I recently “misplaced” this record, which is my polite way of saying it yeeted itself into the void and refused to answer texts. But it finally found its way back to its proper location. And where was it, you ask?
Oh, buckle up.
Months ago, I pulled my Soul Asylum 12" singles out to record, and apparently this one decided to go on a spiritual journey. I had a couple of Love LPs on the shelf with my 12” singles, so naturally I moved the Love records to the shelf behind my office desk. Fast forward to last week: I’m browsing that shelf for something to spin, and suddenly—There it is. Soul Asylum, sandwiched between two Love LPs like the world’s most unlikely ménage à trois. A configuration so improbable it could destabilize the moral fabric of a small town. This is why you never underestimate vinyl. One minute it’s alphabetized and behaving, the next it’s sneaking off to have a torrid affair with Arthur Lee’s back catalog.
But back to Wednesday’s 12" single presentation? Worth the price of admission — if I charged admission, which I don’t, because then I’d have to hire ushers, and they’d unionize, and suddenly I’m testifying before Congress about why my record collection has labor disputes.
The A side is, of course, a Soul Asylum original — no mystery there. But the cover version chaos kicks in the moment they decide, “Hey, what if we just… mashed half the record store together and called it a medley?” It’s the kind of arrangement that probably made the lawyers sit bolt upright, spill their coffee, and immediately start a group chat titled “ROYALTY NIGHTMARE — URGENT.”
They open with a nod to their hometown hero Prince — because of course who would expect that— and then, without warning, they swerve straight into Velvet Underground, then yank the wheel again and crash through The Godfathers territory. When the forensic audio dust finally settles, it turns out you’ve mashed together so many bands that the lab techs have started a betting pool. There are Eagles harmonies flapping around the evidence room, Ted Nugent riffs charging at anyone holding a clipboard, and Gang of Four rhythms staging a tiny revolution in the corner. If you tried to list every group involved, you wouldn’t be writing liner notes — you’d be drafting a manuscript the size of Minnesota, complete with a map, a glossary, and a warning that says “Do not attempt this medley at home.” It’s like they made a playlist, shook it like a snow globe, and recorded whatever fell out.
Wicked. Absolutely wicked.
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