Taking the lead of our colleagues at The Vinyl District Memphis, we will be featuring first person stories from music makers, booking agents, band photographers, DJs, and anyone else who is driving the sound of the Portland scene about the first record they ever owned. To start us off, though, I thought I would share my nostalgic musical memory from 1986. Read on…
Technically, this isn’t really my first record. If my hazy memory serves me correct, there were other records before this: a hand-me-down copy of Simon & Garfunkel’s Bookends, 45s of such classics as a-ha’s “Take On Me” and Paul McCartney’s theme to the Chevy Chase/Dan Aykroyd vehicle Spies Like Us, and at least two Men At Work albums.
But those always came to me through the largess of someone else. Usually a family member trying to make me feel better about being the youngest child and being the one prone to browbeating at the hands of his older siblings. It wasn’t until 1986, when I was 11 years old, that I was finally able to buy an album that was of my choosing.
I couldn’t tell you the name of the place I bought it – it was a chain music outlet inside a mall in Lynnwood, Washington – but I remember clearly eyeing the strange green tinted cover, with a body lying in repose under pink letters that read “The Smiths” and “The Queen Is Dead” and gravitating towards it.
I also couldn’t tell you why I chose that particular LP. My best guess is because it was a band I knew my older brother was into, so maybe it was my way of trying to impress him. In a way I did, but I’ll get into that in a second. So, without hesitation, I grabbed it (and a 45 of Sigue Sigue Sputnik’s “Love Missile F1-11” bought solely because it mentioned something on the cover about being featured in the film Ferris Bueller’s Day Off), brought up to the counter, and got an arch look from the sales clerk. $15 or so later, I was out the door with my new purchases.
After all that, I didn’t actually get to listen to the LP. I did try to use for leverage with my brother, and when I showed it him he immediately used his powers of persuasion and my innate gullibility – not to mention my aforementioned need to impress someone six years my senior – and talked me into giving it to him. “I’ll put it on tape for you, with some other stuff you like. That’ll be so much better, right?” I nodded furiously, not wanting to miss my chance to work with closely him on what songs would end up on side B. And I never saw my copy of The Queen Is Dead again.
Of course, through that tape (which I’m hoping I still have tucked away in my archives somewhere), the whole world seemed to explode before my eyes. The rumble of Mike Joyce’s drums that kicks off the title track, the lilting acoustic guitars that drove “Cemetry Gates”, and, of course, “There Is A Light That Will Never Go Out.” I was never the same after that first 45 minutes of blissful Britpop.
Almost 25 years later, I still don’t own an actual copy of the record. When I decided to seriously look for one a few years back, originals were far too expensive. And now that a vinyl reissue is out, I’ve been holding off because my brother assures me he’s going to return the copy I bought to its rightful owner.
I’m just not sure how I will feel when I finally slide the LP into its place on my groaning record shelves between Meat Is Murder and Louder Than Bombs. Will I feel some sense of completion? Pride at finally achieving some kind of equality in my brother’s eyes? Or simply a nostalgic pang for those years when that cassette copy was my whole world?
All I know is that if my brother wants this Jandek reissue I’m holding on to for him, he’d better get me that Smiths record first.
