Editor’s Note; This issue we welcome a guest column from none other than Jerry A. Lang, the legendary founding member and vocalist for what some might say (me) is the greatest punk band of all time, Poison Idea. Jerry is a hell of a writer too, whether that’s penning songs or as the author of his Black Heart Fades Blue series of autobiographies. But he’s also a serious record head, something that you might have gathered by the cover art or the title of Record Collectors Are Pretentious Assholes. And despite the fact that the title was originally a jab at guitarist Pig Champion, yes, Jerry is also one of those assholes. But unlike what that Poison Idea LP suggests, his tastes are much wider than just Burning Spirits, the Germs, or United Mutation. Here Lang dives in to talk about a favorite that you can still get on the cheap, if you can find it.

The Lost Classic Album. First, what is a classic album? Something that you look back on later and it still holds up. But when you judge a classic record, one man’s Iggy Pop is another man’s GG Allin—it’s a question of taste. So if it’s just an opinion, opinions are like assholes—everyone has one, and some really stink. Stop me if you think that you’ve smelled this one before.

Pick up your phone, and if it hasn’t already overheard you ask this question out loud, then summon “Sir Mark of Zuckerberg” (aka the new and improved “Master Cylinder”) and ask what was the all-time classic rock ’n’ roll record. Thriller by Michael Jackson? In this case, we are judging it by how many units it shifted. 46 million? Taste be damned—computers actually stink too? The first Velvet Underground record has sold around half a million copies, and those with supposed good taste consider this a classic. But it also came out in 1967, that’s about 11,000 sold per year. We the people get to say what a classic is. In this case, I got a record that everyone should at least give a shot.

Now that we have established what a classic is, what exactly is a “lost classic”? Can something be lost if you were never looking for it? Is it more of an undiscovered classic? Like the time you met that person and sparks flew from the moment you saw them—butterflies in your stomach and you felt like you were floating on a cloud at the same time. And then you parted and never saw each other again. The great lost love? You’ve seen it a thousand times, right in front of your face, but you never realized it.

Speaking of lost loves, I was dating this rich girl and I remember my first time seeing it (the record, definitely not the girl). Her parents had a grimy little beach house with a grimy little stereo and a couple of old grimy records. I remember picking it up and looking at it, but I didn’t listen to it. Then, for years after, in Goodwills and secondhand stores, I kept seeing this record. It was calling me—Realization, the 1968 album by Johnny Rivers. The guy who sang “Secret Agent Man.”

When I heard DEVO’s cover of that song, I was 13 and already familiar with Johnny Rivers’ version. The song “Memphis,” you might think Chuck Berry wrote that, but it was Johnny. I knew these songs so well that I could sing them. So how did this guy drop one of the best folk/psychedelic records of all time? The first time I heard it I was familiar with it, like I’d heard it all my life. When the hippie-psych music thing happened in ’66/’67, it made a giant impact and everybody was jumping on the bandwagon. Some people gave their own embarrassing interpretation of what they thought it was (Sonny Bono), others held their nose as they talked their way through the song (Frank Sinatra), and some channeled the soul of the hippie— what they felt the hippie was trying to say. Or at least if you were a hippie, how does that make you feel? Johnny Rivers sounds like the most honest version—he could have invented this style, it’s like butter. Hippie butter.

It slowly starts, then builds up with “Hey Joe” (and Johnny gets a cowriter credit for changing a couple lines. Genius!). The song comes out the gate with an almost angelic, 4AD feel—jumping in headfirst to where most bands would build up. The second song, “Look at Your Soul’’—there’s a part in this song that sounds like a part in “Look at Your Game, Girl’’ by Charles Manson if it was sung upside down and inside out. Could Charlie have lifted from Johnny? I know, I know, conspiracy-type shit, but if you’re going to steal, steal from the rich.

Everybody knows that the 13th Floor Elevators were the first real “psychedelic” band. All the San Francisco bands admit it, and when they played their first show in the Bay in 1966, all of those California cats were cutting their teeth. The Dead, Jefferson Airplane, they were around, but they sounded A LOT different. The Elevators opened that third eye. About three or four years later in Los Angeles, the national news was interviewing the Manson Family. Charlie didn’t like the word “hippie,” he always said they were “slippies”—like the 13th Floor Elevator song “Slip Inside This House,” which is exactly what the Manson Family would do with their “creepy crawls." For all their insanity, the Family had a good playlist.

The first three songs on Realization melt into one long continuous ride. Then you hear the rain, the thunder, and the raindrops fall, and the orchestral strings start into “Summer Rain." An absolutely beautiful song that charted at No. 14 and also mentions Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Heading out to Eden, brother. Gabba gabba we accept you, one of us. Maybe Johnny has always had his finger on the pulse and his ear to the sky?

The last song on the first side is his version of “A Lighter Shade of Pale,” do I dare say better than Procol Hamm’s? If not, it is definitely better than the Box Tops version. This whole record sounds fresh, not because I just got turned on to it about 10 years ago, but the way he does “Hey Joe” almost sounds like it was done by the “Madchester” scene. The same way that Candy Flip did “Strawberry Fields Forever.” Those bands may have covered those songs, but Johnny made “Hey Joe” his own.

The next side does not let up with that same magic. “Brother Where Are You" seriously kicks ass with this band—and what a band! James Burton on guitar, Larry Knetchtel on keyboards, Joe Osborn on bass, and Thee Hal Blaine on drums—basically the Wrecking Crew. He probably could have sang the phone book and it would have sounded great, but he had the songs—a musical trip that holds you and never lets you slip. Any trained artist can look at a painting and tell you what technique the artist used, but it is hard to describe the way these songs climb into the soul.

To quote some guy from Boston, “It’s more than a feeling.” The kind of songs that should be sung from the top of the peak as the timpani drums thunder down the valley and the mountain goats dance on their two back legs. Hail. The record ends with the best version of “Positively 4th Street” ever. Yeah, I said it. Ever! Bob Dylan even has been rumored to agree, and if it’s good enough for Dylan, I’ll stand behind it.

So maybe the reason I used to see this record in all the secondhand shops was because people’s tastes had changed. But I seriously would put Realization against any record out today. And I’m not just a curmudgeon, I got my finger on the pulse and my ear to the sky. It’s an absolute classic, and one that deserves to be found everywhere—not just the thrift stores. But if it has to be that way, then so be it. That just means more for me.