Robert Christgau was cruel and unjust when he dismissed Love Unlimited Orchestra as Barry White’s “Jackie Gleason Tribute Band.” As a musical extension of the rotund soul sex-peddler with the positively lubricious bass voice, Love Unlimited Orchestra shared most of Barry’s strengths and shortcomings, and at their best they served up some great proto-disco and pretty steamy soul.

At their worst they were Barry’s Jackie Gleason Tribute Band.

But first, a word on Barry White himself. Barry was not just another R&B soul man. He was the Grand Dragon of the Golden Order of the Beast with Two Backs and the undisputed King of Music to Fuck By, and his records probably hold some kind of world record for the sheer number of human beings who have orgasmed while they were playing. Statistics like that are hard to come by.

Smell a Barry White record sometime. It will smell like sex. Seriously. That is the hot and funky musk of sexual congress in session you are smelling. I am not kidding. Try it. You’ll want to wash your hands afterwards.

As I said above, the Love Unlimited Orchestra was a musical extension of Barry’s positively colonial empire of fornication, and quite the extension it was–a 40-piece, heavy-on-the-strings musical conglomerate that over the course of its existence counted amongst it members, in addition to guitarists Wah Wah Watson, David T. Walker, and Lee Ritenour, the likes of Ray “Ghostbusters” Parker, Jr., Kenny G, Ernie Watts, Wilton Felder and god knows how many nameless strings musicians. Conducted and arranged by the rotund Emperor or the Erotic himself, the Love Unlimited Orchestra was the strings-plushy cushion in the pushin’ of Barry’s panties-free paeans to let’s get it on.

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VIA PRESS RELEASE | If there is one thing Real Gone has learned during their rollicking ride of reissuing The Donnas’ catalog, it’s that they never did anything halfway. And we’ve tried to do the same in bringing their music back to their devout fanbase.

Now, by popular demand, and after years of pursuing the rights, Real Gone is thrilled to announce that we are releasing their last studio album, Bitchin’, in an expanded, newly annotated, and newly remastered edition!

This 2007 release was put out by The Donnas’ own Purple Feather label, and marks a return to the girls’ glam metal and punk roots after the classic rock leanings of Gold Medal—they’ve escaped the major label machine, and are ready to have a good time! Singalong songs like “What Do I Have to Do” and “Don’t Wait Up for Me” have definitely entered The Donnas’ canon, and tunes like “Save Me” confirm that this band’s ability to set a hook in a chorus remains unabated.

For this first-ever reissue, we’ve rounded up an entire side of bonus tracks, including the two songs (“Randi” and a cover of “Safety Dance”) that were only available on the vinyl release, a track (“New Kid in School”) that was previously available only as a download, two outtakes (“We Own the Night” and “She’s Out of Control”) that showed up on the Greatest Hits Vol.16 comp, and a track that only came out in Japan (“Can’t Keep It a Secret”).

The whole thing’s been remastered for vinyl by Mike Milchner at Sonic Vision, and the gatefold-plus-insert once again includes fresh commentary by Brett Anderson aka Donna A. Bitchin’ comes in a double scoop of strawberry with black swirl vinyl—we’re here for the party!

Remembering Cass Elliot, born on this day in 1941. —Ed.

A few random observations about The Mama’s and the Papa’s’ 1966 debut LP and folk-pop classic If You Can Believe Your Eyes and Ears.

1. This album has everything, including a toilet on the cover! Which puts it in some elite crapper company, including the Rolling Stones’ Beggars Banquet, Sebadoh’s Bakesale, Millie Jackson’s Back to the S__T!, and Humble Pie’s Thunderbox. (The Circle Jerks’ Golden Shower of Hits doesn’t count, because it features a urinal.) As for the toilet on If You Can Believe Your Eyes and Ears, it faded from view and was living in filth and poverty until 1988, when it sued the Mamas and the Papas for royalties and won. It currently resides in Costa del Sol and is married to a supermodel.

2. There’s a great story about how Mama Cass Elliot came to join the Mamas and the Papas. Seems John Phillips didn’t want her in the band because of her limited vocal range. THEN, but let’s let Elliott tell it:

“They were tearing this club apart in the islands, revamping it, putting in a dance floor. Workmen dropped a thin metal plumbing pipe and it hit me on the head… I had a concussion and went to the hospital. I had a bad headache for about two weeks and all of a sudden I was singing higher. It’s true. Honest to God.”

It’s a great story. Unfortunately it’s not true. Seems Phillips didn’t want Elliot in the band because she was too fat. Me, I prefer her story. It gives me hope that one day I’ll get conked on the head by a length of pipe, and suddenly discover I can sing like Geddy Lee.

