(1984, Columbia Records)
This really was my first taste of David Allan Coe, as my dad used to play the fuck out of this after the folks got it one time ripping off Columbia House for a new set of LPs. I mean, I remember when "The Ride" was big on country radio, and that was a weird ass song compared to other shit of the time (like Oak Ridge Boys or George Strait or whatever the fuck was big then, but it wasn't strange ass shit about riding in a Cadillac with the ghost of Hank Williams). Honestly, as a double record, it's a great collection, but you could get by with side A and then have like the five best other songs on side B. I'm not complaining or anything, because extra is good in this case, but the side A barrage is one of the best sides of an album ever. "You Never Even Called Me By My Name" me and my buddy Boomer saw get played on the jukebox at a weird small town bar in Lincolnton, North Carolina, and drunk dudes were on the bar singing out loud, Mexicans in soccer jerseys were smiling it up, and the girl working the bar kept giving me free beers while her coked up boyfriend went in and out of the bathroom relentlessly. Me and Boomer ended up jumping the fence and going swimming at our hotel next door and watching crackhead chess go on where one dude was peeking around the corner of the building like The Three Stooges to watch someone be gone from their room while his partner probably stole their stash, and you could see the two people who walked off arguing over some other sort of sketchy deal, and me and Boomer were silently tripping out on all of it, and when the two who had left turned back to go, the guy peeking around the corner wasn't paying attention so I yelled out, "THEY'RE COMING BACK!" which probably worked to his benefit because they looked at us in the pool and he could scurry back with his little cockroach redneck shuffle and get thangs straight. And that's just one memory from the first fucking song. How 'bout when I got a DUI in Richmond and had outstanding warrants and was in jail the night before the Cowboys/Steelers Super Bowl, and really the only person who could bail me out was my roommate who I had gotten in a fight with on the way out the door. But he came and bailed me out, not after splitting a bunch of Schlitzes with the bail bondsman he rounded up on a Sunday morning, and the bail bondsman gave me his card, saying, "I hear you guys got half a keg left so you might need this again tonight," and laughing. And we walked out and my roommate sang, "I was drunk the day I bailed Raven out of jail... and I went to pick him up in the rain..." but we didn't get hit by a train luckily. Beautiful delinquent fucked up memories.
Honestly, if I had a time machine, I'd just go back in time to 1973 to hire David Allan Coe and the Grateful Dead to play a concert for my birthday party. But also to be even more honestly, I tend to break things, so if I had a time machine, I'd go back and wreck it in the process, so I'd be stuck in 1973, talking my crazy futuristic jive talk, and I wouldn't ever meet David Allan Coe or the Grateful Dead (how would I abduct them anyways? I hadn't thought about that yet) and I'd just be stuck in some place somewhere, getting a shitty job that would be extra shitty because I'd get paid like $9 a day, and I'd fall in love with some slut. But then would I be cheating on my wife? I mean, I couldn't go back to the right time it would seem, but it's not our death parting our bond either. Man, that's why we'll never get time travel right. Too fucking complicated. Fucking Tesla.
Speaking of which, last Christmas I wrapped like 12 strands of Christmas lights around the tree in the front yard, like right around the trunk and the branches as they split off, because that was funny to me. I left it like that and plug it in from time to time, with my thinking it's a Tesla coil of lounge, meant to keep my compound chill when we have company. You know how people are.
(NOTE: The picture I used in this post is actually of the CD and not the album because it was the best I could find since the internet is run by wack robots who want to dilute true lounge with their cybertronic clutter.)
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