Halfway through writing a contrived piece about the best stoner rock albums to smoke stones to, I realized such an article was simply too basic bitch for the high standards I set for my editorials. Plus, I don’t enjoy cannabis. Fight me. This is, however, the infamous DRUG issue of our beloved Exotic (well, it was supposed to be before Covid messed up our schedule...how ironic) and I need to stick to theme. While not brainstorming too hard on really good albums inspired by, featuring and alluding to our favorite little green leaf, I thought I could take a hard left and think of some other drugs that have inspired some pop music classics. Besides, there’s already a zillion pieces about the best albums to blaze to and it’s always the same goddamn ringers like Sleep’s Dopesmoker, Dr. Dre’s The Chronic and who cares by Bob Marley. You fine, scholarly readers of this prestigious titty rag deserve something different...something better. A good friend and fellow musician, whose bass amp I am still indefinitely borrowing, used to tell a great joke on stage between songs. "Nobody talks about the health benefits of cocaine...WAKE UP SHEEPLE!" It usually got little-to-no applause, but I thought it was funny. Refer to a recent South Park episode, regarding the exploitative and dangerous trade involving cocaine’s entry into the U.S., because I won’t go into detail here about how all that bloodshed (and cost) can be avoided with a little bitta legalization. Now that we’re all on the same page and I know most (if not all) of you reading this love cocaine as much as I, let’s talk about some of the greatest and most influential albums that our favorite nose candy had a profound influence on.
Also, before you get in a tizzy about Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors not being on this list, know that I am fully aware of the heroic amounts of blow that everyone was on at all hours of every day of the production of the masterpiece of A.M. radio ’70s cheese. Still, the cocaine—while present—doesn’t have the same alarmingly gakked out, repetitive, bloated wonder that I so dearly love about these three albums. It’s just eleven good pop songs. However, these...
This record is what a horrific and expensive cocaine addiction SOUNDS like. Everything about this album—from the paranoid reclusive recording sessions, the insurmountable hype, the record-smashing sales, the bizarre panty-peeing critical acclaim and the almost overnight dismissal—is exactly what a full blast night of riding the white horse feels like. If you had never done cocaine and wondered what it was like, I would tell you listen to this album. It’s literally caked in the corners of the record sleeve. And, it is amazing. I came of age after Oasis was already largely considered a sad joke in rock music and the few songs I heard affirmed as such. However, when I first heard Be Here Now, I got it. I understood why they sold a bajillion records and I learned to adore the band. Whatever that says about me, I don’t care and fuck you. I love this record because it’s so...bad? It thinks so highly of itself, it promises it’s gonna change everything. When you listen to an album with every song over ten minutes, 800 guitar tracks per song and a full orchestra for no goddamn reason, it sorta delivers on the promise for that hour and a half. But, then, the next day you have a headache, just want some water and kinda wanna listen to it again. I think this album is why I ended up liking cocaine when I first tried it later. My first line, I started saying empty phrases like "It’s getting better man! D’you know what I mean?" This record literally should’ve been called Cocaine: The Album. Six stars out of five.
Inarguably a more critically sound piece of musical history than the last bloated ego trip, Sly & Fam’s Riot is still a cocaine-fueled nightmare. Upon further research, I realized that a lot of PCP was also involved in the production of this one, but let’s put a pin in that and shelve it for a later issue. Too often, people talk about the deep, traumatic social issues that this album does a fantastic job screaming about. The drugs don’t discredit that theme, but they are very much a part of it. Regardless of the political weight of the lyrics and one of my favorite album covers of all time, this album is wet with the sound of the ego-blasted drug haze of its recording. Too many overdubs making for an unsettling murk, drum machines to replace your real drummer who left (because they hated your coke-rattled guts), guest stars who came in and just sort of winged it (and somehow churned out gold), overly long, so-called jams of previous hits, that literally sound like everyone in the band hates each other. This kind of record cannot be made without enough cocaine to kill an elephant, dispersed amongst a bunch of artists who are simply fed up with each others’ narcissism. Their worst and best album. Two thumbs up, groupies whose vocals you recorded for a song and then recorded over with your own voice.
If ever there were a reason to legalize cocaine, it would be this fucking album. Nay, it would be the titular song. I don’t need to reiterate the details. Everyone knows Bowie was so far gone on the ski slopes, he doesn’t even remember recording this masterpiece. To this day, I still want to throw a Station To Station listening party where the refreshments will be nothing but sliced bell peppers, milk (with oat, almond and soy options, because I am inclusive) and mountains of cocaine. These songs and this album cannot be written or even recorded sober. You need the unrealistic sense of eternity that the magic pixie dust gives you, to think something so repetitive and nonsensical is necessary in pop music. Marijuana inspires mellow grooves. Acid will inspire an unfocused journey. Booze will make you sloppy, but sincere. But cocaine...it demands this almost militaristic charge towards the infinite. When you’re in it, as Bowie was, in what I would dare say is his best album, you think it not only means something, but it has all finally crystallized into its best self. But, it’s really just nothing and you’ve spent all your money, broken all your relationships and you have to move to a small apartment in Berlin with Iggy Pop.
And then, you make your ACTUAL best album. And, his best album. And then, your other best album and his other best album, inside a year’s time.
Again, nobody talks about the health benefits of cocaine.
Blazer out!
