Graham Reid | | <1 min read
Whatever the reason – DJs seeking out rare groves, compilations of deep cuts, the aural clutter of Spotify – a lot of people like obscurer-than-thou artists and songs.
Well, Drugdealer – aka Michael Collins of LA – is one of those underground artists who has played with those on the fringes of Ariel Pink so he qualifies as usefully obscure.
But the sunny baroque-pop on this, his second album after The End of Comedy reinstates references points of the Carpenters, George Harrison slide guitar, Harry Nilsson, Left Banke and pre-Pet Sounds Brian Wilson at his most shiny but reflective.
The breeze of Laurel Canyon songwriters in the Seventies also blows through these nine discrete songs which come with strings, bouncy McCartney bass, the ease of America (the band), a nod to Bacharach arrangements, the uber-hip Weyes Blood on the terrific track Honey and make for a tidy two sides of vinyl.
Sort of like a more focused Connan Mockasin, with actual songs.
Now let it be said, this is almost MOR in places (like the Cowsills after a couple of joints), but deliberately so and without discernible irony.
Probably nothing older heads haven't heard before but the casual familiarity make it one of the more radio-friendly albums from the early Seventies you've never heard.