Herbie Goes Bananas! Dept.

Herbie Hancock's disco years are best forgotten. In fact - we forgot 'em awready! But there's some swell albums post-Headhunters and pre-electronica that tend to get overlooked, so we're underlooking them here, and brother, are they ever grand! We'll disregard his parallel "serious jazz" releases because they're boring.

Secrets ramps down a little after the sublime Man-Child (here), eyeing disco warily ('76 was arguably Peak Disco?). It's almost effortlessly gorgeous. Maybe he's coasting a little, but it's a pleasure to coast along. Ideal Isle O' Foam© surfside audio for that mind vacation you've been promising yourself!

While there are struts toward the dancefloor in the funk-pulse grooves of '77's Sunlight, it came wrapped in a Mister Disco Plays The Hits cover [not shewn - Ed.] that looks almost parodic today, designed - and I use the word in a newly ironic sense - by the idiot responsible for the terrible Man-Child cover. Well, fuck him. At no extra cost, we're supplying this here revamped design [left - Ed.] you'll be proud to shew your lowlife pals. 

Caveat griftor: some vocoder content.

Cowering in the shadows of the glitter ball, with its hands over its ears, is Mr. Hands, a lost gem of an album from 1980. It's the first time Herb used a computer to create music, but the music is warm, eclectic (yes, there are disco beats but also acoustic jazz piano), and delivers the tasteful sophistication we expect from the Hancock brand. Varied line-ups don't compromise the overall integrity of the album's sound. What's that cover about? Nobody knows.

After this, you'd of thunk he'd of - but no. Back to the sateen flares for another three years of ballsaching dancefloor fillers that nobody noticed even if they were strutting their stuff to them. 

We'd have to wait until '83 for th' Herbster to bury his chest medallion in the sock drawer and re-invent his bad self with Future Shock, but these here three albums (plus the peripheral and strangely sterile Direct Step, included as a bonus in the loaddown) show his considerable disco output as nothing but a shameful cash-grab he should have avoided, and surely didn't need. Yes, the piano trio carried on regardless, producing cookie-cutter jazz noodling to placate the beret-wearing hep-cats, but the amount of fucks I don't give about them would block the Suez Canal without going sideways. While in no way threatening the sublime Headhunters trilogy (yes, I know about Flood), these albums make for swell headphone listening when unexpected guests drop by with their insufferable kids.