It's Tuesday night, the store's closed, and I'm alone with Scott Lucas' record collection. Not literally—Local H's frontman didn't actually break into my apartment and leave his vinyl—but that's what this playlist feels like. "January: The One With 'Kid'" opens this thing, and if you know that album, you know Scott made it alone after his drummer quit. Two-piece band, one guy left. That's the whole story right there.
What strikes me about running to stolen records—or imagined stolen records, whatever—is how theft changes ownership. These aren't my songs. I didn't grow up with Led Zeppelin making out in basements or AC/DC at keg parties. But the second you lace up and press play, they're yours. Mile one always lies to you, and "Good Times Bad Times" is the perfect lie. Plant screaming about winning and losing, and you think, yeah, I can do this. Two miles later your lungs disagree.
The Zeppelin-into-Pretenders transition is where this gets interesting. Chrissie Hynde doesn't sound like she's stealing anything—she sounds like she already owns it and you're just renting space in her world. "Precious" and "Tattooed Love Boys" back-to-back, both from that 2006 remaster, and suddenly you're not running away from work stress or toward some imaginary finish line. You're running because forward motion is the only honest response to being alive and confused about it.
Then AC/DC shows up like your friend who never learned subtlety. "Riff Raff" into "What's Next to the Moon"—two tracks nobody puts on their greatest hits mental list, which makes them better for this. The deep cuts hit different when you're three miles in and your brain's starting that thing where it detaches from your body. Bon Scott's howl feels like an actual transmission from 1979, not a nostalgia object.
But here's where the playlist pivots: Interpol's "Fine Mess." Paul Banks' baritone after all that classic rock swagger is like walking into a dark room after bright sunlight. Your eyes adjust. The Libertines follow with "Run Run Run"—and yeah, the irony of a song called "Run Run Run" on a running playlist isn't lost on me, but Pete Doherty's snarl has this desperate-romantic thing that makes you push harder without knowing why.
Then Kyuss. Three tracks. "Demon Cleaner," "Gardenia," "Odyssey." This is where the playlist stops pretending to be about fitness and admits what it's actually about: staring into the void while your legs move. Josh Homme's guitar on "Demon Cleaner" is thick enough to chew. Brant Bjork's drums feel like they're coming from underground. You're not running fast here—you're running heavy. There's a difference.
The closer is "Heart of Glass" by Blondie, which is either genius or completely unhinged. Debbie Harry's disco-punk perfection after fifteen minutes of stoner rock sludge. What came first—the seriousness or the release from seriousness? Does it matter? Your legs hurt, you're almost done, and suddenly you're allowed to feel something other than noble suffering. Running isn't noble. It's just repetitive forward motion with a soundtrack.
Top 5 tracks that have no business being running music but are: 1) "Odyssey" by Kyuss—eleven minutes of desert doom when you should be doing intervals, 2) "What's Next to the Moon" by AC/DC—too slow, too weird, perfect anyway, 3) "Fine Mess" by Interpol—brooding post-punk isn't supposed to motivate, yet here we are, 4) "January: The One With 'Kid'"—Local H's drum-machine heartbreak as a warm-up is borderline hostile, 5) "Heart of Glass"—finishing a run with disco feels like showing up to a funeral in a sequined jacket. Honorable mention: "Gardenia" for being pretty and crushing simultaneously.
I don't know who Scott Lucas stole these records from, but they knew something about sequencing pain and release. You run away from things or toward things, never just for fitness. This playlist doesn't care which one you picked.
