Die young and rest assured, some record industry hack will make damned sure no recording that bears your name will remain lost on any shelf. Which, in the case of Gram Parsons, is a good thing, as it got us this straight up, true as nature take on Merle Haggard’s ballad about a guy who’s due to hang tomorrow, and he’s as ready as he’s ever gonna be. All credit to the rest of the Flying Burrito Bros, too, of course.
“It says 1974 on the cover but Brian Eno‘s second solo album Taking Tiger Mountain (by strategy) will always be pure 1981 for me. Weird and oft times jagged pop that was pretty much perfectly in synch with the times and thus not at all afraid to just dissolve into abstraction if necessary. Which was fine by me given all the acid I was taking. I needed those dissolutions, like at the end of The Great Pretender when the crickets (or whatever they are) just take over, suck us into the insect realm, alien and strange.” (Philip Random)
“In which Queen (before the world had a clue who they were) unleash an astonishing mix of heavy licks, mad harmonies and wild mood swings all in service of some high fantasy concerning a mythical Queendom called Rhye. Which, if you were fifteen years old and stuck in the mid-1970s confused about pretty much everything, was exactly what the Universe needed you to hear.” (Philip Random)
Neil Young, reluctant rock star, still smarting from the heroin deaths of two good friends, sits on a vague beach on a vague day and plucks his banjo, waxing skeptically (if not cynically) about the nature of the game he’s playing. Apparently they were imbibing a lot of strong hemp product during the recording of this album. You’d never know.
Speaking of that Indonesian monkey chant that Vic Coppersmith-Heaven had so much fun with in the early 1980s, here’s Jade Warrior from almost a decade previous, taking it on from a more acidic angle. Jade Warrior being one of those outfits that made the pre-punk 70s such an endlessly cosmic delight, dropping a steady diet of instrumental non-hits, that mostly tended to just float along, with occasional eruptions.
“Here Come the Warms Jets, Brian Eno’s 1974 solo debut, didn’t find me until early 1981, but the timing was nevertheless perfect as I was gobbling lots of LSD at the time, imposing apocalypse on everything I’d ever accepted or believed, opening great holes in my brain and soul that only purposefully deranged dada-pop such as Dead Finks Don’t Talk could adequately fill.” (Philip Random)
LSD
Randophonic 
