Category Archives: Misc

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You Can Say There’s No Such Thing as Grandpa, But as for Me and Santa, We Believe

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GrandmaA renowned classic throughout the family for as long as I can remember, Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer was, for many Christmases, the soundtrack to the season. Mix in a few Brandy Old Fashioneds, the light accumulation of snow, and a warm room heated up by a wood-burning furnace, and you’ve got a Norman Rockwell painting of my early Christmas years.

As a young, little, mischievous ankle-biter, I’d heard, and was familiar with the name, Elmo & Patsy. Patsy was my grandfather’s nickname for my grandmother, and now that I’m older, I wonder if it was derived from this album. He’d give her a hard time about something, playfully of course, and would always end his boisterous rant with Patsy. My grandmother would laugh, almost embarrassed, which would then set the room into a joyous ruckus. My grandfather was great at that… setting an infectious, and heartfelt fire to a room. I miss him, but will always remember the little details of family Christmases thanks, in part, to this song. Egga Cleva anyone?

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None More Black Friday

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Smell the GloveToday, as you ford across the violent sea of flailing limbs and bargain-hunting rage, don’t miss our once-in-a-lifetime-actually-once-in-a-year sale to end all sales! That’s right! As if you haven’t already heard, The Prudent Groove is having a 24-minute sale on everything in our store! Check out the “Store” button on the top for your chance to save THOUSANDS on Prudent Groove swag! Newly added to the online store are Prudent Groove t-shirts (sizes XS – M) available in both blood red and midnight black, The Prudent Groove hummingbird feeder, The Prudent Groove flower pots (complete with grade A Prudent Groove soil), The Prudent Groove candles available in the following delicious scents: wet dog, bong water, and burnt fish, The Prudent Groove red wine vinegar and extra, extra, extra virgin olive oil set, and The Prudent Groove jumper cables, to name just a few.

The holidays are right around the corner, down a block, and sandwiched between the recently closed VHS only video rental store and the Hardware Hank, so do yourself a favor. Save your time, money, and any last glimpses of sanity and complete all your year end shopping in one easy click. The Prudent Groove store, your new favorite place for all the things you never knew you never wanted.

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Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme AKA Ode to a 21-Pound Bird

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Happy ThanksgivingWith well wishes a-plenty seemingly BURSTING forth from the generous and thankful hearts belonging to us over here at The Prudent Groove, we hope you all are, at this very moment, stuffing your gullets, as well as your ears, with the wonderful delights of family, friends, food, autumnal music, and the appetizing reflection of all the many things we can all be thankful for. Now, get off the internet and enjoy a drink with your brother, your mother, your 7-year-old nephew, and / or your sweetheart. Thank you for reading and no, you cannot have any of our 21-pound turkey. Sorry… I dig you guys, I sincerely do, but there is a line, and ain’t no man, beast, or lure of a promising future gonna’ come between me and the devilishly delightful overindulgence that is Thanksgiving. Ok, fine, I’ll invite you over for the 7 days of leftovers we’ll undoubtedly, and willingly have. Just be sure to bring the tunes. Deal? Deal.

Happy Thanksgiving to every-one!

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Go Where You Wanna Go…

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Go Where You Wanna GoLike the rising of the sun, or the cock-a-doodle-doo of the morning rooster, it’s there to kick things off, leaving all others to follow its lead. It’s a record that can change, be replaced, or be bumped into the absorbing sea of “others.” It’s a record that is bound to no genre or geographical location. It is never fixed with any specific label, or particular year of distribution. Not one distinct instrument is a requirement for this record’s grooves, and it can quite possibly represent the listening personality of its hoarding owner.

Every collector owns this record, but 99.9% of the time no two are alike. This record goes by many names, and is more times than not located in the top left corner. This record is the beginning of whatever organized structure you’ve adopted. For me, it’s Up, Up and Away by The 5th Dimension which, if you think about it, is a pretty damn good invitation to explore the vast world of any music library be it on this, or any dimension.

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I’m So Bored with the U.S.A.

