Trips to the record store were exercises in economy when I was a cash-strapped teen. Do I stick to the plan and buy the brand new album by the Police for $8 or should I spring for four forlorn titles in the cutout bin? I regularly gambled on quantity over quality.
Commercial failures on major labels by the likes of Ry Cooder, Funkadelic, Rory Gallagher, Marvin Gaye, Genesis, Van Dyke Parks, Lou Reed and the Who that had been reduced to a couple dollars apiece often found a home in my collection.
Bruce Hornsby’s latest release Indigo Park reminds me of many of the titles relegated to cut-out bins by daring artistic left turns. Forty years removed from his commercial peak, Hornsby has taken to producing wonderfully deranged and exceptionally intelligent music.
Much of Indigo Park resembles “The Way It Is” filtered through Animal Collective. “Alabama” references Tyler, The Creator’s “Yonkers.” Blake Mills and the recently departed Bob Weir contribute to “Might as Well Be Me, Florinda,” a loping track that sounds like the Grateful Dead’s “Bertha” played backwards.
In the pre-internet era dominated by retail chains like Camelot, Musicland, Peaches, Sound Warehouse and Tower Records, Indigo Park would have been fated for cutout bins. Hornsby, an admirably droll artist, might consider issuing vinyl copies of Indigo Park with little notches in the upper right corner.