“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.

 

I just sold my record collection.

This was a big deal for me. I started buying records in the spring of 1975, when I was in 5th grade. Maybe the fall of ’74. I don’t remember exactly.

I do remember the very first record I bought with my own money — Jim Croce’s Greatest Hits. I don’t remember the records that came next. I do remember, in the 7th grade, asking my mom for permission to buy Kiss Alive! from Smitty’s Big Town on Shea and Tatum.

“No. No Kiss. You won’t like acid rock,” she said. So, instead of Kiss, I bought Jeff Beck’s Wired and hated it so much I stuck it into the toaster after a listen. The next time my parents took me to Smitty’s, I headed back to the record department.

“I’d like to return this.”

“What for,” the dude running the record department said.

I handed him the record. “Look, it’s warped.”

He inspected it carefully, then inspected me, then inspected the record again; then he said, “this looks like you did it.”

I swore that’s the way I got it, and he relented, adding, “Store credit only. No cash back!”

I wish I could tell you I walked out of there with Kiss Alive!, but it was a double record, which meant it was a couple bucks more — and I didn’t have any money. And I wish I could tell you I grabbed something really cool, but that would be a lie, too.

Billy Joel. The Stranger. Why’s he sitting on the bed, staring at the mask on the pillow, barefoot in a suit? What’s up with the boxing gloves hanging on the wall?

A few years later, in the fall of 1980, a kid I played football with called Pat Crane lent me London Calling!, Singles Going Steady,  and an 10″ EP (on green vinyl!) called Klark Kent. Pat’s records changed the way I listened to music. Before that, it was metal bands and whatever was on heavy rotation on KDKB. I’d buy records with the money I made working for my dad. He built houses then. I’d ask for records as gifts, too.

In the late-80’s, everyone started selling their records (or giving them away!) and replacing them with CD’s. By this time, I was friends with Ben Wood and Mike Pawlicki and Clayton Agent. They worked at Zia. I sold some of my records to Ben and Clayton when left Zia to open their own store  in ’87.  (I just wanted to help out Ben a little starting out — although he didn’t take many of mine.) Mike joined the crew almost immediately, and Eastside Records became my go-to. By 2000, records were really cheap and I was buying a lot. But that didn’t last too much longer.

I moved to Los Angeles in 2009. I kept buying, even though records weren’t cheap anymore. Then, seemingly overnight, they got expensive. Really expensive. There were a few more years where you could still score some at a flea market, but those days are pretty much gone, too.

My mom had a stroke. Elder care begins now. There’s no room at her place for 30 boxes of records; and honestly, I’ve been over them for a while. I think what I’m gonna miss most is The Ritual: picking out the LP from my wall of records; sliding it out of its sleeve; placing it on the turntable; gently pulling the trigger on the anti-static gun and then immediately running the brush along the grooves to pull off any dust; then finally listening while I read the linear notes off the back; or, even better, opening the gatefold to check out whatever was going on in there. And the warmth analogue brings to a room!

When I sold the collection, I kinda choked up. Not because I don’t have anymore records. They’re just things. It’s more about the chapters life brings us; ending old ones and starting something new.

But wait! I just found a box of my books at mom’s from last year’s VNSA Sale. Oh, I forgot about these!! And at the bottom of the box? Five records! And would you look at them?! Nothing like it.

What if I kept 10 records at a time? No more. Just less. And once I get to 10, in order to buy a new record or two, I’d have to bring a record or two in to trade? With the five I have, I got room for five more! And what if I wrote about what I get — and what I take back? Not to critique the record but more to tell a story? Records have stories. Just like books do. So why give up a beat-up (but numbered!) White Album or a funky Dave Brubeck EP in order to get, say, something by Big Star or Led Zeppelin III or Ascension or a spoken word Bukowski title?! And now that I have it, why would I ever give up that Leadbelly EP?

The possibilities are endless.