Category: 10 Records

I’m the first to admit a bad idea. Especially when I’ve made it.

Bikram Yoga, just off the top of my head. It’s tough enough sitting in a 105-degree room for 90 minutes. Add the same 26 postures, over and over, and you’re slow-roasting in a humidified cult. And yeah, the people who really love it? Like I said — culty. And kooky. Making for an unsustainable practice.

Picking up a skateboard after a couple decades, thinking I’d pick up right where I left off? Bad idea. I’m lucky I didn’t break an arm — or at least dislocate a shoulder. And how come adults don’t fall like kids do?

Pulling out the novel I submitted for my MA at the University of San Francisco? Still in the box I taped up in 1999. I’ve got a feeling that’s going to be a bad idea, too.

Then there was the day I sold off my entire record collection. Honestly? Not a bad idea. But when I shook The Record Dealer’s hand, I got a little verklempt. Not over the sale itself — more the sense that a chapter was ending. I blogged about it. Almost went a little cry baby.

The Record Dealer just smiled and said, “Don’t be upset. Just start collecting again!”

So I did…sort of.

And I made up a rule: only ten records, max. If I wanted to bring home an eleventh, I had to choose one to cut and trade back in. A brilliant idea, right?

Meh.

For reasons I can’t fully explain, it really didn’t stick. Elegant in theory; not so much in practice. Come to think of it, not-so-elegant in theory, either.

Which brings me to what will almost certainly be another bad idea: the Blue Note 1500 series.

From 1955 to 1957 (give or take), Blue Note released 99 albums, starting — of course — with 1501: Miles Davis Volume 1. The 1500s might be the most iconic run in jazz history. Legendary musicians. Unmistakable sound. And the cover art? Mid-century amazing. Clean layouts, bold typography, and some incredible Francis Wolff photos. A whole aesthetic summed up in less than 100 records.

Collectors have been chasing them for decades. Some pressings go for absurd money. Like, “you could’ve gone on a really nice vacation” money.

And yet, I’ve been thinking about this much longer than I’d like to admit. Perhaps waiting for a sign. A sign from wherever the signs come from that trigger The Collector to start collecting. Then, a few days ago, I walked into Grace Records. I’ve mentioned Grace before. Just like I’ve been blogging about this whole 10-record thing. I walked into Grace, and there, in one of the three boxes behind the cashier, that sign appeared. A wonderful, beautiful sign, solid black, highlighting The Man with the tenor saxophone in blue with amazing white & blue typography. And a first pressing!! For less than a hundred bucks! In decent shape!

So yeah. I’ve made another bad decision.

Besides, I’ve been lucky enough to visit Europe a whole lot. And Hawaii? It’s totally overrated.

“Junk in the Trunk” is marketed as a “Vintage + Artisan Market” market, which is fine by me. At least I know what I’m getting myself into. I know I’m not going to clamor through filthy boxes and creepy Chevy vans crammed with vintage porn, but I certainly will find a terrific Iced Americano to go with my $25 entrance fee. In other words, Junk in the Trunk is the kind of place you’d expect to find in North Scottsdale, where  avocado toast is $15, and for $48 you can find a sweet-smelling, hand-poured candle, or a reclaimed mahogany cheese board engraved with the phrase “Brie Mine”.

I didn’t think I’d score a double-record Afrobeat-prog-jazz hybrid with 14-minute drum solos. And yet, there it was, buried between Night Moves and Rumors. And for just a sawski? I was all in. Which is the only reason to go to vintage and artisan markets.

The only thing I really know about Ginger Baker is he played drums for Cream, and he’s got a knack for punching people in the face. And sure, in the almost 50 years I’ve been paying attention to records, I’ve come across Ginger Baker’s Air Force more than once. It’s not a rare record. But it’s kinda undeniably cool. I especially like the way Martin Sharp designed it. I mean it took some balls for Sharp to hand ATCO Records a design with all the information about the record — including the band’s name — on its back cover.  For the front? A weird, surreal wave-of-something crashing down on some exclamation points and a floating target and musical note with people running around God-knows-where. And are those brown things Ampersands? Who knows!? One thing’s for sure, ATCO had bigger balls for green lighting it.

One more thing. I’ve trimmed my collection down. I’m trying hard to stick to this self-imposed 10-record-rule. I went to Eastside and got some trade cred with the Billy Childish and Martin Frawley records, and I gave my niece Diet Cig as a gift. And here’s a piece of friendly, record-collector advice: if you’re around Tempe and into Billy Childish, I’d run down there ASAP and grab “Blues That Kills” by “Wild” Billy Childish and The Chatham Singers.

