Into the pantheon of completely non-essential albums enter…Latina Nights, the latest from Jeremy Spencer. He was once a member of Fleetwood Mac. He was third fiddle (guitar) to Peter Green and Danny Kirwan and he was sometimes the star of the show; rock’n’roll parodies – Elvis impersonations, slide-guitar routines, his manic energy was crucial to the ’69 tour.
And then he left the band. And famously became a footnote – one of several in the long, rambling-Mac soap-opera. Spencer took too much mescaline (yes-yes, rather than the ‘correct’ amount) and ran away to join a religious cult. He did return to music while still rocking about with the Children of God. And no one really cared about his sporadic releases in the 1970s.
Then he disappeared for a good stretch, came back clean of drugs and religion and got into releasing blues albums. And playing live. And it was a bit like the reinvention of The Rolling Stones’ Mick Taylor.
But Latina Nights is a bit of an embarrassment. Nylon string acoustic playing and soporific slide slights loosely dance across what feels like guide-piano and rudimentary pre-programmed drum-rhythms.
This feels like the sort of busker you might catch at a Hawaiian resort, playing for tips.
I can now forgive Carlos Santana for most of the shitty-bling-fuckery he served up in the 90s and 00s. Almost.
But I still wanted to connect with this. Because: Fleetwood Mac Baby.
If one of the members of that band – past or present – released an interactive kink-machine that dropped a shit in your mouth while you slept I’d be there. So, um, yeah.
Thus ends my review of an album you never need to hear.