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I remember the first time I saw W.A.S.P. They weren’t just another Sunset Strip band. They were darker, heavier, more dangerous. The sound was definitive. Blackie Lawless owned the stage like a ringmaster from hell and Chris Holmes carried his madness offstage as far as the tabloids would take it. But the bottom line has always been the songs. The fucking songs are there.

Forty years on, holding this reissue in my hands takes me straight back to being ten years old, looking for something heavier than Twisted Sister and nastier than anything else in my collection. This was the answer. This is the W.A.S.P. fan’s W.A.S.P. album. It’s stacked with anthems that defined the band and lit up MTV: “L.O.V.E. Machine,” “On Your Knees,” “I Wanna Be Somebody.” Pure power, pure hooks, pure attitude.

The casual fan might wonder where the insanely controversial “Animal (Fuck Like a Beast)” is. It wasn’t on the original. Capitol Records folded under Tipper Gore and the PMRC’s “Filthy Fifteen” and pulled it. That infamous list was meant to highlight the most offensive music of the era.

The funny part? It wasn’t just metal bands. Sheena Easton was on there too. As a kid, the Filthy Fifteen was basically my entire playlist, proof that the PMRC didn’t really understand what they were fighting against. “Animal” eventually surfaced on an independent release and cemented itself as an all-time W.A.S.P. anthem. Ridiculous title aside, the chorus is pure earworm.

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Baxter Dury is the son of Ian Dury, and the tough-looking little tyke in elephant flares standing next to his pops on the cover of the latter’s 1977 LP New Boots and Panties!! He’s also a stellar musician in his own right, and over the course of nine critically lauded albums has amazed with his spoken word wit while moving steadily towards the dance floor.

And in 2025 Dury took to the disco riddims in a big way with a flurry of Paul Epworth-produced singles that mated his wry, pessimistic, and sometimes flat-out crude lyrics with sleek and slinky grooves and the bonus vocals of up-and-comer JGrrey. They culminated in the recent release of the exceptional post-disco LP Allbarone, on which Dury comes across as one cool customer, a combination Boz Scaggs/Jarvis Cocker with a bad attitude, a deadpan delivery, and a sardonic way of looking at love, jets setters, omelets, the Hapsburgs—all sorts of things.

To quote a dead certain dead pop star, Allbarone is simply irresistible.

Dury isn’t a happy camper or an inspirational speaker—he trucks largely in romantic disappointment and other forms of human unhappiness, and he does so with drily funny lyrics that can be startlingly direct but often tend towards the oblique, which is to say I have no idea what he’s talking about half the time. But he makes it sound good on a nonstop parade of dance tracks and slower funk breakdowns, only a few of which leave me underwhelmed. The best of them are anchored by killer hooks, and Paul Epworth’s electronic backdrops provide the perfect settings for Dury’s often black sense of humor.

“Return of the Sharp Heads” is the album highlight, thanks in equal measures to the bass-driven groove and the smooth vocal stylings of JGrrey, whose constant refrain (it opens the song) is:

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VIA PRESS RELEASE | Regal rock icons Queen are celebrating the 50th anniversary of their monumental multi-platinum 1975 album A Night At The Opera and legendary Diamond-certified single “Bohemian Rhapsody” with opulent vinyl reissues.

Originally released in November 1975 and featuring the classic line-up of Freddie Mercury, Brian May, Roger Taylor and John Deacon, A Night At The Opera was Queen’s grandest artistic statement and most successful album to that point, reaching Number 1 in five countries, including the UK. Marking 50 years since its original release, A Night At The Opera will be reissued on lavish crystal clear vinyl with gold labels on October 18 in the UK (on National Album Day) and October 17 in the rest of the world.

“Bohemian Rhapsody,” which spent a record-breaking nine weeks at Number 1 in the UK singles chart on its original release, is also being reissued on October 31 as a transparent blue heavyweight 12” vinyl. It will also be available as a direct-to-consumer exclusive 12” picture disc and blue cassette single. Both reissues will be released on Universal worldwide excluding US, where they will be released via Hollywood Records.

“A Night At The Opera was a hugely important album for us,” says Queen guitarist Sir Brian May. “It opened up the world for us.” “We were at the peak of our confidence,” adds drummer Roger Taylor, “It felt like there wasn’t anything we couldn’t do, and it shows on that album.”

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Celebrating Frankie Avalon on his 85th birthday. —Ed.

It’s easy to say snide things about Frankie Avalon. I myself have called the teen idol who first made his name as a trumpet player, then as a singer, and finally as the star of such immortal motion pictures as 1963’s Beach Party (with Annette Funicello, natch) and 1965’s Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine (with Vincent Price) the worst thing to happen to rock ’n’ roll this side of the extended drum solo.

