Ok, I'll See Your Goofy Wife/Record Blog & Raise You...

[JSngry]

This one.

http://heightfiveseven.com/

I was going to parlay this post into a plea for Angels tickets – there are 15k of you following me on Instagram; surely ONE of you knows Moreno or Scioscia or Toriiiiiiii Hunter or some random Dominican scout who can provide the hookup-? Sadly, the team rolled over and played dead and now I’m focusing on trying to get Clippers tickets, which I just realized is the true purpose for which God created Instagram.

This cover has been a long time coming, and in doing a little research, I discovered that a 20-year-old Freddie was roommates with Eric Dolphy (!), making those dudes the Hutson-Hathaway, or perhaps the Love-Westbrook, of midcentury, hard bop NYC. The lazy sports journalists of the world will tell you that Westbrook “plays with a chip on his shoulder,” when really a more accurate description would be that he “’plays with a Tasmanian Devil pumping HGH and meth straight into his bloodstream while Stone Cold whispers angry motivational phrases in his ear’ on his shoulder.” I can relate to this, as when I bought 3 Blind Mice (Freddie in “Blue Moon” is gorgeous), a helpful gentleman at the store informed me that I had made a “good choice” and that “the bass player on here is a guy named Jymie Merritt.” First of all, yes, I KNOW it was a good choice, but thanks for your approval, and second, yes, I’m familiar with Mr. Merritt and how he got sick soon after this very fruitful recording period for Blakey’s band so he brought in Reggie Workman, and despite my estrogen and hips, sir, this little lady knows a ton of useless jazz history. I am unsure as to why I care so much about strangers knowing that I’m well aware of the timeline of Blakey’s bass personnel*, but you know how they say Russ plays with a chip on his shoulder? I DIG with a chip on mine.

*I’m petty and ridiculous

Go ‘head with your sexual preferences, fellow humans. Enjoy. Far be it from me to judge – UNLESS OF COURSE you’re Chuck Berry and one of those preferences is fucking TAPING women in the bathroom without their consent. Then you’re a pure unadulterated creep, a realllllll dirty bird, just disgusting, and I reserve the right to point it out whenever I see fit. There’s always been something a little off about Chuck – some subversive shit that gives me the creeps, and I’m not just talking about his perm. I have ears and a soul, so obviously I enjoy the riffs, the pacing, the chord progressions, his fondness for super hip white women who love black music (ahem), and the fact that he’s a southern black man who is actually given credit for being an originator of southern black man music and has profited from his own creations for decades now. (I also really loved the casting of Mos Def in that otherwise pretty terrible Chess movie.) But then Chuck goes and writes “Back in the U.S.A.,” a song about 1959 Americuh being nothing but sock hops and jukeboxes and hamburgers on the grill, some real fucking whitewashed Happy Days nonsense, a full 6 YEARS before Missouri became desegregated. (I had hoped he wrote the song for purely financial reasons, to appeal to white kids buying 45s, but nope – the lyrics are as earnest as can be.) Now Chuck’s always wearing that creepy captain’s hat like creepy old Hugh Hefner and this does nothing to lessen the creep factor. CREEP. Christ, those RIFFS, though. Those riffs.

[JSngry]

Al is on the very very short list of gentlemen I’d let talk to me about Jesus (Prince, Stevie, the young Sam Cooke, the Doobie Brothers). I love Al’s voice and phrasing; “Simply Beautiful” is one of the greatest dress removers of all time. BUT.

Al is also on the very very LONG list of male musicians who’ve been accused of physically assaulting their romantic partners. Cognitive dissonance remains a constant when you’re a feminist music nerd, guys.

[JSngry]

EARLY DEATH

Booker Ervin, Structurally Sound (7) vs. Oliver Nelson, The Blues and the Abstract Truth (3) (Died at 39 and 43, respectively)

Mingus was my entry point for Ervin. Setting the Pace became my joint the summer after tenth grade, and I dove into all the Book records in college. I’m willing to accept that the gentleman I saw at the BSM with the Strata-East shirt on perhaps had a subconscious impact on my decision to buy this (Charles Tolliver’s name is on the credits). This one would’ve been an instant purchase regardless, though – second pressing on Pacific Jazz, super clean condition. I awarded it a high ranking based on the fucking undeniable offense of Mr. Ervin, the names of Tolliver and Red Mitchell on the back cover, the inclusion of “Take the A Train” (I’m reading a Billy Strayhorn biography), and the fact that, though it’s not the Temptations’ version, “You’re My Everything” is included in the track list (OH how I love the Temptations’ version of “You’re My Everything.” Ruffin coming in with that “ba-by” at 01:32? Aw damn.)

