Poco's Poco (1970)

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How does someone, anyone, write about a record like this? I find myself really listening to this record, REALLY LISTENING, not because anything in particular has caught my attention but just the opposite. And as much as I want to rip on this, that this band is to music what Olive Garden is to olives and gardens, I can’t do anything with this record.  

I should say that, as I write this, I am listening to this album for the first time ever. There are lots of tempo changes, little hooks and vocal harmonies and occasional yelps, a dull rollercoaster but a ride nonetheless. Familiarity breeds contempt and Poco is balls-deep in familiarity. “This is what this music sounds like,” I nod to my cat. “Yeah, man,” she says. Who can disagree with that? It’s easy to ignore, which is refreshing.

All this to say: If you’re ever dating someone who coyly invites you upstairs for a drink and maybe some sex, and then they put this record on and disappear into another room, FUCKING RUN. You’re about to get murdered in such an uninspiring way that you probably won’t even notice.

Or care. Or remember. Poco. 

— Ghil Scraw

Phil Shaw