The Epidemic of Misattributed MP3s

This rage which I am about to unleash has been building for a while. I download a lot of music. I hate stupid people who think they are right and are SO NOT. These two facts have intertwined to raise my considerable ire in the form of The Misattributed MP3.

I will now begin a regular feature of Misattributed Mp3s. Basically, when I find one, I will let you all know. I began writing this the other night with the intention of listing several, but the first one turned into a whole stream of consciousness thing and I lost my focus (thanks again, weed).

So let’s begin with:

“Low Rider” – Santana. Tragic. Pathetic. Not only have I seen this on Limewire, but also, if you Google Santana + low rider, a TON of shit comes up – mostly lyrics pages which are about as quality-controlled as Limewire. Fact is, not only did Santana NOT do “Low Rider”, they never even covered it. There are at least 15 known recorded covers of Low Rider, including versions by Barry White, Cypress Hill, and ZZ Top. No Santana! IT IS BY WAR. WRITTEN, RECORDED, ETC. GET IT STRAIGHT. JEEZ.

Segue: At work today, Mary and I were talking about Santana, and I said how his performance at Woodstock is my favorite in the documentary. She said hers too, and that her friend Joe or Ed or something was THERE and he was coming up over this hill just as Santana was starting, and as he approached, the hairs on his arms stood up. Cool.

[I am right now listening to “Soul Sacrifice”, the song with which Santana opened their Woodstock set. I couldn’t download the live version but it doesn’t matter. God he’s fucking amazing. The whole band. Shit, man!!! (can anyone tell that I am BAKED??)]

Anyway, so I was reminded of a VERY SIMILAR STORY from my own fascinating history. I went to see…drum roll… War – 2002 I think, summer in NYC, FREE concert at Brighton Beach headliner Credence Clearwater Revisited – shitty but entertaining b-list version of CCR with some original members but no Fogerty which is, like, WHY FUCKING BOTHER??? Anyway, OPENING for them – OPENING – was War. Like, the actual, real, all the original actual War guys. So I get off the subway at Brighton Beach, which is like Bizarro World Coney Island, one neighborhood over but a world apart. The most Russian/Ukrainian place I have ever been. I mean, WALL to fucking WALL scary-assed Slavs. Pouty women with too much make-up, fucking terrifying Jewkrainian mob guys – the ones Cosa Nostra is shit-scared of because they are so brutal – they steal and sell nuclear subs, as opposed to hijacking cigarette trucks. So I’m walking thru all this, dusk it just switching over to night, it’s warm but not humid, the sky is losing almost all of its pink bits, there’s still a little periwinkle to be found in the thickening blue…there’s a breeze…the sounds of the people on the street, talking about piroshkis and Putin are floating all around me…

As I approach the beach, the sound of Spill the Wine starting up creeps into my ears and wraps all around me like a beautiful blanket woven out of warm Californian sunshine and…the hairs on my arms stand up.