I look forward to a time when labels will once again release hard-driving soul albums that play out like one long, campy musical. I guess R. Kelly’s episodic soap opera “Trapped in the Closet Pts. 1-whatever” is sort of in the ballpark, but while Kels offers his own Serge Gainsbourgian lecherousness, Lotti Golden leads us into the bizarre excursions of the late-’60s underground freaks. So fertile was the music scene of that period that an album of restlessly epic roadhouse suites could be released on a major label.
Golden gets help on Motor-Cycle from an impeccably arranged Atlantic Records session band. They give the album a wall-of-sound heft when called for and lay the foundation, in the midst of all that brass, with a flawless, swinging rhythm team. Then, at key moments, the curtain goes up and they’ve got rows of saxes, trumpets, vibes, and churchfuckingbells behind them, and you begin to realize that this is not the same song and dance. Furthermore, everyone is committed never to repeat the same progression for more than, say, 30 seconds, but also knows that at some point the song will return to each segment, just to remind you how great it was the first time around.
So, there’s that, and the emcee for this aberrant cabaret is Lotti Golden, nexus of the intemperate adventure starring a cast of sex fiends, drug addicts, and other proponents of the In The Now school of living. Motor-Cycle is exactly the sort of hazy deviant party you always hoped the late-’60s was. It plays out roughly like this: Lotti’s got a thing for this kid Michael, who “lets me ride his motorcycle.” But Michael’s truth machine was starting to breakdown, so she heads to Fay’s, the meet-up spot for her coterie of malcontents. Anabell’s gonna be there, Silky’s gonna be there, Billy is gonna drop by, Celia’s gonna come by. But for Fay, whose French poodles keep her satisfied, it’s her doctor’s pills that keep her high, and she’s in trouble with the meds.
“Hey man, did you hear what happened to Fay? Yeah, it’s really a drag, what a bring-down. So where do you want to go? Rosie’s? That’s cool. Out of sight man, we’ll dig it!”
And so the whole party up and moves to Rosie’s. No pause for introspection on poor Fay’s demise, no lessons learned, none of that crap; the good times must roll on. That’s kind of the M.O. of Motor-Cycle. If something heavy happens, slow the music down for a second, give a wail, then move on. With a crowd this colorful, there’s always another story to tell. Silky “had to get married quick in her mama’s red dress in a civil courthouse in Georgia.” Her baby was baptized on a Monday, an occasion for Lotti to sip milk from a champagne glass in the rain. Problem is, Silky’s got a thing for drag queens, who have great parties but make shitty fathers. Silky wants a straight man this time, a real butch guy. A bit of soul searching ensues, but not enough to interrupt the groove. Fact is, that groove is so infectious and permeating that you really have to pay attention to pick up on all the freaky storylines. It’s much simpler and just as pleasurable to latch onto that bass-line and horn hook and just ride along.
Motor-Cycle is that rare party record that’s got a bizarre story behind it while still being a freak-show record that you can throw on at dance parties. To make a crude comparison, it’s as if The Velvet Underground recorded for Motown. In short: debauchery with a beat. Dig it.