Listen, I hate “Cuse,” “Zona,” “Nova,” and every other stupid syllable-shaving effort put forth by dudes on the Internet trying to be cute during college basketball season. Names are important. They should be appointed only after careful thought. Oliver knows. The Blues and the Abstract Truth gets a boost in the rankings on account of its beautiful, cuteness-free title, an aspirational description of the things Oliver’s septet has in store for you (folk songs via brass and drums in a New Jersey studio, a particular kind of truth, and maybe some more stuff if the band has time). Van Gelder’s always yammering on about space in his recordings, “the songs have to have a sense of space,” whatever, all I know is that he’s good at his job and GOOD LORD was I excited to find this one, a surprisingly elusive little bastard that everyone in LA seems to snatch out of the bin before I arrive. Haynes is here, along with Hubbard, Chambers, and MY #1 LOVER Eric Allan Dolphy, jr., AKA the funky diabetic AKA sax/flute game Adam Morrison. These guys are special to me, as I overplayed my CD of this album during my formative years as both a woman and a jazz dork. There’s a definitive spot exactly where those 2 paths in my life cross, and that spot happens to be right in the middle of my living room floor where my dress lands in a soft heap when “Stolen Moments” comes on.

Albert Ayler, Prophecy (2) vs. Bobby Timmons, Do You Know the Way? (10)

(age 34 and 38)

All the Ayler I ever see in the field that’s even remotely affordable for me is last year’s reissue of Spirits Rejoice, and there’s no fucking way I’m letting an Ayler reissue anywhere near my sacred turntable. Stop it. When I came across Prophecy, I had a moment of conflict. It’s an Italian pressing with a janky sleeve (two pluses in my book), live in ’64 (PLUS), but its pressing is circa 2002 from the 1975 original and that’s a big fat minus. After standing and thinking for an eternity, though, I finally added it to my stack, seduced by the two versions of “Ghosts.” The next day I came across the album’s 3-star review on Allmusic.com, a deeply upsetting judgment that interfered with my ability to sleep that night. Scott Yanow, you can just fuck right off

Morelike Do You Know the Way to Monk’s Barbershop Because I Want That Kinda Beard. Timmons is vintage emo-masculine and irritatingly underrated. He forever has a place in my heart that began with 10 to 4 at the 5 Spot and my love for him has only deepened from there, and I saw Strayhorn’s “Something to Live For” on the track list of Do You Know the Way?, so this one was an instant pick. Billy Strayhorn was the Michael Sam of the big band era, people.

Oliver Nelson (3) beats Albert Ayler (2)

Ayler is church. Proper attire and a good night’s sleep are necessary. You’ll break down and cry because life’s blessings are sweet. Or you’ll start fidgeting because you’re not in the mood and just want the sermon to be over.

Nelson is the bar at 1 AM when “90% of Me is You” comes on – you won’t learn nothin new from its easy, mindless pleasure, but sometimes you just wanna rest your glass of Maker’s on your thigh and lean your head back and feel the bass. Either way, God is good. .

I had planned to do The Young Mods’ Forgotten Story, but I couldn’t get anyone to stand in for Fred or Sam (I would be Curtis, DUHHH). At that point I was just alone in a trench coat, so it was either gonna be this one or Odyssey of Iska.

[The Magnificent Goldberg]

She's pretty funny and entertaining for a few minutes. She buys Cannonball records. Saw no mention of Willis Jackson

MG

[JSngry]

The name Horace is derived from Latin and means “timekeeper.” What Google doesn’t realize, however, is it also means “Los Angeles man whose albums jazz nerds shall seek.” On Flying Dutchman for about 5 minutes before he got in a fistfight with Thiele and left for Nimbus (at least that’s what I heard), Tapscott was a music deity and I cannot articulate the excitement that flooded my body when I found this record. If you ever see it, GET IT. PS The open on this album sounds, oddly enough, like a giant being awakened.

It was December 24th on Hollis Ave. after dark! J/K it’s the 22nd and I’m in Echo Park. If I can’t have Christmas in Hollis I’ll take Christmas with McGriff.

Bonkers/awesome cover design approved by George Butler only because Reid Miles was gone and George was distracted by plotting to make as much money as possible off Donald Byrd and Lou Donaldson.