I’m being unfair of course. Avalon was just a good Italian kid from Philly who specialized in froth, didn’t have a rebellious bone in his body, and never pretended otherwise. An earnest and wholesome boy who never got hooked on heroin or attempted to reinvent himself as a pinwheel-eyed avatar of the hallucinogenic sixties, was our Frankie. But say what you will about his escapist product, Avalon has always been and will always be true to himself.

As anybody who has ever listened to “Venus” or “Why,” Avalon was a crooner whose saccharine songs sound inconceivable as teen product to anyone reared in the rock ’n’ roll era. Lush orchestral arrangements, choirs, you name it—Frankie’s producers liked to lard it on, and on, and on. Ah, but once, just once—and it is as glorious a moment as any in the annals of rock—Avalon said to hell with it and got down with his bad self, garage rock style.

I have no idea why. Perhaps he ate an extra-large helping of some rich Italian dessert with a touch too much sweet liqueur, say amaretto, in it. Or drank one too many (as in two) glasses of red wine. Whatever the reason, on one lost day in 1963 a real, real gone Avalon swaggered into the studio, flicked a half-smoked cigarette at some studio hack, and snapped, “Fuck the strings, Johnny, and ditch the backing singers. This is Jungleland.” And proceeded to throw his everything behind as mean as guitar as he could get his goomba (no offense meant) mitts on.

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VIA PRESS RELEASE | Frank Sinatra’s seminal 1955 Capitol Records album In The Wee Small Hours will be reissued in Blue Note’s acclaimed Tone Poet Audiophile Vinyl Series on November 14 marking the album’s 70th anniversary.

Produced for release by Joe Harley, the new Tone Poet Vinyl Edition was mastered by Kevin Gray from the original analog master tapes, pressed on 180g vinyl at Record Technology Inc. (RTI), and comes packaged in a deluxe gatefold tip-on jacket featuring session photos by William Claxton and Ken Veeder, as well as an essay by Rita Kirwan.

In The Wee Small Hours is a melancholy masterpiece of lost love and heartbreak that was a pivotal album in the legendary vocalist’s career. Produced by Voyle Gilmore, the album embodied Sinatra’s artistic growth into a more mature singing style with stunning renditions of Great American Songbook standards given sublime arrangements by Nelson Riddle, creating one of the first-ever concept albums.

Sinatra conceived of In The Wee Small Hours as a full-length album, rather than a collection of singles, and it would become one of the first pop albums to be released on 12-inch LP. The album was met with immediate critical and commercial success, reaching #2 on the Billboard charts and bolstering Sinatra’s career resurgence following his signing to Capitol Records in 1953 and his Academy Award win for his role in the film From Here to Eternity.

Issued in 1964 by Vee-Jay Records, It’s Monster Surfing Time may appear to the sophisticated modern observer as an undisguised fusing of a trend and a gimmick. While it most assuredly fits that description, its instrumental surf bedrock has proven more than just a fad and likewise, the creature feature matinée gimmick has endured across generations. The Deadly Ones offer a fun taste of legitimate surf flavor, but their album signifies a whole lot more.

Founded in 1953, Vee-Jay Records stands as one of the great labels in 20th century popular music’s pre-corporate era. Initially successful in the fields of doo-wop (The Spaniels, The Dells), R&B (The Impressions, Dee Clark), blues (John Lee Hooker, Jimmy Reed, Memphis Slim) and gospel (The Staple Singers, The Swan Silvertones), the company also managed a small but worthy jazz line (Wayne Shorter, Wynton Kelly, Lee Morgan, Walter Perkins) and perhaps most famously had the foresight to be the first US home of The Beatles.

It’s well documented how the Fab Four helped to metamorphose rock ‘n’ roll and youth music in general into a more serious proposition, but the change didn’t occur overnight, and there is no better proof of its gradual transformation than It’s Monster Surfing Time. The disc positively basks in a lowbrow aura prompting visions of a cigar-chomping label-boss orchestrating an unabashedly mercantile concept through colorful language and a cloud of smoke, though I’ve discovered no evidence to actually support James Bracken or his wife Vivian Carter (the Vee to James’ Jay) fitting this salty descriptor.

Surf music naturally inspires thoughts of waves, wipeouts, beach parties, and couples doing the swim, but in its unadulterated instrumental form its range isn’t especially wide; in 1963 Vee-Jay issued Come Surf with Me by Aki Aleong & the Nobles, a fine if less than earth shattering attempt to hang ten on the style’s popularity, and it would seem that by the following year it was deemed necessary to give the template a considerable shaking up.

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