Sometimes you latch on to things. If you’re here, reading this, you probably have a serious case of vinyl attachment, but there are all kinds of psychic warm blankets to pull over yourself: music, books, comedy, movies are just a few. People? Yeah sure, but that’s a whole other article for a different magazine.
After recently pulling myself out of a depression-induced couch jag, I realized that I had probably watched the film Almost Famous 248 times in about two weeks. For some reason I found it comforting: the relatable displacement of a confused geek thrust out of his bubble and behind the curtain of the soundtrack that defined his life. All the music that is so personal becomes demystified. Ever been to a concert and look around at some of the people there and wonder what the hell you could possibly have in common with them other than the music?
Then there’s Phillip Seymour Hoffman as Lester Bangs, dishing out venerable wisdom about the withering of rock music, rock magazines, rock stars, and some of the other bright and shiny mysteries of the universe like being cool, or more importantly, being uncool.
And the moment when young William Miller unearths the stash of records his sister left behind for him in order to set him free, “Light a candle and play Tommy and you’ll see your future.” Well, whatever to that. That’s the sheen of slimy romanticism that movies will feed you every once in a while (re: all the time) but but but but but…maybe this one time, when he drops the needle on the platter and “Sparks” kicks in, maybe you’re going on that ride. Maybe you feel the roller coaster dip into the abyss: your first dive into escapism.
I don’t remember mine. I’d like to report that I had some sharp vision of hearing “Smells Like Teen Spirit” for the first time and knowing that things were going to be different for me from that moment forth, but I was far too submerged by then. The actual realization that music was going to be riding shotgun probably came somewhere between abusing old Elvis Presley 45s someone was irresponsible enough to allow me to listen to on a Fisher Price Gramophone and a futuristic-looking clear Maxell cassette of Layla my mom taped off the radio and listened to relentlessly due to an unyielding crush on Clapton.
And so what? What does all this have to do with anything? Well, as it happens, The Record Store in Howell, N.J. decided last week to have a 30% off all vinyl sale. For those of us that find ourselves kicking around sea level in Ocean (or Monmouth) County, this is our main hub. This is where one goes when trying to build a collection because there aren’t many sadder sights than a disorganized, half-full shelf of albums slunk down to one side, leaning on each other like barstool-drunks.
Of course there is more to it than the aesthetic aspect and it’s that I’m moody. I want to be able to summon anything I want at any moment. Yes, I could download it, but there’s something about the process of searching for that perfect record, sliding it out of the cover, and hitting the right grooves – it’s therapeutic. I want to be able grab “Coffee & Cigarettes,” “Tears of Rage,” or “How to Disappear Completely” should a situation call for such songs. I want to know that if for some reason the urge to hear “Take Me Home” hits me I can confidently reach for No Jacket Required and know I’m going to find that devil-faced Phil Collins staring back at me.
Even something as common as “A Day In The Life,” sure, I could wait 15 minutes for it to pop up on the classic rock station, but what if it’s 4 a.m. and I need to hear it? No. It has to be there. Like a friend. Keep your friends close. If you get lonely, invite them over. Put them on.
But I’m a little light at the moment. I need to start filling in empty spaces. I want to stuff those cabinets until I need to buy more cabinets and stuff those too. I want everything—cheap—Django Reinhardt compilations and Velvet Underground reissues and Sinatra with Count Basie at the Sands and Sam Cooke and Pearl Jam and Prince and the Kinks and Paul Revere and the Raiders. I don’t want to sweat it. I want to know that no matter what’s going on, I got something for it.
So, I shuffled through the back entrance, past the drapery of toys and t-shirts, armies of Imperial Stormtroopers and Batman figures staring out through their plastic coffins, leading to the long tables of comic books surely destined to be source material for movie franchises or basic cable pilots.
When I finally arrive at the dug-out shelves of records, Carlin on Campus is there, prominently in the front of the ‘C’s as if it had been waiting on the curb for me to pick it up after soccer practice. Instinctively, I plucked it and started rooting through the rest of the C’s almost hoping to find copies of all of his specials but, having given myself a $20.00 ceiling, I had to make some tough decisions. Get Happy would have to live another day; which mainly came down to the fact that there were four copies and my certainty that I would soon return to claim at least one of Mr. Costello’s works. I already had the Soft Parade, didn’t I? What condition could this copy of Goat’s Head Soup be in for $2.00?
After recovering from nearly blurting out to the universe, as well as several grade-school kids looking for Spider-Man toys, “Where in the hell is all the Tom Waits?” I settled on Warren Zevon’s Stand in the Fire, because it’s hard for me to say no to Zevon. Adding that to the Carlin and a $4.99 (-30% so really $3.49) copy of 50,000 (-30% so 35,000) Elvis Fans Can’t Be Wrong, I was almost ready to go when I decided to give the ‘W’s one last desperate sweep hoping to find at least a copy of Rain Dogs when I came to three copies in a row of Tommy.
Without thinking about it I returned The Supremes: Live at the Copa back to its home and pulled the least-damaged looking of the three into my stack. Truth be told, I don’t even like the Who all that much, but maybe it’s time to give them another chance, to see what happens when the needle drops. If, candle properly lit, everything does become clearer. Who knows? I saw it work in a movie once.
—By Shaun McGann
