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Friday 12/8/23

I was going through some of the thousands of emails that have accumulated in my inbox the other day. Most are from publicists. Once you get on a list you didn't sign up for, you'll be sent hundreds of things from the same source.

As I was doing this, I saw one email for a new Smokey Robinson album that was titled Gasms. I thought, "This can't be real."

I clicked on it, and there was the press release. Still wasn't convinced. I mean, Gasms? What are you doing, man? Looked it up today, though, and yeah, that's the title and I guess it came out in the spring.

I can't imagine that went over with the record label, and they must have said, "He's Smokey Robinson, he's adamant, just let him do what he wants or else we can't put it out."


Why not just call it Orgasms then? If you're up for Gasms, just go for it and title it Orgasms. I'm not sure how I'd respond if someone said the word, or whatever you want to call it, "gasms" to me. Like that was their pet orgastic shorthand term. Not that the word "orgasms" comes up that often. No one at the Starbucks says, "That was an orgasm of a latte."

But the guy who wrote "You Really Got a Hold On Me" (which along with Sam Cooke's "Bring It On Home to Me" is one of the two quintessential soul groove numbers) wrote "Gasms," the first cut on the record of the same name. Gasms galore.

I just looked at the list of tracks. You also have "You Fill Me Up"--perhaps a pegging anthem--and "I Fit in There," which could likewise be an ode to anal. That could be a song: "Ode to Anal."

What a strange thing to do.


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