"Disco Pope", by The Prats.
Everything about this song -- the running time, the format (four-song seven-inch "EP" in a black-and-white paper sleeve), the searing but also endearing amateurishness of the performance, the herky-jerk rhythm, the what I call (possibly inaccurately) "Mi-Sex" lettering, the name of the band, the catalogue number (RT042) -- is so redolent of that brief moment in time when everyone else noticed that the doorway that punk had crashed through was still open and that there was room for all of them squeeze inside and make music, glorious music, that you can almost smell it. (In fact, if you had an original vinyl copy you most probably could actually smell it.)
Oh, and with the papal appointment of a South American, there is no better moment than right now for a song called "Disco Pope".
