Abel’s 4000 Albums That Matter: Part Forty

I’m really enjoying my Sunday mornings. As in, I slept in and according to a forensic analysis of my wallet, I apparently consumed 13 dollars’ worth of Burger King between 12:08 and 12:20 a.m. It’s beginning to look like the consumption of a St. Pauli Girl two-four throughout the day was potentially a bad idea. However, I’ve learned to look for positives and I weighed in a whole three pounds less today than I did yesterday morning. I think I found a new dietary lifestyle.


646. Fela Aníkúlápó Kuti and The Afrika 70 – ”Shuffering and Shmiling” / “No Agreement”. For those who continue their clodding through life enjoying top 40 radio and assorted nonsense of the sort, it’s time you motherfucking come correct. It’s time to invest in a good bottle of scotch, a pack of Pall Malls blue and shutter yourself in for the weekend. Barricade yourself against the bullshit that will try to interfere with this moment. Turn off your phone! Unplug the TV, the computer, the microwave oven! This three-song compilation is as good an intro as any to the genius of Fela Kuti. The songs are long, they are monotonous in a droning manner that will make you appreciate sludge metal and they are infinitely danceable which is funny because you’ll be learning about African politics while having a good time! It’s like college but with more sophistication. You’re welcome.


647. Cole Porter – Delightful, Delicious, De-Lovely Cole Porter. Now that we’re on the compiling tip, here’s a good intro 3xLP for the uninitiated in the ways of de-lovely Cole Porter. You get tracks here with frequent conspirators Rosemary Clooney, Marlene Dietrich, Johnny Mathis, Ray Conniff, Ethel Merman, Bobby Vinton and many, many more. Well worth your bucks. You might even impress someone. Hopefully you’ll have some scotch leftover. It’s like growing up but never fully becoming the square you’ll eventually turn into.


648. Los Impala – Impala Syndrome. Los Impala were Venezuela’s first big rock and roll act. After the military dictatorship of Marcos Pérez Jiménez fell in ’59, rock and roll was able to flourish in the nation since the secret police no longer concerned itself suppressing teenagers with rebellious inclinations. After amassing success on home turf, the guys relocated to Spain and in 1969 recorded this psych gem in Chicago. Always ahead of the curve when it came to sound, these guys managed to accomplish a lot in six years of recorded history and hosted a revolving door of Venezuelan musicians who’d go on to form other outfits and gain comparable modicums of success.


649. Del Tha Funkeé Homosapien – I Wish My Brother George Was Here. Recorded at the age of 18, this debut album by one of the most consistently forgotten heroes of conscious hip-hop is a pleasure from beginning to end. Why was I such a fucking moron at that age? Geez, I could’ve amounted to something. Or maybe not and I have a pretty good idea that if I had a time machine at my disposal, it would be utilized for something stupid like revisiting a particularly delicious slice of pie, or that incredibly tasty tomato I ate aboard a gold-mining barge on the Caroní river back in ’94… yeah, that’s exactly what I would do because you can shed a few pounds, but you’ll never truly kill the fat boy in me.


650. Norah Jones – Feels Like Home. This is an album that I’ve had a dickens of a time trying to remember how it came into my possession. I know for a fact that I did not go out and purchase it and that when it was released back in 2004 I had a pretty steady gig “reviewing” albums “professionally” (yes, regardless of what you might think, it’s not all dick and fart jokes and sometimes, sometimes, I actually convince someone and/or respected entities to “pay” for my violent and merciless scorched earth military campaigns against the English Language and Her Grammars and Spellings) and I did not review this for anyone. I’ve never “blended” my records and I’ve never stolen music from a person because that is a shitty theft. So how did I get this record? It’s good. But not as good as the fact that I just found out, literally, like yesterday while thinking, that Norah Jones is Ravi Shankar’s daughter. What fucking rock have I been hiding under?

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Abel Folgar

Scoundrel, bon vivant, rocanrolero, fútbol cretin... giving into flights of poesy whenever the whiskey's free. Caracas, VZ/Miami, FL. Follow me on Twitter @abelf77.

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