Jayzuz, Jayzuz, Jayzuz.

They try and they try and they try. They attempt to make movies about the seventies. Maybe they drag in Burt Reynolds for cred. Of course he couldn’t remember what he had for lunch that day, never mind the seventies, but the attempt was there. Then the producer says, “Get me that Bradlando Bloompitt guy or what’s his name, Viggonardo DeCapricrowe, and have them ride around in GTOs and Chevelles and pick up groovy chicks and go to the disco and shit. And music, we need some of that seventies music, you know, Zed Leper and the Bee Goys and Earth, Wind, Ohio, and the Players. Get on the horn to wardrobe. We need lots of leather jackets and miniskirts or something. Whatever.”

No, no, no. It wasn’t like that. It was like this. This is the seventies. You should be driving a Datsun B210 with the back wing window busted out and plastic taped over the hole. You don’t need a movie star. You need a sort of R&B Gollum banging on a grand piano for some reason. Someone needs to be making noises through an upholstered amplifier fashioned from the back seat of the Munster Koach. Everyone must be barking through an SM-58. They buried that SM-57 microphone shtick in a shallow grave along with the Beach Boys.You should have not one, but two Telecasters being worried in the band. The drummer should be wearing lavender coveralls without a shirt on underneath and go to Karen Carpenter’s hairdresser, if not her nutritionist. The lead guitarist’s mind should be wandering, working out how he can turn his fuzz wah pedal into a rudimentary missile defense system while he lays down the licks.

And the girls. Dear savior, the girls.