Isaac Hayes became a point of playful controversy in the apartment. My mother was a big fan, and played his records often. I couldn't stand him, and I'd make Mum laugh by poking fun at "Black Moses" - this big, ugly guy who shaves his head, but can't be bothered to trim his bushy goatee. Shirtless, showing off his flabby body. Can't he afford to buy himself a shirt, mommy? On top of that, there's that voice! That awful moan, hitting frequencies that were beyond the hearing abilities of an eight-year-old boy used to bubblegum pop, acid rock, and doo-wop. Only dogs could hear Ike.

Professor George Clinton wishes to clarify something:

"Do the dog!
Do the dog!
Do the dog!
Catch her!"

"Ain't nothin' but the dawg in me..."

And a bow wow wow yippee yo yippee yay. Thanks, George, for that point of clarification.

So the Black Moses LP gets released, and Mum buys it. It had an elaborate sleeve - it unfolded into a large poster. It went quickly on the wall in the living room; a big cross-shaped poster of Ike in a hooded caftan and shades (he must have left his gold chains in Egypt), in some sort of vague prayerful pose, as if he were preparing to lead us - by the ones, twos, threesomes, and orgies - into the Promised Bedroom. Or something.

I had a field day with that one.

Years later, Mum releases her record collection to me, a varied bunch of stuff, much of it older than me. The first things I reach for: Hot Buttered Soul, To Be Continued, and Black Moses. Isaac Hayes. Unfortunately, I opened up the now-folded-again sleeve to Black Moses, and found nothing. When the sleeve was used as a poster, the record was placed elsewhere. I still haven't found elsewhere.

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