One last piece of friendly, record-collector advice: something tells me I’m not holding on to Ginger Baker’s Air Force for more than a listen…or half a one.

 

 

“HEY! Do you listen to AM or FM?” That’s what she asked me. Just like that, too.

It was the fall of 1974. I was in 5th grade, living in Calumet City. She was a little older, way cooler, and so pretty I couldn’t believe she was talking to me. (Cliché, I know.) I don’t remember her name. But I remember the moment: I was walking home from school, already nervous as she approached. I looked away—then, like a miracle, she spoke. To me! And she asked that question like it mattered.

Because it did then.

You might not know this, but in 1974 AM radio meant “Seasons in the Sun,” “Band on the Run,” “One Tin Soldier,” and “The Night Chicago Died.” I knew them all. I didn’t know FM radio — at all. Didn’t know it was even a thing. So I immediately—and excitedly—blurted out my reply: AM! Because WLS’s Larry Lujack was playing all my hits. And I needed to impress her.

The rest of my after-school, 5th-grade life consisted of dirt clod fights, building elaborate forts, collecting beer cans, and avoiding — at any and all costs– The Burnham Boys. And “La Grange.” I can remember hearing Billy then as clearly as I remember that girl—that unmistakable guitar riff followed by his talky-growly-laughy, make-no-sense HAVE MERCY A-HAW HAW HAW HAW that confounded and fascinated me. An oddly amazing song. A song that etched itself into my brain. I loved it then. Still do.

Two other things I need to tell you: in 1974 “La Grange” made it onto both AM and FM heavy rotation; and, in 2009, I watched, in amazement, as The Eels covered it long after what everyone thought was the final song of their show. Meaning The Eels played their set, then their encore…and then, of course, most of the crowd had left. Cause the show’s over, right? I would have usually been gone by then, too; but I was slowly nursing a final beer and talking to a pal and getting ready to walk out when the band suddenly reappeared—as house lights remained on—and they launched into “La Grange.” Maybe the six or eight of us remaining got to watch that. Pretty amazing, huh?

Anyway—it was a no-brainer when I ran across a clean, used copy of Tres Hombres at Ghost of Eastside in Tempe. It’s now the 8th record in my 10’s-the-limit collection.

And The Girl Whose Name Is Lost Forever? She laughed when I answered her question, turned, and walked away.

Because of course she did.

Paul’s Boutique dropped in July of ’89. I was 25, spending that summer living in a campground on a beach in Olowalu. The previous July, I was competing for a spot on the US Olympic Team. I put the shot. Which is to say I was a shot putter. And the difference between July 1988 and July 1989 was profound: in 1988, I was a focused, goal-driven athlete taking on the world; a year later I was confused, depressed, and questioning my existence. I just didn’t know it then.

My mom was a science teacher, and for her July of 1989 meant attending a summer-long Science Teacher Seminar on Maui. My little brother was 10 and busy being an adolescent. And I just tagged along. My brother and I had nothing but time, the ocean, and a pair of cassettes that would soundtrack those months: Beastie Boys’ Paul’s Boutique and De La Soul’s 3 Feet High and Rising. Literally, it’s all we listened to.

Now, decades later, the 7th record in my 10-album-is-the-max collection is Paul’s Boutique Demos, an “unofficial release” on 21 Bridges Records. (Unofficial release AKA “bootleg”, which is something I don’t hear the hip, vinyl-collectin’ Millennial-and-GenX Hipsters talk about too much when they’re talkin’ “vinyls”.) Tony and I played Paul’s Boutique and 3 Feet High and Rising over and over. We couldn’t get enough of either. Which is what appealed to me about this record. I’ve lived inside Paul’s Boutique for so long, I wanted to hear the songs in their infancy, stripped down and raw and maybe very different from what made it to the final release. A new way of hearing something so familiar, like watching a film in black and white instead of color. And speaking of color, how about the bright pink vinyl the fine folks over at 21 Bridges chose to press these?

I was 8 years old when Honky Château was released in May, 1972. It’s Elton John’s fifth studio album, following Madman Across the Water (1971) and preceding Don’t Shoot Me I’m Only the Piano Player (1973). I just found out it was recorded at the Château d’Hérouville in France; which, of course, partially explains its title.