Dedicated Chicago bear and all-around stand-up guy based on a bunch of jazz cat interviews I’ve read, Von Freeman made a ton of lovely, progressive music, plus he just loved his city to DEATH. Fuckin jazz game Brian Urlacher.

Outside linebackers on this one are Sam Jones and Jimmy COBBS, which must be more than 1 Jimmy Cobb, so I’ll allow it. Rahsaan Roland Kirk for defensive coordinator. And yes, guys, I looked for a sax, but all that came up in my niece’s toybox was a trumpet. Relax, Instrument Police.

I found this at the store, put it under my arm and started to walk out. The man behind the counter told me to come back and pay for it, to which I replied Nope – it’s FREE JAZZ, dummy bahahahah. Ha.

Mr. Coleman is your high school art teacher’s favorite sax god, but he’s MY favorite supernerd who studied theory and composition, asked his audience to re-think accepted ideas of chord patterns and harmony, and consistently played like a big ol weirdo from the start even though nobody really got it…until years later, when everybody got it. Sigh.

[The Magnificent Goldberg]

But no Gator Tail!!!!

MG

[JSngry]

Did you see the Houston Person riffs?

[JSngry]

I had a long, annoying inner debate with myself about whether or not to buy this Lakers #88 bodysuit. There was never a #88 on the Lakers, you see, and I didn’t want to be called out by sports bros in the comments section. (The only group more insufferable than vinyl bros is sports bros. I am a member of both of these communities, so it’s OK for me to say this.)

Anyway, I decided that 88 is like 2 Kobes, right? 2 pre-2007 Kobes, right? RIGHT. The issue has been successfully resolved. Now let’s all band together and form a committee to get rid of the idiot son left in charge when the king died. We can have the first meeting at my place. I’ll provide the coffee and donuts and the repeat playings of “I No Get Eye for Back.”)

My favorite Houston person is Brad Jordan.

Houston Person is from South Carolina. He’s pretty aight, though.

[MomsMobley]

This one.

http://heightfiveseven.com/

Go ‘head with your sexual preferences, fellow humans. Enjoy. Far be it from me to judge – UNLESS OF COURSE you’re Chuck Berry and one of those preferences is fucking TAPING women in the bathroom without their consent. Then you’re a pure unadulterated creep, a realllllll dirty bird, just disgusting, and I reserve the right to point it out whenever I see fit. There’s always been something a little off about Chuck – some subversive shit that gives me the creeps, and I’m not just talking about his perm. I have ears and a soul, so obviously I enjoy the riffs, the pacing, the chord progressions, his fondness for super hip white women who love black music (ahem), and the fact that he’s a southern black man who is actually given credit for being an originator of southern black man music and has profited from his own creations for decades now. (I also really loved the casting of Mos Def in that otherwise pretty terrible Chess movie.) But then Chuck goes and writes “Back in the U.S.A.,” a song about 1959 Americuh being nothing but sock hops and jukeboxes and hamburgers on the grill, some real fucking whitewashed Happy Days nonsense, a full 6 YEARS before Missouri became desegregated. (I had hoped he wrote the song for purely financial reasons, to appeal to white kids buying 45s, but nope – the lyrics are as earnest as can be.) Now Chuck’s always wearing that creepy captain’s hat like creepy old Hugh Hefner and this does nothing to lessen the creep factor. CREEP. Christ, those RIFFS, though. Those riffs.

Kim Fowley does the intro, Chuck makes nice with the hippies, LET ME HEAR YOU SAY PEACE!!

That's me playing rhythm guitar. The drummer and the bass player were from a local Toronto band called Nucleus and I was from another local band, and they pulled us together backstage literally 15 minutes before the set. We just walked on stage and stood behind Chuck waiting for him to say or do something. We weren't even introduced to him before hand and we had no idea what he was going to play or what key the songs were in. 

Edited November 8, 2014 by MomsMobley

[kh1958]

Now that's a great website.

[Rooster_Ties]

[JSngry]

This blog goes back to 2007!

[danasgoodstuff]

I's like to meet this young lady, obviously, and converse with her about records for a few, but I don't know that I'd really want to know her. Not that either scenario has even half a chance of actually happening. Kind of obsessive, and she needs to eat more, but more than kinda interesting.

[JSngry]

The actual Detroit-Memphis experiment was that time Willie Mitchell produced Bob Seger, and then Dilla did that SICK remix of Rufus Thomas’ “Walkin’ the Dog.” There’s that super secret Derrick May & Sam Phillips collab I’ve heard about too. But I’ll allow this album title, I guess.

