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There's nothing anyone likes better than a solid booty album. A nasty slab of lust you can toss on the hi-fi and get crack-a-lackin' to. Now, putting these files online here and letting all y'all download them is illegal. (And we wouldn't want to suggest you go to one of those illegal sites, download all the tracks and then burn the whole thing to a CD in preparation for Friday. That would steal from millionaire artists who need to eat.) But, because we're nice, where we could, we've posted some links we're you can hear these ten hot-and-heavies for nothing.

You're welcome.



Quit your bitching. We know this song's become somewhat of a boot-knocking cliche, but that's because it's a classic. Listening to this song is a lot like watching smutty movies with your friends: at first you're all drinking beers and ha-ha-ing about the implants, and soon the couples are sneaking off to the bathroom. The swinging 60's organ and breathy vocals start off kitschy and end up pretty fucking hot, sounding like the climax from Barbarella, when she's hooked up to the orgasm machine. Jane Birkin's moaning and panting would lead you to believe that Serge Gainsbourg lives up to the stereotype about the French being dynamite in the sack, despite the fact that he resembles an alcoholic high school English teacher. Whether you see him as the creator of inventive French rock, or a publicity fiend pervert who recorded a song called "Lemon Incest" with his 13 year-old daughter -- you can't deny the power of his most popular song.


If you've got any knowledge of Brown's private life and the smallest political conscience, this song teeters on the edge of inappropriate. Though it's obviously a paean to women's importance on this earth, those who're familiar with James Brown's history can't help but kind of see it as music to beat your wife by. Explaining over and over that men created everything of importance in the world, he throws the ladies a bone by saying that without their influence, all of it "wouldn't be nothin' without a woman or a girl." The licky-licky here is all wrapped up in the male/female power struggle and sorrowful, almost spooky instrumentation that makes it float along. There are so many levels to the sexuality of this song because both sexes are, inside it, the oppressor and the oppressed, the overlooked and the exalted. All subtext aside -- you can be a left-wing baby seal kisser or an apathetic dolt who can't pronounce Iraq, and you've still got to give it up for the power of this song. The instrumentation is barely existent -- and there's little James Brown, wailing and crying and generally getting his little white pantsuit all dirty from kneeling on the ground and testifying and shit.


It seems like only yesterday that Peaches strutted onto the scene, all Canadian and desperate to show us her pubic hair. Her album, Teaches of Peaches was clinical like a colonoscopy, with similar emphasis on the anal region. But unfortunately for her detractors, her album was also oozing sweat and energy, enough to make Madonna and John Malkovich rabid fans. Her live shows have been known to feature crotches, penetration, and more crotches, but it's not just the obvious that makes this music sexy. Electronica is often branded as "fuck music", but it sometimes leaves us feeling detached, like we're banging one of the members of Kraftwerk. "Fuck the Pain Away," though, it stays human and erotic, all the while driving its drum machine beats and cymbal crashes into your skull. Both nonsensical (her directives to "stay in school, 'cause it's the best") and almost nostalgic ("sucking on my titties like you wanted me, calling me all the time, like Blondie"), this track can't decide whether to make you dance or tongue-kiss. Either way, we dare you not to get swept up by Peaches boundless enthusiasm and plastic hotpants. With "Fuck the Pain Away", she's managed to turn a beatbox into a love machine and her surly voice into a siren call.

An earful of Peaches is available here:


If you google "Asha Puthli," you'll only come up with 364 web sites -- a pretty dismal showing for a musician who recorded 28 albums in her career. She had a jazzy soul hit in the seventies called "Space Talk," which sounds like the music that was on in the background while your parents did coke at their office Christmas party. In photos on the web, she either looks like an prim Indian princess or a heavily made-up psychic in flowing robes. But aside from the mystery surrounding her, Asha Puthli can put you in a goddamned stupor with this cover of a pretty unremarkable George Harrison song. "I Dig Love" begins with the sound of bubbling water and Asha gulping like she's swallowed something thick, following by evil giggling. For the next four minutes, she vamps and screams and purrs like Eartha Kitt. Then she shrieks angrily and drops into a deep voice, like a little girl imitating James Earl Jones. Asha's got the sexy/scary thing down pat, all the while exercising her considerable vocal acrobatic talents. "I Dig Love"'s lyrics mainly consist of druggy babble like "I dig love in the morning, I dig love in the evening. I love DIG!" -- which only makes the mood that much more ominous and arousing. Like a night of debauchery that you don't remember the next morning, "I Dig Love" is a classic example of what happens when free love and cheap narcotics collide.

Worship at the Puthli temple:


In this, Black History Month, we're interested in celebrating the true heroes of the African-American culture. In this spirit, Ginuwine's "Pony" makes it onto our top ten. This song slipped into the public unconscious for a while, and was reborn like a phoenix for many people when the Monsta Jams commercials started airing recently, advertising a collection of early 90's hip hop and slow R&B ditties. Then it all came flooding back: Ginuwine's ridiculously shiny and pronounced six-pack abs, his R-Kelly's-less-attractive-little-brother good looks, and his saddle, which we are heartily encouraged to ride. The pulsing, rolling bass line is porn itself, and the lyrics push the envelope right off the table: "If you're horny, let's do it -- ride it, my pony. My saddle's waiting, come and jump on it." It's the kind of song you turn off when you and your grandma are riding in the car together. It's the kind of song you'd listen to as a kid in your room, with the sound turned almost to silent and the door tightly closed. It's the kind of song that the Catholic church would like to ban, were they not so busy with other pressing matters right now. And for something that balls-out triple-X sexxxual, Ginuwine, we salute you. You and your pony.


