The Dudes' We're No Angels (1975)
Pedestrian bookstore hipster flippers, online eBay snipers, Discogs algorithm and blues, the fucky boujie big box recent pop novelty trophy record framers, yard sale farmers, and corner store big stack hagglers don’t know shit about grabbing flat-black mummies by the ankles and dragging their putrid history through the sand. I’m talking about real digging here, you cowards.
Shelf spiders, old cellophane dust and greasy fingerprints left by the kinds of dead people they don’t make anymore. Ancient curses. Record shopping at the House of Guitars is archaeological.
Before the Thee Great Resurgence real digging was the norm, long and lonely. No one could help you because the land was hopeless. And in that waste was treasures rare and unwanted. I’ve licked sapphires clean, blown the rust off shy diamonds.
Rarer and rarer these dangerous pleasures.
Ragged jacket, sloppy handscrawled band name, advance promo copy, unmarked and unplayed. Excavated behind a stack of Ray Charles cassette box sets. Arrows whizz through the air above me. Ancient price tag yellow as a dead king’s baby teeth. Pupils dilate, strong hot fix. The shadow of this rotshit antiquity looms cool and dark in the heart museum, from that Age of Discovery when the frontier was a baby holding a homemade blade in one hand and a sharpened cross in the other.
A momentous find in small times. Like it was, once, wasn’t it? Do I remember right?
(Oh, uh, the music on the beloved record is lackluster big-schlock post-glam we have Mott and the rest to thank for. That’s not the point of this, sweetie).
The pursuit the persistence the pestilence the prize the play the pleasure the pain.
Thee Great Resurgence, end times.