I don’t know who Doctor Fishbein is, but I WANT THIS RECORD. As a collector of weirdness on vinyl, this seems like a no-brainer, must-own piece of vinyl insanity.
I wonder, what do these two talk about? No, I DON’T wonder, we know EXACTLY what they’re talking about.
Somebody PLEASE sell me this record. It begs to be sampled and mashed up into all manner of sinister-sounding electronic music with an air of evil and menace. Or maybe disco instead. Yeah, disco.
–Joe Wallace
This allegedly erotic vinyl record features a mad bongo-playing nut case, a bit of heavy breathing, and what sounds like two people having a running-in-place contest on the creakiest bed in the universe.
“Erotica, The Rhythms Of Love” is a WTF record more or less infamous for its goofy journey “featuring the sounds and rhythm of love”. More like the sounds and rhythm of hippies riding in the Kentucky Derby, if you ask me. No matter–this album is worth having for the shrieking bongo player alone. How anybody was supposed to get their rocks off while that guy was hollering is a total mystery.
And somebody was amused enough to post a large chunk of this on Youtube, for which we are very grateful. I think. NSFW in as much as there is some lady breathing and rampant bedspring abuse.
I’ve been eyeballing this album for weeks, and finally bought it yesterday at Laurie’s Planet of Sound in Chicago. I finally broke down and bought this because of the burning questions the album raises for deep thinkers like me.
“Who the hell wears a sting tie?” and “Fried chicken for Christmas?”
Most importantly, “Do I really need to have the leering face of Colonel Sanders peering down at me at 3AM on Christmas morning? Complete with that ‘let’s open presents’ gleam in his eye easily mistaken for the more sinister ‘don’t tell your parents we’re doing this’ leer…”
I am afraid to put this record on the turntable–buried in my sleep-deprived brain I am sure there are coded instructions that will activate some sort of post-hypnotic suggestion telling me to chop up the neighbors for firewood and to make festive sausages out of goldfish–the fish, not the crackers.
The Colonel doesn’t seem to sing on this LP, which is a kindness, really.
I imagine his voice would sound like a cross between a drunken Anthony Hopkins in his best Hannibal Lecter moments and Vincent Price whooping it up on nitrous oxide.
In other news, I’ll likely be featuring this LP in a spoken-word rant at an open mic night near you sometime soon. Vinyl Road Rage V might be crammed full of appearances like that, stay tuned for announcements on that…
–Joe Wallace
This video is NOT for the hung over, the easily irritated, or for anyone with an irrational fear of out-of-tune singing. Florence Foster Jenkins, was, by the accounts available in the usual places, a complete nutjob who was CONVINCED she was the Maria Callas of her day. If there is ever another sequel in the SAW franchise, it should be dedicated to visualizing the sonic torture this poor deluded tone-deaf throat scrambler has inflicted on many victims by way of vinyl and live performances.
Brace yourself:
