Me And My Record Collection

     As I am getting longer in the tooth, I have been starting to wonder if I have gone down the right path.  No relationship or desire to have one and a house full of records that only I care about.  I end up panicking, filled with dread and anxiety that I am going to die alone.  Then I see the arguments and other general bullshit that “happily” married people that I know have to put up with and I feel much better about the bullets I have dodged.

     Never in my life, while listening to Miles Davis or The Stooges, have I felt the urge to yell out, “Shut The Fuck Up!!!”  The first four Black Sabbath records have never disappointed me at the end of a day.  The Velvet Underground has never told me they were going to do something and not done it.  These drug addled, horrible people that I would not want in my house have never let me down when they are condensed down to twelve inch plastic discs.

     Organizing my record collection has become a full contact sport.  The almost 3,000 LPs occupy three large shelving units on two different floors of my house.  A through D are on one shelving unit that is on the first floor in a smaller room with my main stereo set up.  E through Z are on the second floor occupying two shelving units in my bedroom with a smaller stereo set up.  The lack of space in the bedroom is not really a problem since I only use the room to store my body when I'm not using it. There's normally a pile of records that could fill two milk crates sitting around, waiting for me to shelve them.  By the time I get done shifting the existing records around and putting the new records in alphabetical order, I'm covered in sweat and usually bleeding from the knuckles.  If I weren't as lazy as I am, I should get into the habit of filing them as they come in after they get cleaned and listened to but that's in an ideal world where I don't have other stuff to do.

     When I used to have a regular record store that I was loyal to, I would end up there at the end of a bad day much like some people would head to the bar for happy hour to blow off steam.  I would root through every bin even though I had been through the same bins the week before just in case there was a used record that came in since then.  Or if some savage put a record they decided not to buy back in the wrong place, I'd put it back in its rightful place.  Then I would hand in a list of new releases for the store to special order while picking up the order that just came in.  The folks that ran the store always knew to keep an empty box around for when I came in because no mere bag could contain my purchases.

     There are some records that I can't not buy every time I see them in the bin.  The first Clash record is an example of this.  Every time I come across an old pressing of it, I have to take it home with me as if it were a rescue dog.  I'll end up giving the record to someone but I can't just leave it in the bin. The first Clash record deserves a home and goddammit I can give it one so I will.

     These days, I am a nomad without a record store since the two that I used to frequent for years have either closed or changed hands.  This has left me to my own devices to find records on the internet.  Internet record buying has its advantages and disadvantages.  On one hand, I can get new releases on the usually limited colored vinyl but the downside is the exorbitant cost of shipping.  And yes, I will go through the expense to collect all of the different color variations of certain records.  For some odd reason, I do need all four colors of that True Widow record.  For used records, there's always Discogs and eBay but the prices have gotten out of hand due to the “resurgence” of vinyl. Everybody that has an old David Bowie record with severe ring wear on the cover thinks it's worth fifty dollars.  Add to that, every local store seems to be picked over unless there's a junky with a record collection that needs a fix or to cover their rent.  But those finds are few and far between anymore.

     Maintaining this beast of a collection also takes time and patience.  Used records are usually a challenge to get to a point that won't damage the turntable needle when listening to them.  I have found animal hair, dried up bits of pot, dirt (not dust but backyard dirt) and someone's math homework in used LPs.  Used records need to be cleaned and usually given a new paper inner-sleeve before the needle hits them.  All of this effort is starting to not be worth it if the used record costs too much and the new pressing is around the same price, if not cheaper.

     Other than ruining my child's future, the main problems of having a record collection this size would be having to move it or having to sell it.  Having to box them all up, put them into the back of a truck and then unload them at a new location would be an insurmountable task.  Or at least a task I don't want to do.  If I were in the unfortunate position to have to sell the collection off, I would have to do it a record at a time in order to recoup anywhere close to what I paid out for them.  Grading and listing them all would be a full time job in and of itself.

     I used to think that there was no such thing as too many records but I think I might be getting to the point of overload.  And yet I keep laying down my hard earned for more and more records.  Those Ramones anniversary reissues aren't going to listen to themselves, you know.

What Was I Thinking?

     I was reading a James Baldwin essay where he was riding through the South by bus and described the faces of the driver and one of the other passengers.  The immense detail he went into made me realize how solitary and uninteresting life has become.

     Most of my week consists of going from my house to my car to work then back to my car to my house and repeat for another four days.  The deafening silence and solitude of my car would be maddening if it weren't for music.  My iPod has become my best friend.

     I have been able to go days without speaking.  With the wonders of self checkout at the grocery store, I don't even have the fake chit chat with the clerk as I cash out anymore.  When I have to stop somewhere for coffee, it takes me a minute to remember how to use words beyond pointing to my mouth and grunting, “Put coffee in the coffee hole.”

     Everyone seems to be isolating themselves and falling deeper and deeper into their phones and their fake friends that can be found there.  If we were all able to take public transit, I'm sure life would immediately become more interesting.  We would all have more stories to tell due to the people we would encounter every day because people are downright crazy.

     Taking public transit would also make us walk around our neighborhoods more frequently.  We might get to know and recognize our neighbors and have a little less fear in our lives.

