Broken links fixed, Friday, Oct. 2, 5:15pm PST
LA TOYA JACKSON – 2 live sets (1989-199?)
Stay with me here on this one.
I’ve been systematically going through entire discographies of bands and acts that I should’ve gotten around to by now, but somehow have neglected. Did the Rolling Stones, front to back — rough in some major spots, actually kinda like 1986′s “Dirty Work” LP, more so than some of their ’70s stuff (but everything else after it is worthless flushable garbage, to be sure). Did Stereolab, front to back — the early and middle stuff is fantastic, but everything in the past 5 years is completely interchangeable, with no exception (listening to their last few LPs back-to-back made me wanna stick the barrel of a loaded pistol into my mouth.) Judas Priest, Grace Jones, Iron Maiden, Queen, AC/DC, Hall & Oates — I’ve been tackling a significant amount of material, and I feel good about it.
And then there’s La Toya.
When trolling though listings for discography torrents on The Pirate Bay one night, La Toya Jackson’s name popped up. After 2 days of waiting, her entire recorded output was sitting in a neatly organized folder on my desktop. I was anticipating something along the lines of Amanda Lear — and guess what, I kinda got it. La Toya’s stuff isn’t quite as balls-out ridiculous as the work of an Italian transsexual retardedly talk-crooning in an accent as thick as rubber cement, but it’s halfway there.
First off, La Toya can’t sing that well. Whatever — neither can half the people played on the radio right this second (thanks, auto-tune!) But there’s also a janky, 99-cent store “song-poem” quality to her albums that’s undeniably entertaining. That, coupled with the fact that she’s a much more famous performer’s stunted little sister, makes for some good times indeed. But, dear readers, there was another part to this torrent I’d downloaded that was even better — the live recordings.
To put it charitably, La Toya’s no Michael. In the recordings below, she sings nothing but covers (of both MJ and Prince!!!!, among others,) she’s frequently out-of-breath during her inane between-song banter, and the whole thing smacks of a cut-rate Branson family matinee. What’s not to love?