Album from Dot Records, produced by the god Steve Cropper. Fake sky backdrop (ain’t no way I’m going outside topless) by Office Depot. Eyebrows from when the Moors conquered Europe. Waist-hip ratio from Mom, tacos, and forgetting to eat sometimes because my antidepressant decreases my appetite.

[JSngry]

Yosemite Family Funtimes, Aug. 3 – 8, 2014!

Premise: Last week was our annual Yosemite Family Funtimes Trip™, which, as luck would have it, always coincides with MY annual Driving Through the Scary Republican Parts of California to go Digging on the Way to Yosemite Trip™. This year we stopped by Tower District Records, where they didn’t have the most reasonably priced records but they let us bring in Cairo, our sweet and mellow shepherd/retriever mix. When we got to the cabin, I spread all of my purchases out on the bed, took some pics, then took my body to the river where I washed myself in the water, in the water, heyyy…(fade out).

Promotional consideration provided by: Toyota, the Frye Company, Apple, Conde Nast Publications, lots and lots of caffeine, Lagunitas brewery, and the US National Park System.

Apparel: cutoffs, flip-flops, boots, tank tops, bikinis (mint green, royal blue), and The Phil Lynott Shirt of Goodness and Light™.

Road trip stops, vinyl-related: Tower District Records in Fresno (drive up), Velouria Records in Visalia (drive back).

Road trip stops, non-vinyl-related: In-N-Out, Barnes & Noble, depressing gas station snack marts.

Current awful popular radio song, heard 5-7 times: ”Garbage Song” or something like that, by Lil Wayne. I hate it. Everyone I respect and love will tell me how much they hate it. It will be a monster hit.

Historical fucking terrific palate-cleansing joint and overall theme song for the trip: Ramsey Lewis’ “Wade in the Water.” Esmond Edwards forever.

Reading material: King of the World, David Remnick; The Things I Never Told You, Celeste Ng; The Last Holiday, Gil Scott-Heron; Fantasy Football mag, Q magazine for its Motown cover story because I’m a sucker.

Minor annoyances attempted to soothe by walks in the woods: Should I take Jamaal Charles or Calvin Johnson first in my Fantasy draft? Am I a terrible person for continuing to play Fantasy Football*? Is my bikini top too small?

Major stress attempted to erase by purifying myself in the waters of the Merced River: *Ray Rice & Roger Goodell, the fleeting nature of time, loneliness.

The chosen:

Aretha Franklin, Young, Gifted and Black. “Rock Steady,” obviously. The names Dowd, Mardin, Purdie, and Rebennack on the back cover, obviously. I shouldn’t have to justify this purchase to you people. Secretly, though, I bought this because of “Day Dreaming,” a lovely slice of longing with that throbby Hathaway organ for an intro. I’m a feminist and I deeply believe in the words “I wanna be what he wants when he wants it/And whenever he needs it,” and there’s absolutely no conflict there, and it’s beautiful.

Cannonball Adderley and Friends. I didn’t need this, but that applies to a good 60% of my record collection. I always run across this man in bins, and I always pick him up and announce that I have an urgent and horrifying news story. I’m 13.

Dollar Brand, Cape Town Fringe. In the Yosemite of life, vinyl bros are the racoons who aren’t sure if human record-digging females are friends or foes. They hide behind comments sections and message boards until they’re sure it’s safe to show themselves. Hello, gentlemen. Let’s talk about this pretty pretty record.

Bernie Worrell, All the Woo in the World. This one’s got a folksy, pensive vibe – Nick Drake picking Richie Havens up in his VW bug to go hang out in Nilsson’s backyard AHAHAHA just kidding it sounds like a fuciking Bernie Worrell record circa 1978. How on earth, by the way, did this turn up in a tiny shop in tiny Fresno, California? I ain’t superstitious but I feel like the closeness of Fresno State provided some good juju for me on this digging expedition. A tip of the hat to Tark, Rafer Alston, and my man Logan Mankins.

Mal Waldron, Signals. Sure sure, Mal played with this cat and that cat, but he played with Jackie McLean which means I get to take a trip to Mars for the hundredth time. Bidabidaboop bidabidaboop BAP BAP? Fuck no – it’s bidabidaboop bidabidaboop BIP BIP. Anyway, I actually haven’t listened to Signals yet but Mal can just coast on Mingus at the Bohemia forever as far as I’m concerned.