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Clash UK

1977 UK release (military green cover).

It’s The Clash kind of morning, kids; specifically their 1977 self-titled debut (1979 in North ‘Merica). The original UK cover, as you can plainly see just to the left there, showcases the sassy mainstays (until all hell broke lose with 1985’s Cut the Crap, of course) Joe Strummer, Mick Jones and Paul Simonon. Missing in all three cover variations (scroll down to see the others, won’t you?) is the 2-headed drummer, Tory Chimes and Topper Headon.

1979 Canada release.

1979 Canada release. You see, it’s blue because it gets COLD up in Canada, eh!

Credited on the back as Tory Crimes (misspelling?), Tory Chimes was the exclusive drummer on the UK release. Topper Headon (credited here as “Nicky Headon”) is featured on 5 of the 15 non-UK releases. Both drummers are missing from this now iconic cover because, as wikipedia neatly puts it, during the time Kate Simon took this photo, Tory Chimes had (for whatever reason) decided to leave the band. So, there you have it. Mystery solved. Someone should remaster this album sans percussion, featuring just the three sods on the cover. That would make for an interesting listen, no?

Clash US

1979 US release (lime green cover).

So, a bit of interesting information… Chimes, Jones and Simonon were all in the band London SS before clashing with Strummer and future Public Image Ltd. guru Keith Levene to form The Clash. Mr. Levene co-founded Public Image Ltd. with Sex Pistols’ frontman, John Lydon, or as he is more commonly known, Johnny Rotten. So you see, it’s like, all tied up and connected, man! Clash it up today. It’ll help to keep the mental demons busy for at least the next 35 minutes.

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This is for the People of the Sun

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RAM JFJamie Fisk looking album covers aside (and yes, that’s a deceased spider preserved on the “R” in EMPIRE), RATM’s Evil Empire was 1) released, on vinyl, but more importantly, and without my knowledge (imagine that) 2) with a badass slipmat…

Upon the looking’s up of my vinyl copy of 1999’s The Battle of Los Angeles (complete with fist-raising slipmat), I was reluctant to discover that 1996’s Evil Empire also featured a limited edition slipmat… message to self: gas up the DeLorean and get your ass to 1996’s Madison, WI State St. Exclusive Co. and obtain this Evil Empire slipmat by any, preferably violent, means necessary!

RAM SlipStill a worthy listen, Rage documents a very dark and exciting era of my adolescent life. Hey Lancer & the Mij, remember seeing Rage w/ the Beasties at Alpine Valley performing at the Tibetan Freedom Concert back in ’98?! Yeah… we’re old.

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No… I’M the One Who Loves You!

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DeanoThe great debate continues… which Deano Martino loves you more? Is it left Deano, or right Deano? They both claim to offer their affection, so which do you choose? And by choosing one over the other, do you then set a precedent for the “less than” Deano? I mean, does he then attempt to love you more, or does he go in the other direction and abandon you all together, figuring your choice, or favor rather, for the “other” Deano is just too much to bear and isolation is better than the heartache of rejection?

The great debate continues… but one thing’s for sure… it’s Dean Martin time, damn it!

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Post #300 or: That Time I Nabbed a First Pressing of Electric Ladyland for $10

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Jimi PGLet’s not beat around the bush here. Antique malls are time sucks. The alluring glow of buried treasure seems to boil the blood like a white-hot phoenix, and those of us who seek this 2nd hand treasure know exactly what I’m jivin’ at. These ominous voids (usually located next to a Subway or a Peet’s Coffee for some bygone reason) demand the archeological skills of a handsome, fedora-wearing ladies man named after the family dog, and the patience of a turtle-loving, detail-fixed hoarder of historic rubbish. Be it books, vintage clothing, old Look Magazines from the 1940s, or in this case, a banned UK copy of The Jimi Hendrix Experience’s 1968 master work, Electric Ladyland, the junk drawers of yesteryear are spilled out for all to peruse and purchase at these, the greatest time-wasting five and dimes the world has ever seen.

