“’I’m basically the Indiana Jones of record collecting,’” I said to my wife the other day.
We had just arrived back home after running a bunch of mundane but necessary Saturday morning errands. As usual, I managed to squeeze in an unplanned trip to the record store between grocery shopping and the drive home. I figured I deserved a little reward after taking care of business. While digging through the new arrivals at Logos Books & Records in Santa Cruz, I stumbled across a bunch of rare albums I had never seen before.
I knew what they were instantly; they were all on my mental wish list. I also knew I would never see them again, so I snapped them up without hesitation. The one I was most excited about was a scarce Joe McPhee album from 1983; I put it on as soon as we walked in the front door. As the off-kilter calypso free jazz of the first track bounced and slithered around the room, it was hard not to see myself as some sort of dusty treasure hunter with a head full of obscure knowledge and a passion for rescuing what I consider to be long-lost, valuable relics.
I started collecting records back in high school, which is when I first discovered the fun-on-a-budget of thrift stores and garage sales. From the beginning I completely ignored all the albums I’d already heard of and gravitated more toward the ones that were unknown to me. Why would I buy the same Boston album I’d seen and heard a hundred times when I could buy Focus’ Moving Waves for the same price from the same bin? Why would I spend my time listening to the same songs I could hear on any classic rock radio station when I could be enjoying the novel sounds of guitar pyrotechnics and demented yodeling that actually kept my ears interested?
I had discovered an inexpensive way to explore new territory and sample new music (before the internet, of course), and I was hooked for life. I still own the record I bought on my first vinyl hunting trip to the Salvation Army in Havre, Montana, nearly twenty years ago. After flipping past the ever-present Andy Williams records and holding my growing disappointment at bay, I happened upon an album that actually tickled my fancy. I wasn’t quite sure what it was at the time, but the title pulled me in. I left that thrift store fifty cents poorer with an excellent copy of Joe Harriott’s Abstract tucked under my arm. To this day that remains one of my favorite albums of all time. Is there any other way to get a lifetime of enjoyment out of fifty cents?
After moving to San Jose in 2002, my record collection really began to grow. I was overjoyed by the number of music stores in the area with well-stocked used vinyl sections; I was in record heaven for a long time. As my tastes continued to evolve and my knowledge continued to grow, however, I began to experience the “Boston” effect all over again. When one loves to hunt for long-forgotten treasures, seeing the same records over and over again quickly becomes tedious and disappointing. I needed a new place to get my fix, and about ten years ago, while driving down Bascom Avenue, I found it. When I read the faded letters on the weathered brown sign in the rundown strip mall as I drove past, I knew I had discovered my new paradise—Big Al’s Record Barn.
The Barn is a place that must be experienced in person to be truly understood. It is an immersive sensory experience. The musty-dusty smells, the dimly flickering lights, the freezing-even-in-the-summer temperatures, and the crackly Jimmy Reed records playing over the buzzing speakers all contribute to the unique atmosphere of this magical place. Seated behind the counter at the entrance to the store is usually Big Al himself, a gruff bear of a man who is extremely friendly to those who speak the right language and quite abrupt with those who don’t. Ask him about Nancy Ames, Hank Williams, or Gene Vincent and you’ll be flooded with the most interesting anecdotes imaginable. Ask him if they sell CDs and you’ll be met with a condescending brush-off.
When Al isn’t working the counter, his genial old buddy Joe usually is. Get on Joe’s good side and you’ll usually get an even better deal than the going-out-of-business sale says you should get. At the end of the counter you will find an enormous cage holding Huey, the loudest, most talkative parrot of all time. Beyond the entrance, the huge warehouse is packed with giant eight-foot shelves bulging with hundreds of thousands of records. The majority of the albums are actually quite organized, but for a treasure hunter like me the true magic is in the massive miscellaneous spots at the end of each of the alphabetical sections. Hundreds of unfiled/misfiled records populate these areas, and truly great discoveries can be made.
One day I stumbled upon a cache of Morricone soundtrack albums hidden deep in the miscellaneous bluegrass section. Another trip led me to a few Jimmy Giuffre records misfiled in the miscellaneous B section under rock/pop. I’m convinced those albums were hiding in plain sight waiting for me, and only me, to find them. If you head to Al’s specifically looking to pick up some classic Kinks albums, you may leave disappointed, but if you plan to spend a few hours digging with patience and an open mind, you’re very likely to leave with a great discovery in your dusty hands.
My vinyl collection is my pride and joy, my hobby, my textbook, and my retirement plan. Hunting for the old and the obscure in the dark corners of music history has given me a unique perspective and approach to making music. Listening to records, learning about my finds, and researching for my mental wish list has definitely made me a better musician. I’m already looking forward to my next trip to Big Al’s Record Barn; here’s hoping I can convince my wife to take me.”
—Mike Rawlinson
New Cadence’s “The Yesteryear” EP is available now.
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