Small Town Talk by Marilyn Jones: A Funky Time Capsule from 1975
Alright, let’s get real for a sec. Small Town Talk by Marilyn Jones ain’t your typical polished funk/soul record—it’s raw, gritty, and it hits you like that one friend who always says what everyone else is thinking. Released in ’75 under United Artists Records (Canada, reps up!), this album doesn’t try to be perfect, but damn if it doesn’t grab your attention anyway.
First off, “Where Is My Home” smacks you right in the feels. It’s got this slow-burning groove that sneaks up on you before exploding into this soulful cry for belonging. The bassline? Ridiculous. Like, I’m talking about the kind of bass that makes your chest vibrate even through crappy earbuds. And Marilyn’s voice? She sounds like she’s lived a thousand lives, all poured into one track. You can almost picture her wandering some neon-lit city street at midnight, searching for something she might never find. Every time I hear it, I feel like packing my bags and hitting the road—even though I have no clue where I’d go.
Then there’s the title track, “Small Town Talk.” Man, this song is straight fire. It’s got that swaggering rhythm that makes you wanna strut down the block like you own the damn place. Lyrically, it nails small-town gossip culture so hard, it’s almost uncomfortable. Everyone knows someone who talks too much, right? This track basically calls them out while keeping the vibe smooth as hell. The horns punch through at just the right moments, adding this brassy edge that screams confidence. Honestly, it’s impossible not to bob your head or mutter "yeah" under your breath when this one comes on.
Now, look—I’m not saying every track here is gold. Some songs drag a bit, and yeah, there are moments where the production feels dated. But honestly? That’s part of its charm. This isn’t some shiny, overproduced mess designed to sell a million copies. No, this is an artist laying it all out there, warts and all.
Here’s the kicker though: listening to Small Town Talk feels like finding an old Polaroid in your grandparents’ attic. It’s faded, maybe a little torn, but it tells a story that sticks with you long after you’ve put it down. So do yourself a favor and give it a spin. Just don’t blame me if you start questioning whether you really belong in your own hometown—or end up buying a ticket to Canada because Marilyn made it sound cooler than anywhere else.