Anyway, short story short, I was on one of my weekly trips to Times Remembered in Ventura, CA (a place my SO and I jokingly call Time Suck, but not too jokingly, you dig?), where I stumbled upon a tiny booth filled with doll clothing, baby spoons with crude pictures of horses on them, overpriced “I Like Ike” campaign buttons, and 2 records: The Rolling Stones’ Their Satanic Majesties Request, and this copy of Electric Ladyland. What struck me as odd was how no other records could be found within this seller’s little corner. I wondered, “Why these 2 specific records?” (Resting against a basket of thimbles and a child’s rocking chair.) Anyway, both records were marked $20, but that day, this particular booth offered a ½ off sale. I distinctly remember thinking to myself, “Well, do I really NEED a copy of Electric Ladyland?” Asinine to even consider, I know. I bought it, obviously, and now this hot little number fetches upwards of $450 on discogs.com.Screen shot 2013-11-19 at 1.32.11 PM

Their Satanic Majesties Request had 4 pinholes in each corner, obviously punched to proudly display on the smoke-stained walls rented by the now levelheaded antique seller’s younger self. Had it been in better shape, I would have nabbed that guy as well. I’m still on the search for that little musical chalice.

300 days, 7200 hours, or roughly 432,000 minutes ago, I gave birth to The Prudent Groove. I sincerely appreciate all who have visited, and for the friends I otherwise wouldn’t have made. Now, I’ve got to go return some videotapes.

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John Fogerty at 8,300 Feet

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BRRListening to The Blue Ridge Rangers while driving up Blue Ridge Road in the back hills of the Angeles National Forest was something that actually happened, and it actually happened just the other day, actually. Partially because I eat, drink and sleep all things Fogerty, and partially because quirky little drives up boulder-littered, non-Saturn Ion friendly dirt paths call for quaint little parings of both “road” and “band.” For you see, Blue Ridge Road was little more than a protruding stone & fog-like dirt clearing on the side of a mountain, and The Blue Ridge Rangers were NOTHING more than just John Fogerty, as everything heard on this, his solo debut, was performed solely by this creative zealot.

If and when you find yourself wearing a mask of panic while driving at 10 mph up a jagged rock trail on the side of a mountain named Blue Ridge Road for what seems like an eternity, stick with the down-home groove-cookin’ backwoods ramblings of The Blue Ridge Rangers. Your incessant fears of blowing a tire, or cracking your oil pan will blow away like the howling wind found only at 8,300 feet.Screen shot 2013-11-16 at 12.44.52 PM

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It’s A Beautiful Day?

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IABDIt’s a beautiful day. Is it? I don’t find it beautiful per say. More like adequate, sufficient, or possibly even two shades of presentable. But beautiful? There were certainly things about the day that were beautiful. Like for instance when the smog-clouds dissipated and the sun finally clocked in for work. It was certainly pleasant, but beautiful? Meh.

Now, as far as the late 60s SF folk-rock band with ankles wading in the pool of psychedelia, that (when stricken with the groove-mood to let the mind wander) is beautiful. I discovered It’s A Beautiful Day on an obscure psychedelic site a few years back, and upon seeing a hefty $35 price tag for this, their 1969 album, also their first, at my local record shop, I immediately thought this 7-track debut must have been filled with ear gold (golden earrings?). Turns out, the record shop had just severely overpriced this album. I ended up nabbing this copy for $1 at a shop closer to downtown.

Although it may not necessarily be a beautiful day, any day that isn’t terrible is that much closer to beautiful.

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London Presley

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Elvis PresleyWe are all book judges, are we not? It’s in our instinctual nature to see something, say an album cover, and immediately send its contents through the legal systems of our minds and instantly give it a ruling, right? I mean, when I see an album cover of a cat sitting in a Christmas box (give the gift of cats, I always say) in front of a 1950s decorated Christmas tree, I’m not thinking smooth jazz, you see what I’m saying? (The aforementioned Christmas Cat album will unveil itself during the month of December, along with the rest of my “holiday groove music.” So I’ll see the lot of you in January!)

london-coverSo much (and this is painfully obvious) time and consideration is put into any given album cover, but I wonder if the guy / gal / team designing any given cover (it’s like Any Given Sunday, but with records) considers the longevity of their work. For example, let’s take a look at Elvis Presley’s 1956 debut for RCA Victor Records appropriately titled, Elvis Presley. It’s about as iconic as apple pie (“Why, is that apple pie I smell?” – A little KITH humor… really, I’m just pleasing myself at this point) and for good reason. Had the King’s (“I didn’t know we had a king. I thought we were an autonomous collective.” – MP) groundbreaking album (to put it lightly) instead displayed the man say, in a Christmas box in front of a 1950s decorated Christmas tree, pop culture may have turned out a little different. Do you see what I’m saying? Or, typing, rather… man, I’m falling out of the tangent tree and hitting every branch today it seems.

