Funkadelic, Cosmic Slop (1973)

Funkadelic, Cosmic Slop (1973)

If America Eats Its Young was a scattershot sprawl that couldn’t decide whether Funkadelic were an acid rock band or a weirdo-soul band, a protest group or a party-starter, Cosmic Slop was where they threw mutual exclusion in the garbage and streamlined all that identity-crisis stuff into their first great self-reinvention. There’s a catch — there always is — in that Eddie Hazel wouldn’t be back until the following LP, and the band on the whole is at their most compact and stripped-down (though you wouldn’t know by hearing it). On the other hand, you’ve got the most lyrically gonzo songwriting than any Funkadelic LP before and quite possibly since, its politics thrive on gallows humor and lysergic spirituality, and the cover is the first of many Salvador Dali-meets-Sergio Aragones works by Pedro Bell, one of those rare artists who you could swear spilled his ink right in the grooves of the LP itself.

The mood does careen a bit; “Nappy Dugout,” the gyno-euphemistic bass strut from the rubber factory supervision of “Boogie” Mosson, shares a side with the PTSD reality check of the “Johnny Comes Marching Home”-quoting ‘Nam vet dirge “March To The Witch’s Castle.” But that’s more noticeable because each mood, whether levity or agony, is the product of every writer, composer, and player falling so deep into each song’s that coming up for air is a shock. “Witch’s Castle” aside — and put it aside at your own risk; it’s a harrowing masterpiece — the old-fashioned R&B ballad “This Broken Heart” is the only other downer, and a damn pretty one, thanks to Calvin Simon’s waist-deep tenor. But even the more upbeat songs have downbeat casts to them, whether it’s the pimp-on-trial “Trash A-Go-Go,” the hyperbolic post-breakup self-pity of “You Can’t Miss What You Can’t Measure,” or the immortal title cut, where the Devil’s latest dance craze scores the cost of living for a single mother driven to prostitute herself to support her children.

To keep at least some sign of high spirits, it takes something as frivolously pornographic (and hilarious) as “No Compute,” a Clinton monologue detailing his mishaps in trying to sweet-talk his way into a little action: “I said, ‘All looks are not alike, all holes are not a crack. When in doubt, vamp. Or at least ad-lib. And of course you know that spit don’t make babies.'” And even though he succeeds, it’s at the cost of a bad case of post-coital ennui (and getting “sick with the filthies”). That points to the dark heart of the album: There’s a sign of love gone wrong in every single track past “Nappy Dugout,” from the been-burned-before pleas of “Let’s Make It Last” to the fading connection of “Can’t Stand The Strain;” even the soldier marching off to the witch’s castle had his loved one remarry because she thought he was dead. In effect, Funkadelic gave the world the anti-Let’s Get It On — and it’s just as great at making love feel like pain as Gaye’s summer-of-’73 classic is at making it feel like heaven.