Deadly Death Vol. 02

When our brains begin to realize we’re going to live longer than 20 years, the compression algorithms involved in storing memories need to be optimized. The brain realizes it’s going to have to store more than a few summers and the exact taste of a glass of lemonade. The basic unit of storage has to change; it’s a simple issue of capacity. Time is chunked in units of one season, then one year; a decade. Details have their jagged edges sanded down, entire little lifetimes adopt a hazy dreamlike quality, are shimmering flashbacks complete with harp flourishes. Then one day, you wake up to find the world has shifted, lurched forward as a whole, without you. A lot can happen in 5 years; but it’s even easier for nothing to happen; to have your shingles whipped loose by the wind, have weeds push up through your floorboards, to be stripped to your frame and reclaimed by the field. To get a pretty sweet beer gut. 

Every love song is really a song about time - about time gone by, about the inability to change the past, about fleeting moments of passable pleasantness, tiny bearable islands in a heaving ocean of shit.  They only make sense in the context of time, only made poignant by the fleeting nature of the subject. Things are never good for long - that’s the bad news. But they’re never bad for that long either and you’re dead forever. 

Disco inferno.



Download it here.

479 plays

Cold Blood - Baby I Love You

Though by today’s standards it seems pretty tame, believe it or not, the cover art for 1973’s ‘Thriller’ was so controversial it was used as an example of societal decline in a congressional committee on domestic violence. Nowadays you can watch beheadings on Facebook, so.. I guess uh, mission accomplished, congress!

As evidenced in this song, which is seemingly about lovin’ babies (citation needed), Cold Blood had a bit of that chunky swagger - especially for a band mostly staffed by a bunch of band nerd whiteys.  What’s Chunky Swagger? You’d be forgiven for thinking it was the name of their bassist, considering fellas with names like Skip Mesquite (RIP), Mic Gillette and Gaylord ‘Flash’ Birch played on this record. But no; chunky swagger is when music possesses characteristics that make a gentleman walk as though he has unexpectedly befouled his trousers and is attempting to contain the disaster as best he can. A fun little bonus fact - the Pointer Sisters, nearing the apex of their lusciousness (‘peak yum’, as it was referred to by M. King Hubbert) backed Cold Blood on most of this record. 

Bonus feature: the aforementioned Pointer Sisters and their erstwhile drummer Gaylord Birch (watch this shit - easy to forget how smokin’ the Pointer Sisters were and Gaylord Birch was quite something to watch as well). 


Cold Blood frontperson Lydia Pense. Paler than you expected? Dats Raycess.

189 plays


Joop Stokkermans & Bernard Bos - La Famiglia Barbapapa

Up here in the desolate tundra of Canada, there’s little to do in the sunless winter months but watch TV Ontario, ice fish, and cry. Left orphaned by a tragic giant nickel incident in Sudbury and raised by caribou, I developed a real taste for saplings, but sadly lacked positive role models. A TV Ontario series that provided much-needed guidance during my formative years was “Barbapapa”, a cartoon about a pink, amorphous blob and his multicoloured shapeshifting children. If that sounds weird to you, allow me to point out that Barbapapa’s origins lie in Paris, France. Though he never did, it would be great if Salvador Dali had said this:

Barbapapa is an Iberian dagger we shall plunge deep into the breast of witty and intellectual Paris.

Anyhow, the name Barbapapa comes from the French term for cotton candy, but literally translates to “Father’s Beard”. So to recap, what we have here is a television series about a shapeshifting, flesh-coloured blob whose name evokes images of an unshaven father. And I’m the one who has to attend court-ordered counselling? For the fuck of it, I’ve posted the Italian version of the television series’ theme song, which fills my heart with unbridled joy. The music for the Barbapapa theme was written by Joop Stokkermans, whose name sounds like something a Dutch woman might say if she were administered The Shocker. An Italian version of the theme from a French cartoon written by a Dutchman that I (and perhaps you?) watched growing up in Canada. May I humbly suggest that my releasing this post across the unfathomable tendrils of the International Network of Computers may have united the world once and for all? Joop Stokkermans!


209 plays

Stevie Wonder - Sugar

Hey, maybe you knew this and maybe you didn’t, but in addition to his buttery voice and proficiency at shredding the keyboards, Stevie Wonder is also superlative at bashing shit with sticks, and I’m hard pressed to find an example better than this song. The drums are easily the best ingredient in this audio bouillabaisse, and that’s saying a lot. They’re right up front where they belong, not muted in the background like the way you would mix them, sissy.