London BootedWithout Mr. Blue Suede Shoes’ album looking exactly the way it does (actually, Mr. Blue Suede Shoes should probably refer to Carl Perkins, so let’s call Elvis, Mr. Tutti Frutti instead, shall we? Well, wouldn’t Mr. Tutti Frutti be the moniker for Little Richard? Good point. Let’s just call Elvis, Elvis then. There is no fun in that, but fine… whatever.), the equally iconic face of The Clash’s London Calling may have looked like say, a photo of Paul Simonon sitting in a Christmas box in front of a 1950s decorated Christmas tree. Are you picking up what I’m throwing down here? Nobody knows (Spaceballs…) the impact of anything, or rather, nobody can predict what sticks to the wall, and what is used for kindling in the living room fireplace. Only time, oh, that sweet, lactating mother of all, will tell.

Also, there is a house music comp based on the cover of London Calling which was based on the cover of Elvis Presley, and my prediction is, it won’t stop there.

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Often Wrong, Never in Doubt

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GR MagsLong and tumultuous is the road to a completed collection. Be it the full 792 cards in the 1990 Topps baseball set, all four collectible Garfield and Odie mugs released by McDonald’s back in 1978, or in this case, my half completed collection of Grand Royal Magazines.

With issue #1 released in 1993 (and one of the three I don’t have), and the final issue, #6, released in 1997, it’s safe to say the Grand Royal team was taking their sweet-ass time publishing these now sought-after mid-90s gems. That initial judgment of a painfully obvious (and very Los Angeles) lackadaisical workflow couldn’t be further from the truth as this current issue, issue #3, is JAM-MUTHA-TRUCKIN’-PACKED! Packed with what, you ask? How about interviews with Dr. Octagon aka Kool Keith, San Pedro’s own Mike Watt, and the Dalai Lama (conducted by Adam Yauch, RIP MCA), a guide to sneaking into hotel pools in the Hollywood area courtesy of Spike Jonze, an in-depth look at the paintings of Evel Knievel, horse racing tips from Pavement’s Bob Nastanovich, and countless, as well as fearlessly stunning, vintage album ads spanning from Weezer’s Pinkerton to Sukia’s Contacto Espacial Con El Tercer Sexo… and all of this by page 37 (of 140)!!

It’s taken me close to 20 years to acquire three of only six Grand Royal Magazines, and it’ll probably take me another 20 to secure the remaining three. The upside, however, is that it’s taken me nearly two decades to ingest the onslaught found within issues 2, 3 and 5, so when my ship finally comes in, I’ll have another 20 years of dynamite reading material at my grubby little fingertips. (Often Wrong, Never in Doubt is the title to Grand Royal Magazine issue #3, btw. A straight lift on my part.)Moog

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The Joy of Overindulgence

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SwamiOh, the slipmat. So, I don’t fancy myself a DJ, I mean, who wants to go to a club and hear DJ PG spin the Wax Trax! Records catalog, am I right? So, why then am I obsessed with obtaining and constantly switching out my platter hats? Well, I’ll tell you, inquiring minds… if I could.

I guess, I just enjoy a change of scenery every once in a while. I mean, is that so wrong? IS THAT SO WRONG, I ASK YOU! Currently I’m rockin’ the Permanent Records slip after switching from a hefty haul of Grand Royal slips. Next, since you asked, I’m thinking of either switching back to Grand Royal, breaking out the Swami from Swami Records, or possibly going to the RFTC mummified logo. Who really knows that this point, but I’m sure you are all at the edge of your seats in eager anticipation.