Sweet, sweet Margo. She didn't achieve the success she deserved the first time around, but with the recent re-release of her 1968 album, Take a Picture, she gained the cult following that had been owed to her for more than 30 years. Now Beck's sucking her cock and everybody's clamoring for her to stage a comeback tour. It's not hard to see why Margo's got everyone in a tizzy. The back cover of the album features her laying on a carpeted floor, in afternoon sunlight, with someone passing her a joint. It's a fitting introduction to her breathy vocals and laid-back late-60's love songs. The best track, "Sunday Morning," isn't so much for bumping and grinding as it is made for laying in bed all day and sleepily making out. The arrangements and electro-funk guitars might seem a little dated, but everyone who hears it from your speakers still asks if it's the new Stereolab album. "Sunday Morning"'s one of the best makeout tracks ever because it manages to be both orchestrally overwrought and sensually lazy all at once. With her coy invitation to "do what other people do on Sunday morning," it won't be long before you're busting out this album while you brew a pot of coffee, with some looker still waking up in the other room.

Get a boner for Margo here:


Marc Bolan, the lead singer of T. Rex, died a tragic death at a very young age. A very fruitful career in big booty jams cut short in a car crash and it's a pity we'll never know what could have become of Bolan were he around today. Thankfully, we've got a library of music to pore over and appreciate, most of it so sensual that almost any album could serve as music to bang by. "Mystic Lady" is a particular favorite because its lyrics are vaguely decipherable as a love song. (T. Rex's biggest suck point: The lyrics sometimes read like the poetry you wrote when you were 14, if you were a pansy-ass fairy with a penchant for witchcraft.) The pounding guitars start up all sloppily, and Bolan starts his delicate, cocky vocals and you're immediately seduced. By the time he's moaning, "riding sliding sorceress in your dungarees," you'll be acting like there's Ecstasy in your coffee and humping your desk. "Mystic Lady" can transport you somewhere, somewhere where people are smoking opium and laying down, rubbing each other. It's like rolling around in bed with Dionysus and Jagger and Bowie, all of them feeding you grapes. It's automatic glam rock sexuality -- just add liquor and stir.

T. Rex audio is lurking here:


Ah, ah, ah Arkansas. Land of missing teeth and backyard wrestling matches. The Gossip comes out of the gate with the determination to change all that -- or at least turn you into a devout chubby-chaser. Lead singer Beth starts out most shows with several shout-outs to her sistren, "the fat ladies!", and then proceeds to peel down to her bra and underwear, exposing what happens when Wendy's and Long John Silver's collide. It's far from being distasteful, though -- this shit will turn you on. She gyrates and sweats and dances and generally becomes the woman that Jack White of White Stripes fame called "the sexiest thing I've ever seen." The best track on their album, That's Not What I Heard, is "Swing Low," an Oedipal nightmare in which Beth calls herself "Momma." You get to be "Momma's baby" and your mission is to lick her downtown. The garage rock is a-flyin' here, and not the type you're likely to hear on a Nissan commercial anytime soon. It's raw and messy and ready to fight. The album as a whole isn't nearly as good as their live show, but other bands try in vain for their whole careers to replicate the energy that squirts from The Gossip's best song. It's got everything you'd want from a frenzied makeout session: conflict, passion, and catharsis.


Screamin' Jay Hawkins' legend might just overshadow his unbelievable musical accomplishments. Word has it that he was orphaned as a child, raised by a Native American tribe, fathered 57 children, and regularly performed on stage after leaping out of a coffin. Though it was certainly entertaining to visit, the jokey (and apparently, lost) website founded in order to locate Hawkins' illegitimate children, it's dangerous to forget the fact that Screamin' Jay was an artist, first and foremost. His classic, "I Put A Spell on You"'s been done and re-done more times than Asia Carrera, but no one's come close to eclipsing the original's intensity. Not bad for a song that Hawkins claims he was too drunk to remember recording. But maybe that's the key to its appeal. The noises that come out of his mouth are unearthly howls and bellows, like a voodoo horror movie soundtrack that maintains an operatic dignity. His accompaniment sounds like evil burlesque music, lurching forward, undressing you with its eyes. That deep, forceful baritone is exactly what makes Screamin' Jay Hawkins so erotic. "I Put a Spell On You" can silence a room full of people deep in conversation, and that's the appeal to all of his best songs. They're startling, and they're creepy, and they're sexy to the core.

Screamin' Jay Hawkins wants to spook you out:


The beginning of the song "Cry for Help" features a sample from James Brown, which is rather apropos for Har Mar Superstar. Now imagine that James Brown is a doughy white guy who looks like Ron Jeremy, sweating through his satin underwear on stage. Then you'd have the delightful Har Mar, who's also known by his former persona, Sean Na Na. Though you'd likely have to close your eyes to appreciate the sex appeal at one of Har Mar's live shows, his music is devoted to all things between the sheets, stirred up with his white boy soul and his jiggly stomach. "Cry for Help" is a humpy, brass-filled dance number that's got him begging to learn how to control himself around his object of affection. Along with the porn-funk guitars, there's plenty of hip-hop style posturing thrown in the mix, in lines like, "All the ladies stick to me like noodles to the wall." Musically, the song's a perfect soul-pop song, with a driving beat and an energy so lustful that you'll have to test your stereo for chlamydia afterwards. On another level, there's a question here: Do you get the joke? There's as much hipster posturing underneath this track as there is sincere longing. Fortunately, Har Mar doesn't force us to decide. With songs that radiate this much fuckability, does it really matter?

Let yourself go with Har Mar Superstar:


Molly Simms, the former music editor of Bust magazine, writes for money. Sadly, the Black Table doesn't pay any money. We are now in hiding.