When All Was Said and Done, Mom Had the More Interesting Records

I loved my parents records when I was a little kid. Very little.

Blondie. Talking Heads. Rolling Stones.

Blondie's "Accidents Never Happen" was a childhood favorite. The childhood favorite. Predating my love affair with Culture Club. By a few years. They would be the first band I was into. Legitimately into.

I would sing it in the family room. It could have been worse. It could have been show tunes.

I rediscovered their vinyl in middle school. I would flip through the records. And sneak them away to my bedroom. Jimmy Buffett. The Who. The Beatles. Neil Young. Bob Dylan. Kenny Rogers. Billy Joel. Elton John. The Doors (what the fuck was I thinking?).

A lot of Linda Ronstadt records. A lot. They belonged to my mother. Wrong. So very wrong. My dad was a fan. A huge fan. Apparently.

My mom owned some of the more interesting items. Her 45s were pretty bubblegum. The Monkees. Rick Springfield. (Big General Hospital fan. I think that was his show.)

Oh. Iron Butterfly.

Some favorites. That were new to me. Country Joe and the Fish. And. Mott the Hoople.

Mott the Hoople. What a name. Terrible name. Country Joe and the Fish is a pretty bad name. But Mott the Hoople?

I like it. It's stuck with me. Over the years.

Mott the Hoople - Mott. Christmas 2007. For Dave.