MummyIt’s Friday… enjoy this evening’s festivities, and don’t forget to stop and admire the change of scenery now and again.

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The Great Reorganization

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Misc WoesThe fingerprint of every record collector is how he or she organizes his or her records. There was a time in my youthful days when I felt bold… bold enough to adopt Rob Gordon’s autobiographical organizational habits. This bold period didn’t last long as I’d become accustomed to the standard alphabetical structure and couldn’t find a damn thing! I then, for a few years, organized everything by decades. That was fun for a while and offered a quick representation of the decades I was severely lacking. (I think I’ll be fine if I never acquire another album produced in the 80s. I’ve got those years pretty well covered. Covered, get it? A little record humor…)

I’m curious to discover how other collectors organized their collections. The bigger the collection is, the bigger the commitment to that specific organizational structure. Today, I rock the namby-pamby A-Z with a section for Misc (Comedy, Children’s, Various Artists, Educational, Goofy, Holidays, etc.) and for Soundtracks. It’s boring, I know, but as I seem to always find myself in a hurry, this structure yields the quickest results.

I bring this up only because my Misc section is getting painfully out of control. Almost every time I brave its violent waters, I discover a record I never knew existed let alone knew I’d owned. Oh, well. Rediscovery can be an amiable enterprise I suppose.

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Love Junky

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PalmerRobert Palmer… may he rest in peace over the towering mountains of his 80s pop achievements… Robert Palmer… the Grammy Award winning singer and songwriter… Robert Palmer, yes THAT Robert Palmer… was a junky. His addiction wasn’t the cause of his death in a Paris hotel on September 26, 2003, but it certainly didn’t help. Mr. Palmer’s muse, like so many others before and since, to this day, remains the single most contributing factor to diseased hearts of every man, woman and child who has ever tasted its sweet, alluring nectar. Mr. Palmer’s addiction, was love.

Palmer InsertAs we raise our coffee mugs in respect to this fallen prince, this legend of mid 80s pop radio, we must remember not to blame the man or his addiction. We’ve been given a great gift as the result of this musician’s love dependency, and we must never forget the severity and brutal consequences of this damning addiction.

Editor’s note: So, this post was going to be a long list of possible other addictions Robert Palmer could have suffered from (addicted to argyle socks, addicted to malted milk balls, etc.), but something happened and I couldn’t find a break to work it in. I’m kind of bummed now. Oh well… don’t worry about me. I’m sure you have your own things going on…

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What Lies Within the Padded Walls of Insolence

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PoeThere exists a place… a residual haven of deceit and soulless vigor, where puppies go unwalked, and children color outside the lines. There stands a damning fortress, high above the crescent flying of winged beasts, where needles pierce the grooves of curiosity, and terror and panic are served with chilled forks and a pleasing Malbec. Within this bastion of social awkwardness and mournful second guesses, pens run out of ink and toes are stubbed on the tables of frustration.

Horror MoviesEchoes of sharpened nails crawling down chalky blackboards reverberate amidst its walls in a seemingly never-ending dark wave of tone-deaf enthusiasm. Exhausted shrieks from drifting shadows recoil to an almost deafening growl, where the mist of hope lingers throughout the dank, stale air, never to be realized again. Few will enter… none will leave.

Lights OutBe cautious of its intentions, for its walls are painted with deceit and its floorboards carved out of bashful fibs. Seen only by those who share with its gruesome banalities, this lair of organized filth goes by the sadistic moniker, The Prudent Groove.

Happy Halloween, kids! (Insert maniacal laughter here)

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Glass-Tastic

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Glass InsertI’ve never in my life meditated, but I imagine the soothing monotony of Einstein on the Beach parallels that of a meditative state. There is something strikingly beautiful about the repetitious meandering (in the most respectful sense) that both peaks my instinctive interest as well as calms my over-analytical, self-loathing senses. It’s mind-blowing to think that this music was performed live, and in front of an audience. What lies deep within the caverns of the genius mind, am I right?! Philip Glass, you sir, are on the same pedestal as Einstein, as far as I’m concerned, and these contemporary (circa: 1979) pieces of Classical compositions rank among some of the best ear candy I’ve ever ingested. Fueled by coffee and the soft glow of Glass in my ear, I gently lay my head atop the pillow of these blissful sound waves and smirk as I imagine how much my neighbors hate me at this very moment. I’m not joking when I say beauty was redefined upon this epic album’s release. I only wish I was able to see it performed live.

