If Rodriguez’ Cold Fact had merely been the opening salvo and cornerstone of Sussex records (home to the funk both folked up and freaked out (Bills Withers & Cosby, Zulema, Dennis Coffey, Soul Searchers, ad mini infinitum (as much as 25 or so releases will allow), twould’ve been enough. But, really, it was more like a declaration of intent, a manifesto that, should you peep black wax with that multi-hued ovoid spinning on your Marantz 8 track/fm/stereo deluxe combo, prepare your ears and unwind your mind, cause there was some crucial noise waitin to penetrate your headbone. This is the sound of the 60’s collapsing into the 70’s. Those rose tinted granny glasses have cracked and fractured and the mellow high of that righteous Owsley is crashing something ferocious, all jagged and cut with strychnine. Rodriguez is the muse bemused, amused, bruised, braised, battered, and fried. The plaintive wobble of the plea to the “Sugar Man,” predating Neo’s red pill dilemma by decades, the wild Funk Bros powered scree and buzz of “Only Good for Conversation,” the track listing reads like a cynic’s lament: “Hate Street Dialogue,” “Inner City Blues,” “Rich Folks Hoax.” Hope curdled and dreams soured. But in a good way.