Another lesser-employed punchline in Stevie Wonder jokes (these were a thing when I was a youth) is the fact he has no sense of smell, courtesy of a car accident in 1973. One could argue lacking a sense of smell would be a small mercy given that many of his songs are funkier than your grandma’s dress liners. OOOOH, COUNT IT!

Stevie sitting in on drums with The Meters, c. 1973

197 plays

Dee Dee Warwick - I (Who Have Nothing)

Any time Dee Dee got her hands on something, someone snatched it away from her. Her first single, ‘You’re No Good’ didn’t do much - until re-recorded by Betty Everett, and again by Linda Ronstadt. Arguably her biggest song, ‘I’m Gonna Make You Love Me’ (which incidentally sounds kind of menacing when you think about it) was a minor hit for her - and then a massive worldwide hit for The Supremes & The Temptations. She endured near miss after near miss, while watching her sister’s meteoric rise. Does it ever sound like Young Deezy means it on this song. 

Dee Dee Warwick had quite the pedigree - sister to Dionne, niece of Cissy Houston and cousin to Whitney Houston. Of the four, she had the shortest and rockiest career. She burned bright, died young, and left behind some pretty awesome songs. Dee Dee, you’re DD:LD material to be sure. Really only active between 1963 and 1975, in that time Dee Dee made a dent - 2 grammy nominations, a handful of charting singles - but never quite stepped out of the shadow cast by her famous family. Personally, I’d take her over her sister, but girls realllllly don’t like it when you say that, in my experience.

After 1975, Dee Dee essentially stopped recording; but for sporadic appearances as a background singer, most notably with Dionne. After what could charitably be called a battle with failing health but perhaps more accurately was a prolonged death by misadventure via nostrils and/or veins, Dee Dee died in New Jersey at age 63, Dionne there with her.

'I (Who Have Nothing)' has existed in many incarnations, originally as an Italian song called 'Uno Dei Tanti’. It’s been broadly covered but never quite as poignantly and masterfully as by Dee Dee Warwick here. She knew a thing or two about playing second fiddle. 

219 plays

The Electric Flag - Sunny

Folks who live in parts of the world that experience seasons will often burp forth some bromide about the bitter winter making spring all the sweeter, but I’m going to let you in on a little secret: Nope. Fuckin’ Nope. We hate winter so much that to try to escape its stifling camel clutch, we will literally throw ourselves down mountains with planks strapped to our feet. Driven mad with grief we affix blades to our shoes and barrel towards each other wielding sticks. Do these seem like the actions of a healthy, happy populace? We are Vitamin D deprived, huddled in huts trying desperately to survive on pickled beets and any fish we can dredge from the bottoms of our frozen lakes. Please send help. The hearths are cold and the scotch supplies dwindling. We have begun to eat our toques. It’s only a matter of time. 

Why do you think so many acid-tinged songs are about the sun? Letting the sunshine in? California sunshine? You don’t hear many happy hippies belting out tunes about frostbite and chattering teeth, pal. No exception to this rule, The Electric Flag, a lysergically-flavoured rock’n’soul group formed in Chicago weren’t writing songs about the wind whipping through their city during a shitty snowstorm. Formed in 1967, perhaps the most notable member of the Electric Flag is drummer Buddy Miles, who was involved in the founding of Electric Flag, before moving on to form Band of Gypsys with Jimi Hendrix. You might say ‘but what of Mike Bloomfield?’ but consider this: shut up.

The sun. I remember that thing. The sun would be there when I woke up. I remember sighing, blinking in the new brightness, and letting my hand shuffle in and out of the sunbeam cast onto the white sheets. I would cup my hand, cradling the light, feeling it slowly warm my palm as countless photons danced across it. These were old particles, older than mankind, perhaps; certainly older than the hand holding them. They had burst into existence tens of thousands of years ago in some fiery crucible, but only eight minutes ago had they been spat forth, sending them on a journey of millions of miles across a cold vacuum, a journey ending as they landed here, in my hand. It’s enough to make a fella feel pretty powerful; stopping sunbeams with my bare hands. Now, instead of softly lit reveries we have darkness at noon and a climate hungry for nips of exposed flesh, or if on offer, fingers and toes. Winter is like an advent calendar where every flap opens to reveal a wet mound of grey slush, coloured with equal parts dirt and car exhaust. It’s the goddamn worst.

