Alright, buckle up. This one’s gonna hit different. "Johnny Johnny Please Come Home Groovin'" by Claudja Barry and Ronnie Jones isn’t just some dusty old funk relic from 1978—it’s a disco bomb Italy dropped that still slaps harder than most modern crap out there. Produced by Jürgen S. Korduletsch on Lollipop Records, this album doesn’t mess around. It gets straight to the point: make you move, make you sweat, and leave your brain too fried to overthink it.
Let’s talk tracks. First up is “Johnny, Johnny (Please Come Home)”—and holy hell, does this joint slap. The bassline? Ridiculous. Like, I don’t care if you hate disco; when that groove kicks in, your feet betray you faster than trust in a bad friendship. Claudja Barry’s vocals are smooth but sharp enough to cut glass, while Ronnie Jones brings the raw energy like he’s begging Johnny to come back before last call at the club. You feel every damn word. And let’s not even get started on those strings—they’re so lush they might as well be illegal. This track sticks with me because it’s impossible not to scream-sing along when the chorus hits. Try it. You’ll see.
Then there’s “Groovin’”, which feels like being hugged by the funk gods themselves. If “Johnny” was all urgency, this one’s pure laid-back swagger. The rhythm section locks in tighter than skinny jeans after Thanksgiving dinner, and the guitar licks? Chef’s kiss. Ronnie Jones owns this track like he invented coolness itself. Every time I hear it, I’m transported to some neon-lit roller rink where everyone looks better than they have any right to. It’s addictive, man. One listen turns into ten replays without you even realizing it.
What makes this album wilder is its Italian roots. Yeah, Italy. Not exactly what you think of for funk and soul, but here we are. These cats didn’t just copy the American sound—they twisted it into something uniquely theirs. Hats off to them for pulling it off.
Here’s the kicker though: listening to this record today feels kinda bittersweet. We live in an era drowning in polished, lifeless beats made by algorithms. But back then? People poured their guts into this stuff. They weren’t chasing streams—they were chasing vibes. And damn, did they catch ‘em. Makes me wonder how many fire albums like this got lost in time, forgotten in someone’s attic or buried under piles of junk no one cared to dig through.
So yeah, go find this album. Play it loud. Let it remind you music used to mean something more than playlist filler. Oh, and if anyone knows where Johnny went, tell him we’re still waiting.