Wayne Shorter, Schizophrenia. “Tom Thumb” almost makes up for the fact that this record is not Adam’s Apple. “Kryptonite,” while lovely, is missing the Killer Michael vocal that I crave in the alternate version.

Jimmy Cliff, Wonderful World, Beautiful People. If you say so, Jimmy.

Grachan Moncur III, New Africa. A teenage Grachan went up to Miles Davis at Birdland and told him he admired him. Miles, a real sweetheart, replied, “Don’t you ever say that corny shit to nobody.” Grachan then went on to play in Ray Charles’ band which included David Fathead Newman, who, according to the performance of Bokeem Woodbine in the major motion picture Ray, was a real dick. This record was overpriced and I’ll probably regret it, but I’m a chump.

Jaki Byard, There’ll Be Some Changes Made. The title is a quote from noted dick/genius Mingus in the studio during the sessions for The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady. He didn’t like Thiele’s original mix and they got into it, or, equally likely, the man at the newsstand looked at Mingus funny, or the amount of cream in his coffee was wrong, ALL WRONG. Smartly, Jaki changed the title from If You Don’t Know Just Go Ask Jimmy Knepper What Happens When You Incur My Wrath, which was just too clunky.

Natural Four. Curtom. Hutson and Hathaway were the original Westbrook and Love when it comes to rad collegiates. Fuck off, Tommy Lee Jones and Al Gore.

Stevie Wonder, Fulfillingness’ First Finale. I’m now the owner of 2 copies of this, since I have one at home but couldn’t resist when I saw it in a store bin far from home. It was perfect for the cabin. Baby Boomers need the comforting, predictable song structure of Motown hits to really relax while on vacation.

Little Feat, Waiting for Columbus. Also bought largely to appease the Baby Boomers in the cabin, the standout is “Dixie Chicken,” a sick-breakdown joint about a slutty southern woman who tricks men with her vagina and then Tower of fucking Power show up and blow the roof off. It’s so wonderful. This whole record sounds like my childhood and listening to it prompted my mother to get drunk and tell stories about my crippling shyness as a child. GOOD TIMES. It would’ve been the cabin favorite, but ultimately this one was done in by causing a bunch of bickering among my family members about how the word “Dixie” is inappropriately stripped of its offensive history in this song. “EVERYONE LIGHTEN UP,” I said, because I was drunk. (Sober me would have been the #1 most offended person in the conversation, I guarantee it.)

John Lee Hooker, Born in Mississippi, Raised Up in Tennessee. I noticed this one when Velouria posted it on its Instagram feed a couple weeks ago, and I was shocked that it was still available. Baby Boomers again.

Rick Danko. People say Rick can’t sing, which is true but does not need to be announced. I have ears. I’m still waiting to hear why Donald Fagen gets a pass, though.

Spoon. “Rent I Pay” is no “I Summon You,” but goddamn I really like this record.

I's like to meet this young lady, obviously, and converse with her about records for a few, but I don't know that I'd really want to know her. Not that either scenario has even half a chance of actually happening. Kind of obsessive, and she needs to eat more, but more than kinda interesting.

Sounds like she's one of us, other than the part about needing to eat more.

[lipi]

Listen JSngry...first you make me buy that Hoss Allen Sessions Treniers thing, and I've been listening to that $*&# non-stop for the past two weeks, and now you turn me onto this hilarious blog that I've been reading for the past two hours. Gimme some peace, man! I have, like, work to do!

Edited November 9, 2014 by alex.

[Stefan Wood]

Somebody, call 911. My mind is blown.

[The Magnificent Goldberg]

Well, she DEFINITELY got 'I no get eye for back' right!!!!

OK.

Let me know when she discovers 'Bar wars'

MG

[JSngry]

She's got the whole rest of her live in front of her (as do we all, I suppose)!

2. Willie Hutch, The Mark of the Beast (Motown, 1974). $3.

Willie was also from Texas and made his name in LA. His voice wasn’t scratchy like The D.O.C.’s, though—Willie had this powerful, achy sweetness to his instrument. Ask Juicy J or me to describe its beauty sometime, even though you might regret it once we get started. Geeked up off Willie, that’s me and J.

