Few albums are recorded, released, exist in a dormant, hibernative state for forty-two years, then arise from below the ground to be recognized as products of genius. There are exceptions but, in most cases, if an album hasn’t gained traction within a year of its release, it is consigned to the Cutout Bin of History.

For my Millennial friends who have never experienced the pleasure of groping through a Cutout Bin, a brief history lesson is in order. Back in the day, before the entire Universe was digitized and uploaded onto a server in Palo Alto (yes, Virginia, one night while you slept we were all reduced to a Python script attached to an executable that can be downloaded from the App Store), record companies anticipated new releases by pressing massive numbers of vinyl albums. If the record failed to sell, the record company – or the distributor – would be stuck holding a shitload of albums and album covers. So to reduce the inventory, someone would ignominiously whack off a corner of the album jacket, slap a $1 sticker on it, and put the defaced record in the Cutout Bin, where budget-conscious music lovers – or those truly desperate for something to spin on their older brother’s turntable – could sift through the chaff in hopes of finding the wheat (you never did). Sometimes the store would practice a cruel trick by shrink-wrapping together a poorly-selling album by a semi-good artist and a terrible album by a total non-entity and charging you $2 for the set. Thus I obtained a Canned Heat album, along with an album by a bald folk singer of whom I had never heard (and to whose record I never listened).

The vast majority of the pressings of Sixto Rodriguez’ two albums, Cold Fact (1970) and Coming from Reality (1971) no doubt ended up in the Cutout Bin. The musical career of Rodriguez himself ended up in the Cutout Bin, set aside but not destroyed, awaiting rediscovery sandwiched between the Has Beens and the Never Weres.

The sudden “disappearance” and equally sudden “resurrection” of Sixto Rodriguez was wonderfully related in the 2012 documentary, Searching for Sugar Man. If you haven’t seen it, set aside a couple of hours this weekend and watch it. Like most people outside of South Africa and Australia, the film was my introduction to the music of Rodriguez; I had never heard a single note from Rodriguez before I pressed the Play button to start the movie. And before the credits rolled on Searching for Sugar Man, I had purchased and downloaded Cold Fact and Coming from Reality.

Some refer to Rodriguez as “The Hispanic Bob Dylan.” I don’t grasp the comparison. I suppose “Crucify Your Mind” has some lyrical similarity to Dylan’s less frenetic work, but musically it is closer to early Neil Diamond. I love the horn parts, pitched low and simmering like an organ. Unlike Dylan, who is often intentionally obscure, Rodriguez speaks to the Human Condition with words that are poetic yet unmistakably blunt. A few brief illustrations:

And you assume you got something to offer
Secrets shiny and new
But how much of you is repetition
That you didn’t whisper to him too
(from “Crucify Your Mind”)

Cause I lost my job two weeks before Christmas
And I talked to Jesus at the sewer
And the Pope said it was none of his God-damned business
While the rain drank champagne
(from “Cause”)

I wonder how many times you’ve been had
And I wonder how many plans have gone bad
I wonder how many times you had sex
I wonder do you know who’ll be next
(from “I Wonder”)

That is powerful stuff. It’s difficult to imagine that “I Wonder” came out in 1970. And, unbelievably, people really do get laid off just before Christmas. Gotta reduce the year-end payroll.

Sixto Rodriguez is still alive at age 75, and reportedly still lives in the Detroit home that he bought for $50 in 1976.

Bonus Video: Rodriguez performing “Crucify Your Mind” on the David Letterman Show, backed by a 25-piece orchestra.