TomatoHow fitting is it that my introduction to Einstein on the Beach took place while driving along the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu? I don’t remember the frequency and I don’t remember the DJ, but I’ll never forget my scenic drive up Highway 1 early, one autumn morning upon returning from LAX to drop off a friend. I felt bold and flipped on the radio (something I VERY rarely did and something I refuse to do now) and stumbled across, quite by accident, the iridescent joy of Act 1, Scene 1: Train. It was one of those moments that one never forgets. Not unlike setting eyes on your significant other, or witnessing the Eiffel Tower in person, I felt an immediate connection and was literally overjoyed by hearing a style of music I never knew existed. It’s not often new discoveries of this magnitude emerge themselves well into one’s twenties. Needless to say, it’s quite obvious that for me, Einstein on the Beach struck a chord whose ring will never die out.

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James Gang on the Beach

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GlassIs it taboo to listen to one band while writing about another? Do the streams get crossed in sort of a 2/4, 4/4 sense? I think the big, cloud-like question looming above this otherwise sunny Tuesday morning is, why must man put restrictions on himself when creating something even as trivial and nonsensical as this? Philosophers and offspring to those much smarter than The Prudent Groove have pondered these elusive questions for decades, so I’ll leave the answers to those best suited for the job. Instead, let’s talk about Philip Glass’ Einstein on the Beach while listening to James Gang, shall we?

GangLet me first say this about James Gang Rides Again. Back in the early 90s when CD’s were the jam, my father acquired this album at a Sam Goody from the East Town Mall in Madison, Wisconsin. I remember, even at that age being underwhelmed by the simplistic yet strikingly bold cover. The only song I remember from that CD, while riding, then eventually driving in the 1989 Ford Ranger, was the opening track, Funk #49. I’ve spent the bulk of my nervous days scouring the earth for Funk #1 – Funk #48 but have yet to yield any sort of fruitful result. But hey, the search for the elusively extinct survives whether or not the desire is fueled, am I right? No, well, ok then. Now for something completely different…

On second thought, diving off Glass Beach without my big boy swimmies is a bit too overwhelming at the moment, so let’s save that for another time. Ok? Ok. (Raises coffee mug) Here’s hoping your Tuesday does or does not include someone named James, a gang, Einstein and / or a beach.

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Take a Walk, Lou

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LouA day late and about a hundred grand short, I enter my plea of rock n’ roll remembrance. As shameful as it is to admit, this is the only Lou Reed album I currently, and I stress currently, own (on vinyl anyway). There is nothing new I can say about this cornerstone of quintessential rock, so I’m going to stay on the shore and respectfully watch as others sail their lamenting boats of historic homage. Thank you, Mr. Reed. I hardly knew you, but with all things worthy of keeping, your music will outlast the wild side in all of us. RIP Lou Reed.

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The Gilded Disc

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Dark SideIt is the humble position of The Prudent Groove that all record collectors, who don’t already know this… the obvious… steer crystal clear of any and all picture discs. Sure, they welcome a glistening pyrite-like flash of abnormality, but unless you’re a gleeful youth, skipping is probably not on your day’s agenda.

Discovering a record that skips is not unlike finding a wallet on the beach containing no money. The wave of excitement is quickly drained upon this startling realization and, in this case, if a relatively hefty sum is paid for said skip-it record, its inclusion in your library rides that fine line between, “I should sell it, but wouldn’t want to burden a brother / sister collector with these woes ” and “well, I should just throw the damn thing away.” So, here it sits… unplayed… but looking as beautiful as a Saturday morning.

JackStay away from picture discs kids. They may offer a bit of visual life in the mostly black world of vinyl, but every single one is prone to skip, and could turn out offering more resentment than entertaining pleasure.