And it’s only January. Sunny, c’mon home.

Have you seen this boy?

259 plays

Top Drawer - Song of a Sinner

It seems that ‘Top Drawer’ only recorded one record (‘Solid Oak’, from which this track was lovingly and delicately extracted like so many splinters) and effectively disappeared. It leaves a lot of gaps in the band narrative, which I’ll happily fill - ‘Top Drawer’ were a group of hill-dwelling cabinet makers from Kentucky, who after their shift building cupboards, headboards and - yep - caskets, would sip a thimbleful or two of Uncle Julep’s Furniture Polish and Toooth-ticklin’ Tincture, string up their instruments and blast their vibrations into the stratosphere. They had lustrous beards. Hounds would balefully howl outside the cabin, ever-circling, as a mix of smoke, steam and weaponized musk languidly issued from the blackened tin chimney. 

This particular gem gained a bit of a bump in popularity via its inclusion on 2009’s pretty excellent ‘Forge Your Own Chains’ compilation, which as I understand was done without the band’s permission in the hopes they’d come forward and take some credit for the popularity of this song and the album it comes from.

‘Song of a Sinner’ has all the hallmarks of a great death dirge. There are elements of hymnal, apology, expository recap, with a pinch of tortured screams into the abyss. It really checks all the boxes of the ‘about to die checklist’. I was pretty sure I knew what my funeral song was going to be but given the way I’ve comported myself the last few years and that enormous, looming organ (I mean in the song, pervs), I’m thinking this might just be the ticket. Don’t cry Mom. Everything is beautiful here, and nothing hurts!

Hat tip to the name ’Top Drawer’, while we’re at it. It conjurs all sorts of images - mismatched socks, marital aids, I dunno.. a bunch of non-working pens. Very provocative.

Thanks for taking the time to fill out this form.

305 plays

Don Covay - You’re Good For Me

Man, Don Covay, where you been all my life? 

The guy is a legend, and a bit of an unsung one at that - as a performer he never quite reached the heights of contemporaries like Marvin Gaye (who he performed with in The Rainbows) or Solomon Burke (with whom he was a member of The Soul Clan). His most lasting legacy is likely writing ‘Chain of Fools’, a huge hit for ululating airship Aretha Franklin. Perhaps foreshadowed by his 1971 album ‘Different Strokes for Different Folks’, Covay suffered a couple different strokes which left him somewhat debilitated - but not so much that he stopped recording - he put out ‘Adlib’ in 2000.

This song, and most of the song’s on Covay’s full-length debut, 1964’s ‘Mercy!’ have a grit to them that a lot of the more recognizable early 60’s R&B lacks. Notably, ‘Mercy, Mercy’, the album’s lead single featured a young Jimi Hendrix on lead guitar, and though the subsequent sessions making up the rest of the LP didn’t feature Hendrix, they share that raw, passionate, loose, and crunchy sound. Shit, that sounds like a vegan breakfast cereal. Speaking of things that are good for you - ‘You’re Good For Me’ is basically a dirge retreading one of my favorite subjects, bad love. One standout feature on this track is the drumming - and that’s not surprising as it’s the legendary Bernard ‘Pretty’ Purdie, who’s basically having his own little party all over this track, so much so the engineer just figured he’d pan him all the way over to the right I guess. 

Covay’s voice is strikingly similar to early 60’s Mick Jagger, or perhaps it’s more appropriate to say Jagger’s voice is similar to his. At any rate; Don’s voice is like whisky for your ears. But fistfightin’ whisky, not the good stuff. Eff Peter Gabriel, I’m grabbing a trenchcoat and a ghetto blaster and going to stand beneath a window blaring this. This song is my finishing move. 


