The Fate of My Vinyl Jazz Collection
Streaming music is 8-track redux
It’s funny how reading something that comes out of right field can reignite memories of significance.
I came back to the Island (Martha’s Vineyard) the summer after my second year of college. It had been an excellent school year and I found myself strolling on main street in Vineyard Haven hoping to meet acquaintances who would certainly ascertain from my countenance that I had indeed had an excellent school year. I would meet them with a calm and confident gaze, assuring them that their accolades were indeed well received and, truth be told, well-placed. Thank you. Indeed, thank you.
That college boy demeanor lasted until my first encounter.
“Hey man, I just saw your records for sale over there.” He motioned towards the second-hand record shop about twenty yards from where I stood.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Yeah, like half the records in there have your name on them.”
I was in shock. My countenance collapsed upon itself, unto a black hole visage, for one’s record collection is one’s holy of holies. Thus violated I lurched towards the store as a madman following his obsession, only to find them on display—yes it was true—my neatly written name on the top right of the covers, my personal stamp of approval of the contents thereof, imprimatur of a true Jazz afficionado.
It got worse. Staring at me from the first bin of records was my personal favorite. No, I would not admit to it publicly because it lacked seriousness. If it had been me setting up the display in order to advertise myself, I would have placed Ornette Coleman or a late John Coltrane front and center. But deep down, pulsing in the heart of every true jazz lover, is a straight-ahead blues. It was the first jazz album I had ever purchased, and I loved it. What is love of a vinyl album? It is when the world stops in anticipation for that needle to drop and connect with the plastic plate, and then slip into the rugged groove that encoded the music. Bliss. Here is the album and my favorite track:
My friend Justin Baer introduced me to this album.
“Hey, listen to this. I think you’ll like it.” No further commentary necessary.
This may have been the first album that I bought but it was not the first recorded music that I purchased. Yes, I was one of those. I had inherited from some family member an eight-track stereo system. What can I say? You have the system, you buy the medium that plays on the system. In the days of The Monkees and The Beatles, high fidelity was not high priority. Plus, the whole idea enchanted me. It was fun from the start. The way the player slurped the cassette into a snug fit. And played forever, a perpetual music machine. Did I mention eight tracks? Not one, not two, not four, but eight. Only an audio engineer knew what that meant but eight had to be better than whatever was less than eight. And all was well until those eight-tracks became ate tracks. Miles of tape not just slurped-up but digested in the electronic bowels of the machine. I looked at the mountains of cassettes in my room already containing an impressive collection of Jazz and knew that it was over. Each play could be the cassette’s last. My musical identity was on the verge of collapse. Something had to be done, and soon. What had to be done was the original transitioning. Rebuild the entire collection. Which I did purposefully and successfully until I had a collection of vinyl albums of which to be proud.
Until I didn’t. The girl behind the counter did not know the story behind my collection being on sale. My musical identity was being prostituted out, and I would not enjoy the proceeds. It was a case of Love for Sale for free:
Speaking of whom. Mel Torme, second generation American Jew, scat singing like Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughn at 01:05. One example of what Jews can do when they are not threatened. Thank you America.
I stood in that store for a half hour waiting for the owner to return from his lunch break. I imagined him eating eight-track tapes. I really didn’t know how I was going to handle the situation. The albums had obviously been stolen from my friend who kept them for me while I went to college. At first I suspected the owner, but it didn’t make sense that he would display stolen property for all to see. Eventually the owner returned, listened to me and calmly said:
“What do you want from me? Ed Larkosh sold them to me.”
My friend, Ed Larkosh, the one to who I had entrusted my collection for safekeeping while I was away expanding my mind, had sold my record collection. It did not compute. Ed was a Jazz musician, a drummer, and the main reason I left my collection with him was that I knew he was one of the few on the island who could appreciate its value as music, and would enjoy it, and would also know how much my collection meant to me. I was furious as I left the shop and walked towards Ed’s apartment.
My anger lasted only about half-way to Ed’s, because for me Ed up until about three years previously had been Mr. Larkosh, my grade school science teacher. Yes, he insisted that I relate to him as a friend, as an equal, but that is easier said than done. Back then we had respect for our teachers, and he had been a good one. It took time, but Ed it eventually became, and remained, and it was towards Ed that I was walking.
He greeted me with his great smile and invited me in, and seemed prepared to pick up where we had left off: talking Jazz. I gave him a cock-eyed look, as if giving him a chance to come clean, but he ignored it. My anger started to grow again. I came out with it:
“Let me see my records.”
“They’re not here. I sold them,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I know! I saw them for sale. What happened?”
He paused before he answered, and looked me straight in the eyes.
“It was really cold this winter. I didn’t have money to heat this place. I was freezing. I knew you’d understand.”
And I did, to my credit, if I say so myself. I transitioned. As I stood in front of him almost shivering just from the thought of the cold I smiled and said:
“Did you get a good price?”
“I’m still here. It was enough to get me through the winter.”
We laughed.
“I saw Weather Report in Indiana.”
“Really? How were they?”
“Wayne was subdued, but Jaco!”
“Jaco!”
“Jaco went wild right from the start.”
We sat together discussing music for a little while longer. I looked at him and said:
“That was a hell of a collection.”
“A damn fine collection,” he said.
Well, that's true friendship. Remember the movie, Love Story? "Love means never having to say you're sorry." Something like that.
You might like the post today on Thinkopolis. It's called "The 40,000 Year Old Man." (Thanks, Carl Reiner.) It starts with a killer accapella rendition of Hava Nagila - wish I could play the whole thing.
Beautiful writing. As a musician, I was right there with you in shock and righteous anger as you stomped up the hill to Ed’s house. The ending though, the twist - changes everything. Well done.