Vinyl Vault Entry #3: A Monument to Disco Perfection with Patrice Rushen Compilation

For the third Vinyl Vault entry, T&E writer Ronny Kerr talks about the newest addition to his record collection -- Remind Me: The Classic Elektra Recordings 1978 - 1984, a compilation of disco, soul and jazz hits from composer Patrice Rushen. He discusses the legacy of Rushen's disco era, favorite memories of DJing this record, and his newfound love for compilations. 

Album: Remind Me: The Classic Elektra Recordings 1978-1984 (2019)
Artist: Patrice Rushen    
Label: Strut
Genres: Funk, Soul, Jazz, Disco, R&B
RIYL: Chic, Dâm-Funk, Janelle Monáe, Kamasi Washington, Sade, Solange, William Onyeabor
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Why did you choose this record? 

​I chose this record for a few different reasons. First, because it’s one of the newest additions to my collection, purchased in May as part of Bandcamp’s ongoing first Fridays series (where they waive their share of sales to help support artists through COVID-19). Second, because it’s an anomaly in my collection, as I’ve usually been a purist about only buying studio albums or 12” singles. Finally, and most importantly, because of the music: These are Patrice Rushen’s biggest hits in their best forms (the 12” versions). It’s simply a monument to disco perfection. 
 
What does it sound like? 

It sounds like a respected jazz pianist taking a left turn—to the dismay of traditionalists in the jazz world—and creating some of the greatest, most time-tested disco tunes ever. Patrice herself explains: “The idea was to create music that was good for commercial radio / R&B. We were all making sophisticated dance music, essentially.”
 
What is the packaging like for this release?
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The three-LP set includes a 12” square glossy booklet, featuring rare photos and an exclusive new interview with Patrice Rushen. 

What’s your relationship with this album?
 
As I mentioned, I generally stay away from compilations. This rule of mine stems from a deep-rooted appreciation for listening to music “the way the artist intended.” In the case of the classic rock gods I grew up on, that means the original studio album. When my musical tastes expanded to include dance music, this “purist” rule of mine expanded just enough: I would allow myself the indulgence of 12” singles. 
 
“Greatest Hits” and “Best of” compilations just never sat right with me. So while the occasional compilation could sneak its way into my collection, I never really valued them. I saw them as temporary conveniences to later be replaced by studio albums or 12” singles, depending on the case. 
 
In learning more about music over the years, however, I’ve likewise learned how these rules are arbitrary. After all, compared with the sea of singles and sheet music that dominated before studio LPs became a thing in the 60s and 70s—and placed in context amid the strange chaos of music releases in the streaming age—the idea of studio albums as a gold standard now seems quaint. 
 
A big shift happened when one of my best friends bought me Nigeria 70, a compilation by Strut Records in the UK. That 3-LP set, consisting of 2+ hours of some of the choicest afrobeat you’ll ever hear, has saved my life at many a DJ set. The penultimate track alone, Shina Williams’ minimalist funk masterpiece “Agboju Logun,” I must have already played dozens of times in its full 12-minute glory. 
 
I’ve since realized that Strut is something of a master when it comes to compilations and reissues. From dance punks in New York City to jazz titans in Haiti and South Africa, they have a knack for discovering and surfacing super high-quality music across genres. And so when I saw that they were the force behind this new Patrice Rushen retrospective, I was all ears.
 
Any specific memories of DJing this record? 
 
This specific compilation is new to my collection, but I’ve loved Patrice Rushen for more than a decade now. Falling in love with disco was a process for this music snob: In high school, Aphex Twin taught me that electronic music, not just rock music, could be good music. In college, Daft Punk taught me that, yes, even dance music could be good music. And Daft Punk, of course, was my gateway to disco. 
 
It was only a matter of time before, living on my own in San Francisco, I would find myself voraciously consuming anything with Larry Levan’s name on it (which led me to Patrice) and then eventually spinning at a bar on Sunday nights in the financial district. (In other words, for whichever of my friends felt bored enough to come out.) But I do remember one weird night, while my flimsy 7” copy of “Forget Me Nots” sang out of the bar’s little soundsystem, a crowd of young hip women came into the bar and for a few beautiful moments danced their asses off like it was the coolest party in the city. Then they vanished as quickly as they’d arrived. I think we figured out that they were working on a video shoot in a nearby street, but hey—everyone can take a little time off work for a Patrice Rushen dance party.
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​​Tell us more about your record collection in general.
 
Like a lot of guys my age, my record collection started as my dad’s record collection. In high school, I cherry-picked a couple dozen of my favorites from his stash—Bob Dylan, Cat Stevens, Chicago—and then gradually grew it into the 500+ monster it is today. Reflecting my love of everything but the kitchen sink, I have a crateful of classical and another five crates of pop, hip hop, funk, rock, jazz, electronic, and beyond. Admittedly, my collection has probably skewed more towards disco since 2011, when I first started DJing for fun.
 
What does record collecting mean to you? 
 
Every collector will tell you: Record collecting is a disease. Try as you might to resist, you keep finding yourself in record stores spending too much money on discs and paper that seem really light when you’re holding one or two, but can cause serious back injuries whenever you have to move 500 to a new home, or worse, whenever you secure a regular DJ gig. Of course, the kids are smart, and have moved on to USB drives and Serato/Traktor. You should do the same.
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