hey, now that I’m thinking about it again, maybe I’ll give it another try.
DJ Farraginous 
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