Fig 1.1: “FATALITY”

469 plays

Eddie Kendricks - Let Me Run Into Your Lonely Heart

The tale of Eddie Kendricks is one of narrow misses and bad decisions. Former frontman of the Temptations, Eddie left the group just in time for their hit ‘Just My Imagination’ to go to number 1. While his former bandmates climbed the charts, he struggled as a solo artist to gain a foothold - despite releasing solid albums like the oft-sampled ‘People… Hold On’ (1972), the oak from which this acorn falls. As his star dimmed, he left Motown in pursuit of a better deal - signing away his royalties in the process - only to find that he had the beginnings of cancer in his lungs. Kendricks declined to pursue chemotherapy as he wanted to keep his hair. Not the greatest strategist of our time, to be sure. Kendricks is hardly a household name, though he had a huge influence on artists from Hall and Oates to J Dilla - and he also armed generations of lotharios with excellent pickup lines, such as the dozen or so exhibited in this song.

This aural tessellation has so many intricate interlocking parts, it’s something you can listen to a dozen times, latching onto a new part each time. It’s chunky, ambling and disjointed, in the best possible way. If forced to dance to this, I’d probably be left with no choice but to just point at my crotch and wiggle my eyebrows.

At first listen, you’d be forgiven for mistaking ‘Let Me Run Into Your Lonely Heart’ for a simple soulful come-on. On deeper inspection, the attentive listener will notice that Eddie is actually illustrating a simple sales approach to achieve his desired outcome, in this case, running into the lonely heart of the song’s subject. Eddie’s sales technique can be illustrated as follows:

Closin’ Deals, Openin’ Zippers: The Eddie Kendricks 3-Step Soul-ution Sales Method

  1. Create Doubt: "You’re not a stone - you can’t live life alone."
  2. Demonstrate Value: “To make flowers grow, the waters must flow.”
  3. Ask For The Sale: "Oh baby please - let me be your main squeeze."


Fig 1.1: Eddie Kendricks, soul singer / sales professional

399 plays

Rufus Thomas - So Hard To Get Along With

As they reached their awkward teen years, Stax Records, the legendary Mephis record label, found itself growing ever more introspective - even self-absorbed - huddled over dog-eared works by Camus, Simone de Beauvoir, and - of course - Jean-Paul Sartre. Stax’s newfound interest in subjects both Gallic and Existential began to bleed into their creative output, and it was no more pronounced than in Rufus Thomas’ ‘So Hard To Get Along With’, a 1970’s update of Sartre’s ‘No Exit’. The song re-imagines the ceaseless hell of living crushed beneath the expectations and perceptions of others as a taut drama in which he finds himself without a voice or identity, defined by the manner in which his friends and lovers perceive him. 

The gravity of the subject matter; man’s innate cruelty and the inability of even those intimately intertwined to show one another fundamental kindness, is cleverly obscured by the plain manner of the narrator’s speech. In his words, there ‘ain’t but two things’ that make him mad - not getting his lovin’ when he needs it bad, and when his friends eyeball his wife. As he puts it, this makes him hard to get along with, though his concern with the inaccessibility of the coital embrace, coupled with a fear of being cuckolded by those in his inner circle, betray more dread and doubt than pure misanthropy. A self-proclaimed ‘mean, mean man’, the narrator appears to believe himself beyond redemption - though true dread cannot exist without the slightest possibility of salvation, suggesting further nuance to our protagonist - he is a self-admittedly ‘terrible person’, beyond our help - yet he holds, in the deepest part of himself, the tiniest glimmer of hope that he can yet be redeemed. ‘Uhhhh!’, as Thomas quips at the song’s stuttering climax, ‘Good Gracious!’.

Anyhow, the drums on this song are fucking sweet. This was the B-Side to ‘Funky Mississipi’ (1969), and Thomas (as was the case on a lot of Stax recordings during this period) was backed by house band Booker T & The MGs, a band with a great history of their own, which we’ll save for another article.


Inset: Rufus Thomas in his ‘to eat is to appropriate by destruction’ apron

2,213 plays

Lou Rawls - Bring It On Home

While not the ultimate version of Bring It On Home, this may very well be the uh… second most ultimate. The penultimate? It’s good, is where I’m going with this. Rawls’ history with ‘Bring It On Home’ goes back to his singing backup vocals on the original recording of this Sam Cooke-penned gem. Rawls, though a few years older, was an old bandmate of Cooke’s from the Chicago days, and turned this cover in 6 years after Cooke’s passing on an album of the same name. 

Lou ‘Goddamn’ Rawls, raised in the ghettos of 30’s Chicago, was a tough as nails son of a bitch. A US Army Paratrooper, Sinatra-approved crooner, and womanizer till the day he died, Lou Rawls’ life story reads like an old Bill Brasky skit. For example, Rawls was once declared dead at the scene of a car accident; awoke from a coma nearly a week later, lost his memory for nearly a year, and then, as is often the case with coma survivors, went on to sign to Columbia and put out over 70 records. 

