It probably makes me more of a music dork than I’d ever feel comfortable admitting to myself, but this is probably my favorite magazine going right now. So much so, I’ve come to justify the ridiculous $7.99 cover charge. This issue taught me all about Rick James’ goofiness making the album that had “Super Freak”, which was kinda boring really but I read it anyways so that I could have a reason to take a long lunch and not go back to work right away. Also a giant story on the Latin Quarter, which, if I remember correctly, is where Scott La Rock was going back to get some more big-butted females at one point before he got shot. And there’s always some feature on some ‘70s R&B group or jazz drummer or something that I never read until two months later and be like, “Oh shit, I didn’t know this was that dude. I got that shit on some stupid fucking record I never listen to with my stupid fucking record owning ass!”
Still, if you’re a stupid fucking record owning ass like me, this is a great magazine to make you feel better about your stupid shit, and to also enable you to go to record stores in strange towns and ask to see the 45s in the back room and dig through mildewy boxes for an hour and a half to find nothing of any good except a new copy of “Black Berries” by the Isley Brothers to replace the one you somehow lost behind the refrigerator into the pile of mouse shit and old candy bar wrappers and tiny chunks of foil that the mice always be chewing on right beside that square block of poison that doesn’t do a fucking thing at all. I mean, if you’re gonna make rat poison, make the shit taste good to rats at least. I don’t exactly like the idea of moving my cabinets all around to rub old peanut butter on a block of cancer-causing chemicals every other day.
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