Rip Taylor's Buyers' Remorse

Rip lived a couple blocks from Th' House O' Foam© here in bosky downtown Vegas, and would often drop by with some vinyl he'd scored at the Nellis Blvd. Goodwill store, where the proprietor put albums aside for him.

Rip was famous for his outrageously camp stage act, but his secret passion for vintage psych albums was as serious as it was comprehensive - his vinyl collection occupied an entire room, leaving barely enough space for a high-end valve-driven hi-fi set-up.

Last time he visited he brung a couple of albums hot from Nellis Blvd., and we relaxed in Th' Conversation Pit' O' Sound® for the audition.

Rip: Color me trepidatious, Farq. I don't know what we got here. You know how I am with N.Y. bands ... [makes face]
FMF©: Yeah. Can't play, won't play. Hackamore Brick. I think I heard of 'em. I think.
Rip: Right. Typical Big Apple cover. Couldn't be anywhere else, could it? Fire escape was the only outdoors they had. Poor bastards. Kama Sutra - what can possibly go wrong?
[several minutes later]
FMF©: Sounds a little ... thin? Like a demo. Or The Fifth Avenue Band.
Rip: Guy can't sing, can he? And that scratchy strummed electric guitar. Annoying.
FMF©: Let's hear what else.

Rip: Took a flyer on this. Head West, with Bob Welch.
FMF©: The Bob Welch? Bonkers Bob?
[several minutes later]
FMF©: How much you pay for these, Rip?
Rip: Buck thirty-eight.
FMF©: Each?
Rip: Both.
FMF©: Sounds about right.
Rip: And some confetti.