Considering this is essentially a song about staying in a relationship despite ongoing poor treatment, about the break-up-to-make-up rollercoaster, about loving someone even though you hate ‘em - this is a pretty sunny little jam. Either Lou is phoning this jaunty version in, or he’s just pretty cavalier about affairs of the heart. Judging by the pants he was wearing around the time of this cover’s recording, either of these seem like possibilities. Anyhow, I personally find the subject matter difficult to relate to as I consistently make nothing but the best decisions when it comes to the fairer sex, but I enjoyed the production of this dusty ol’ treasure and it reminds me of simpler times, when gravy was a nickel and they’d just ladle it right into your hands, or on special occasions, was sold in aerosol cans with a dedicated applicator, when I was a younger man with my dreams in tact, and you were naught but a shimmering beacon on a horizon I didn’t even look up to see as I was watching the odometer roll over, jerk.

Sidebar: Lou Rawls’ name is so phonetically pleasing; it’s a name that sounds like a meal. It’s very tactile. Saying it feels like chewing gristle. Your mileage may vary.


Fig 1.1:  ¡Traer conmigo a casa (a Barcelona)!


479 plays

The Moments - Rocky Racoon (sic) 

Beatles covers come in several varieties, not unlike the many flavors of ‘Celestial Seasonings’, a popular brand of tea (both herbal and non-herbal). Below, I have attempted to uncoil the varied viscera of Beatles Cover Songs for your consideration, which I did all by myself by the way, due to a recent shake up at Deadly/Death Headquarters, related to cross-cultural friction and/or serrano ham, carbonated beverages and 2 (frankly, overpriced) camisoles. It’s a long story, but the good news is that it’s the long story you just read in this paragraph, so we’re about up to speed as it happens. How have you been? That’s great.

'Know Your Beatles Covers' - An Irrefutable, Definitive, Maybe Partial List

  • The Modern Update
  • The On-The-Nose, Reverent Tribute
  • The ‘Maybe People Will Think We Wrote This’ Approach
  • Oasis
  • The Stripped-down & Spartan Singer/Songwriter/Turtlenecker
  • Fat Dude With A Moog
  • The “Major to Minor” Dirgification Approach
  • The Sweeping, Wordless Orchestral
  • 5 Guys, 1 Guitar
  • The ‘What If The Beatles Were Black’

As you read the above, the dilemma becomes clear – you’re dealing with source material that’s already quite good, and hard to improve upon – but further exacerbating the issue (that’s when your ex gives you a handjob, fyi) is the fact that many of the approaches to revisting the material are fundamentally flawed. For example, the ‘Fat Dude With A Moog’ approach to covering the Beatles. It isn’t the corpulence of the synthesizer operator that’s the flaw in this approach of course. Fat people are a vital part of the music ecosystem in that they are very easy to outrun which is helpful as, with the exception of a small group of outliers, musicians are invariably destitute, amoral thieves. The role of the obese in the music industry is to be robbed and then outrun by lanky and poor musicians, as you’d already know if you’d paid any attention to the symbolism playing at a subplot of anarchy and the rejection of free-market ideals in The Beatles’ animated classic ‘Yellow Submarine’.

With respect to our readers, however, lists aren’t the only way to present data. Some folks are visual thinkers, which is why the following was prepared, in an attempt to explain the complicated atlas making up the vast world of attempts to reimagine or just plain ruin the work of the Beatles.


As for the song at hand - well, this - along with Stevie Wonder’s cover of ‘We Can Work It Out’, Al Green’s ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand’, and assuredly countless others, fall firmly into the magical holy fuck quadrant of Beatles song-covering. Now, I wasn’t invited to join ‘The Moments’, but come with me, if you will, on a magical journey of imagination to a land where the first 2 bars of this song got played at least 8 more times before kicking into the verse. Because, Jesus H. Criss Angel Mindfreak on a bamboo spire (bamboo is renewable, we’re trying to make our exclamations a bit more environmentally friendly around here), is that first 2 bars ever wonderful. Perhaps this humble barfer of internet opinions is a bit overzealous when it comes to snares, but if my face made the sound that snare makes in The Moments’ cover of ‘Rocky Racoon’, I’d pay people to slap me just like your deviant uncle Jacob. Anyhow, there’s a great story behind Rocky Racoon too, but what the fuck dude, just read about it on Wikipedia. I spent forever on this Venn diagram and I’m tired.

