Album Review: Everything Look Good (Ain’t Good)
Man, this album slapped me right in the feels. Released back in ‘76 by Bill Wright, Everything Look Good (Ain’t Good) is one of those hidden gems that doesn’t scream for attention but still grabs you by the soul. It’s funky, it’s raw, and it’s dripping with emotion—like someone bottled up a summer night in the U.S. and poured it straight into your ears.
First off, let’s talk about the track “Everything Look Good (Ain’t Good) (Vocal).” It’s got this groove that sneaks up on you, like when you’re walking down the street minding your own business and suddenly catch yourself nodding to some distant bassline. The vocals hit hard—they’re smooth yet gritty, kinda like Bill Wright is whispering truths only you can hear. You know how sometimes lyrics just stick? That’s what happened here. I found myself humming it days later, replaying the line “everything look good, but it ain’t good” over and over. It’s not just catchy; it’s real. Like life slapping you with its contradictions while you boogie.
Then there’s the instrumental version of the same track. Man, this cut is pure vibe fuel. Without vocals, the horns take center stage, wailing like they’ve got their own story to tell. Al Gardner’s arrangement deserves mad props—it’s layered without being overwhelming, letting each instrument breathe. There’s something hypnotic about how the drums lock in with the bassline, pulling you deeper into the groove every second. Honestly, it made me wanna grab a tambourine and crash someone’s BBQ party.
What gets me most about this record is how unapologetically human it feels. It wasn’t polished to death or stuffed with gimmicks—it’s just two guys, Bill Wright and Richard Marks, pouring their hearts into something honest. You can tell they weren’t chasing trends; they were making music because they had to. And yeah, maybe that’s why it didn’t blow up back then, but damn if it doesn’t resonate now.
Here’s the kicker though: listening to this album felt like finding an old Polaroid photo tucked inside a book—you don’t know who took it or where it came from, but it makes you pause and think about all the stories behind it. Maybe that’s what great funk/soul does—it reminds you we’re all connected through these little moments of joy and struggle. Or maybe I’m just overthinking it after too many listens. Either way, go find this album. Let it mess with your head a little.
And hey, if you ever see me at a thrift store flipping through vinyls, ask me about it. I’ll probably be rambling about how underrated Momentum Records was.