Four months later — 5 September 1972, to be exact — the Israeli Olympic team was taken hostage by Palestinian terrorists. The only reason I mention this is it’s my earliest memory of a world event.  I was in the second grade. Mrs. Raymond was my teacher. The thing I remember most about her was in the Spring of that year she read The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe to our class in its entirety. This sent 8-year-old-me on a Chronicles of Narnia obsession. I had to have all seven volumes. And sure enough, that Christmas I got the 7-volume, boxed edition. I wish I still had it.

The only reason I mention any of this is as I age, I’m starting to recall events in my life way more now than any other time. Which is to say I never sat around at, say, 25 years ago thinking about Mrs. Raymond and CS Lewis. Nor would I have ever sat down to listen to any Elton John record from start to finish. Up to finding this really clean, first-pressing of Honky Château (with gatefold!) at the Topanga flea (for 5 bucks!), I wouldn’t have even considered buying an Elton John record. (That’s not entirely true. When I sold my collection, I had a copy of Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road and Madame Across The Water.)

I’m not sure what any of this means, except it’s all a function of age. That and by far the very best track on Honky Château is “Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters.” It’s buried on side 2, the 3rd of 5 tracks, which kinda surprised me.

My record collection now, as it currently stands:

Blogger’s note: If you’re not familiar with my newly-found record collecting habits, you might want to read this entry first.

The soundtrack to Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song (STS-3001, 1971) is as revolutionary as the film itself. Released on Stax Records, it features a raw, urgent score by Melvin Van Peebles — as performed by Earth, Wind & Fire. Betcha didn’t know that. The record is what you’d imagine: a cool blend of jazz, funk, and soul — with audio samples from the film. It’s a groundbreaking soundtrack, too, because it didn’t just complement the film—it helped define the sound of Blaxploitation cinema. (Just FYI, I still haven’t see the film, but it’s streaming on Criterion. I think pretty much elsewhere, too…just not for free. And one last Just FYI while I’ve got your FYI attention: I’d never heard the album before, either. So I’m going to write about Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song on a particularly nice, warm-and-safe Higley Arizona Sunday afternoon while I listen to it for the very first time.)

I’m no music critic. I’ll leave that to failed and wanna-be music nerds. And I still haven’t figured out what, exactly my angle is going to be with these record blogs. Maybe just to tell a story and try to incorporate my latest record find into it. Kinda like Nick Hornby’s 31 Songs — without its seriousness of tying the songs into important, life shaping events. Because certainly strolling down the aisles of one of my very favorite record stores to find a copy of a record so water damaged someone took it upon themselves to “fix” doesn’t shape one’s life. (Nor should it). Open the gatefold to find another beautiful mess. Pull out the record to find a wholly playable, very clean copy of an album with a median value on Discogs is $25 and some change.

Cause life’s all about values, right? And handmade record-cover fix-its. And gatefolds. And finally, never calling a record or an album or an LP “a vinyl”.

Blogger’s note: If you’re not familiar with my newly-found record collecting habits, you might want to read this entry first.

Jungle Marmalade (1968) is the second and final album by The Lemon Pipers, a band known for their blend of psychedelic pop and bubblegum rock. Released on Buddah Records, it followed their hit single “Green Tambourine.” The pretty much sounds like you’d imagine — typical of the era, the band’s name, and what’s going happening on the cover. It also marks the end of the band’s brief run.

I had no idea about The Lemon Pipers — let alone Jungle Marmalade — when I picked it off a small stack of records at the Topanga Flea a couple months ago. But I did know about their song “Green Tamborine”. (You probably do, too.) I just didn’t know a band from Oxford, Ohio called The Lemon Pipers sang it. (In addition to “Green Tamborine”, I’ve heard “Jelly Jungle’, too. (You’ve probably heard it, too.))

I paid the dude $4 for Jungle Marmalade — a bargain, according to Discogs.  I actually paid him $5, but he didn’t have any singles…and since it was a fairly clean copy, I told him to keep the buck. Which didn’t come off as an arrogant thing to do, but writing this now makes me sound totally dickhole-ish.

I also scored a stack of professional wrestling 8×10 promos from the 50’s at Topanga, which, to me, is way more exciting than a Lemon Pipers record. And since I recently took 5 of my records in to trade at my very favorite record store  — The Ghost of Eastside — my record collection now stands at 4 records. But I did walk away with 6 when I left Eastside; I just don’t have time to write about it now. I’m about to take my mom out for a plate of spaghetti.