The Mack soundtrack is a guaranteed find at any BSM, though probably in the form of the dreaded reissue. Nobody respects that. The Mark of the Beast, though, was never reissued and is therefore a rare one. And I got it, because that’s just how things work out for me. Ha ha. The sleeve was wrinkly on the open end, like bong resin had spilled all over it and someone panicked and tried to flatten it out to dry. But the vinyl itself is incredibly free of scratches, allowing the album’s walking-down-the-street bangers to really shine. “Get Ready for the Get Down” will make you feel like a ‘70s god—Michael Corleone in a nice wool suit—or, ladies where you at, a ‘70s goddess like Cleopatra Jones or Raquel Welch. Or maybe Farrah if that’s more your thing. In any case, you have your choice of self-esteem-raising jams here. “Don’t You Let Nobody Tell You How to Do Your Thing,” Willie says, to which I respond You got it, daddy and Don’t worry, I would never let anybody do that to me. Plus he’s so closely aligned with Three 6 at this point, the whole first side of The Mark of the Beast sounds like Project Pat’s about to come in with the hook.

3. Cannonball Adderley, The Black Messiah (Capitol, 1972). $9.

Stronnnnngly Los Angeles, this one. It came with a Chevron card and a QP. I adore it. Recorded live at the Troubadour in 1970, produced by David Axelrod from Los Angeles, California, with Mike Deasy (from LA) on guitar (he also played on the The Age of Aquarius and Pet Sounds). I don’t cyber-dig, but I do cyber-lurk, and few things in life are as satisfying as going to online record stores, typing the name of something I already own into the search box, and seeing “Sorry, this selection is currently unavailable” show up. The Black Messiah is one such jewel in my collection. It’s got Tribe’s “Infamous Date Rape” break on it, it’s pleasurable as both background/washing-the-dishes/folding-laundry-in-the-living-room and headphone music, and, because it’s live, you get all the between-song banter that Adderly’s band engaged in, talking to the audience. “We’re gonna not…discuss it,” Adderly says, regarding the band’s tightness, “We’re just gonna look at each other and say ‘Yeah’.” Or, as you and I know it, “Ain’t nuttin to it but to do it,” which can be attributed to either MC Eiht or Snoop, depending on who you ask and which neighborhood that person’s from. The fact that nobody’s used the piano/drum break that opens “The Chocolate Nuisance” is terribly disheartening. But the fact that there is a song called “The Chocolate Nuisance” immediately cheers me up.

[jazzbo]

I actually was reading this blog last week. I find her pretty creepy actually, but she does look nice in brown boots. But this obsession of putting herself into the covers so to speak. . . creepy.

[Chuck Nessa]

I think it is fun but am not sure the "model" is the author.

[JSngry]

I think it is fun but am not sure the "model" is the author.

I know, you probably think it's Clem's hip-hop/jazz geek female alter ego. Who wouldn't?

But:it's her.

[Chuck Nessa]

So that's what Clem looks like.

[JSngry]

This album is hot garbage so here lemme rank the most non-horrible Xmas songs for you:

12. The Ramones, “Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want to Fight Tonight)”

11. Yellow Man, “Santa Claus Never Comes To The Ghetto”

10. either Barrington Levy, “One Christmas Day” or Jacob Miller, “All I Want For Ismas” (undecided at press time)

9. Charles Brown, “Please Come Home for Christmas”

8. Marvin Gaye, “I Want to Come Home for Christmas” (saccharine as fuck but still like open-heart surgery because of Marvin’s voice & phrasing)

7. “Merry Christmas Baby” – the Bawse & the E Street Band, mostly because of the keys/drums/horns of the intro (Bittan/Weinberg/Clemons).

6. Bill Withers, “The Gift of Giving.”

5. Prince, “Another Lonely Christmas”

4. The Pogues & Kirsty MacColl, “Fairytale of New York”

3. Donny Edward Hathaway, “This Christmas”

2. Darlene Love, “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)”

1. Vince Guaraldi, “Linus and Lucy,” obviously

[Close, but nope: Run-DMC, “Christmas in Hollis” due to sheer annoying oversaturation (oddly, however, this does not impact the seeding of “Linus and Lucy”), Joni Mitchell’s “River” which is lovely but loses points for encouraging pouty Caucasian female wallowing, James Brown’s “Santa Claus Go Straight to the Ghetto” (boring), and “Happy Xmas (War is Over)” by John & Yoko/Plastic Ono Band, due to John Lennon’s hypocrital ass singing us a big ol' guilt-trip let’s-all-do-better song while pretending he's not a man who consistently physically assaulted the women in his life. HAVE A SEAT, LENNON.]

[Dan Gould]

I actually was reading this blog last week. I find her pretty creepy actually, but she does look nice in brown boots. But this obsession of putting herself into the covers so to speak. . . creepy.

It's the Me Generation Lon, far more so than when that phrase first was used.