FYI - Akula Owu Onyeara can be roughly translated to "Don't hit that crazy person" in Igbo, not 2 ham sandwiches and an orange soda. — Asked by atane

Hey, thanks for the heads up, atane. Our fact-checking intern (Gala; she’s from a little fishing village on Spain’s east coast - quite a lovely girl. Skin like a delicious caramel frappucino!) was unfortunately fired due to this oversight. Gala, if you’re reading this, a few of your camisoles are still at my place - I left them at the base of the teak sculpture of Alan Turing in the rectory. So again, thanks for the heads up Atane! Gala wanted me to pass along her thanks too - in her words, ‘Espero que son devorados por los jabalíes’ which I *believe* - if  my spanish isn’t too rusty - translates loosely to ‘2 ham sandwiches and an orange soda’. At any rate, god bless and godspeed, atane! 

539 plays

Donny Hathaway - Jealous Guy

Before I heard this song, I guess I was technically living, but I’m not sure I would call it a life. Things just up and done changed, all at the hands of one Donald Edward Hathaway, a Chicago-born songwriter who penned many a classic and delivered many cover versions, including this John Lennon cover, that easily eclipsed the original.

I simply lack the adjectives to describe how great this version of this song is. The guitar tone could not be better and is the aural equivalent of a skilfully executed handjob. The way the piano is mic’d up is bang on. That snare sounds like a chubby stevedore slapping the side of a tent with a raw t-bone steak. Don’t even get me started on Donny’s vocals. Okay, get me started on them: he is barfing shined-up silk all over my eardrums and I don’t want him to stop. Ever. What the fuck, why aren’t people running screaming in the streets about this song? I don’t want to put to fine a point on it, but how good is this song? Rumor* tells that the gold record contained within the Voyager 1 spacecraft, to be played by any intelligent life that recovers the spacecraft as evidence of our refinement, sophistication and overall worth as a species, only contains this song, playing on a loop forevermore. 

'Jealous Guy' can be found on a Live album by Donny Hathaway, inexplicably titled 'Donny Hathaway - Live', which - I should mention - he is not. He jumped out of a window and then he died. Shortly before his death, Donny complained that his brain had been hooked up to a machine by white people who were using it to steal his music. Donny reportedly ALSO suffered from paranoid schizophrenia, so that's really two good reasons to be bummed out, which he was, as he also battled bouts of deep depression. 

In an odd bit of trivia, Donny also wrote and performed the theme for the television series ‘Maude’, which rocketed Bea Arthur to national fame, and to the status of sex symbol in many of my midafternoon reveries.

Now, I’ve been accused of often speaking too delicately; of trafficking in riddles; beating around the bush even - so hopefully my meaning is clear when I say that I fully plan to put it to my old lady, real slow and meaningful like, on the floor, while listening to this whole record. 


*Patently false.

315 plays

Yesterday, Bert Jansch skipped off into oblivion. The below was originally posted on April 12th, 2009. Re-posted as, well, you’re not going to find a better Bert Jansch song, and it seems appropriate. “That death itself is freedom for evermore.” RIP.

Bert Jansch - Needle of Death

Bert Jansch was a 60’s Scottish strum’n’croon type whose early adult life was pretty action-packed.  In his early twenties, he married a 16-year old acquaintance in order to allow her to travel with him, as her age prevented her from travelling alone.  They soon split, and Bert was forced to return to Glasgow after contracting dystentery in Tangiers, a small bit of foreshadowing of how shit-soaked the band Tangiers would become 40 years later.  If you ask me, dystentery could be what caused the breakup.  Dystentery is apparently a bit of a turn-off for the ladies.  Although it’s likely quite an uncomfortable condition that could be described to firing liquid through the eye of a needle and then dying, this song is not about dysentery, but rather about smack.  You know, junk.  Horse.  For my dollar twenty-five, this jerks a tear a lot more effectively than Neil Young’s ‘Needle and the Damage Done’. The picture below isn’t the cover of the album this song appeared on, but look at the puppy.  Cute right?  That puppy died tragically of a heroin overdose at the age of 27.