     I've noticed on my morning commute how everyone is driving around in a hurry because we're afraid of our bosses and being late to work.  If I pull into the parking lot with a few minutes to spare to get to my desk, I might be late depending on what song is on in the car.  I would much rather hear the end of a Buzzcocks song and be late than trudge up the stairs and be on time without it.

     Our self imposed isolation seems to be amplifying our differences and pushing us farther apart.  If we had more reliable transit systems, and we used them, we would be less isolated.  We might not be talking to each other but at least we'd be sitting next to one another and aware of our humanity.  This might give us all a little more understanding with our fellow humans which seems to be lacking of late.

     Then, as I write this with hopey/changey thoughts, the table next to me is now occupied by a parent with their child that they don't seem too interested in teaching how to behave.  My notepad, pen and coffee cup are not toys.  I am not the father of this child so I don't give a fuck about it.  Put that kid on a leash and keep it the fuck away from me.  Social boundaries, motherfucker.  Learn them and you will go far.  Or at least far away from me.

     Everywhere I go I try to sit in the farthest, emptiest corner.  I have headphones on.  I have my face stuck in either a book or a laptop.  Nothing about my demeanor says, “Please, come on over.  I'd love to put up with your presence.”   And yet people always find me and think I want to interact with them.  I need to have an MRI done on my whole body to see if I was born with some sort of asshole magnet because I sure can attract them.

     I wrote the first three quarters of this thing feeling rather positive about life and the work we need to do to move society forward.  That was all brought crashing down by some asshole and his asshole kid in a matter of minutes.  Fuck humanity.  I can't wait for it to be wiped out.  Global warming and nuclear war are suddenly events that I am looking forward to.

O Tool, Where Art Thou?

     Over the past several years, several articles have appeared in many music publications anticipating the release of a new album from the band Tool.  I consider this endless speculation to be wasted column space that could be better spent writing about records that have come out and shedding light on bands that people might not be familiar with.

     The endless if and when of the release of this album kind of makes me wish that it never comes out just to see how long people will keep writing about it.  Don't get me wrong, I would love to hear a new Tool album.  I have been a massive fan since my youth and I've paid for the overpriced tickets and the $50 T-shirts but leaving all their fans in the lurch, looking for a new record, does kind of give me the chuckles.  I wouldn't put it past the band to be putting everyone on when they keep saying that a new album is on the way.  They were friends with Bill Hicks so I could certainly see them pulling off some sort of hi-jinx like that.

     I'm also guessing that no one has considered the fact that the band may have run their course and might be satisfied doing the occasional tour and hitting the festival circuit as a greatest hits act instead of working their asses off to put out a record that no one will buy but still endlessly bitch about.

     Tool records have never just happened and shouldn't be rushed.  This is another instance of art clashing with commerce.  The machine of consumerism needs to be fed with dollars right this moment and will not wait.  And really, who buys records anymore?  Why would the band go through the time and expense of writing, recording and releasing a monster of a record for no one to buy it?

     To this day, I am surprised that the average metal fan can hang with what Tool has going on.  From the odd, ambient soundtrack type songs that take up every other track on their records to the sheer length of their albums, I can't see the average fan having the attention span to go beyond adding the new single to their Spotify list and calling it a day.

     The band has said, in interviews, that it has scratch tracks and longer jams fleshed out and they're just waiting on lyrics to be written so the songs can be pared down and completed before recording. This is a process that can take as long as is needed in order for the band to get what they want.  If this decade plus wait between albums isn't evidence enough, Tool is a very methodical band that will work at their own pace until they are satisfied that what they have created is bulletproof.

     Add to that the fact that they are all grown ass men with their own lives and families to take care of.  And they've had to deal with the various lawsuits that they've been party to over the past few years.  There's nothing like having a meeting with a lawyer to suck the creative will right out of you.

     When and if the next Tool album ever comes out, I'll be the first in line to pick it up but until then, I'll sit back and enjoy everyone losing their minds over it not coming out.

This Is Getting Old

     As I plummet toward middle-age and the proverbial back nine of life, there are a few punk rock tropes that I'm glad I never fell into.  Clutching tightly to the music and ethos of a rebellious youth gets harder and harder as the years go by.  Standards and opinions that were once carved in stone have now become malleable and needed to change out of necessity as the landscape in front of me was changing.

     I still have trouble comprehending how almost every small club in this town was either up a long, narrow flight of steps or down a long, narrow flight of steps.  Having to drag amps, drums and PA equipment in and out of these places on a regular basis has answered the question of where the cartilage in my knees has gone.  This is also why I have a constant soundtrack of cracking, popping and creaking when I wake up in the morning.  I sound like an old farm house trying not to fall over on a windy night.

     My hearing has taken a merciless beating over the past few decades.  Tinnitus has come into full bloom and I have an almost constant ringing in the ears.  Ear plugs would have been the smart/safe route to go but you don't look cool while wearing them.  Now I'm almost deaf as a post so let that be a lesson to you.

     Since most shows only started at 10:30pm, I wouldn't even leave the house until 9:30.  Now, I'm lucky if I'm still awake at 9pm.  There were times that I'd be out until 5:30am because of post-show breakfast/coffee and not skip a beat regardless of what time I had to be at work the next day.  These days, I'll blow off leaving the house simply because it requires putting on shoes and pants to go out into the world.

     When I buy shoes I have to make sure they have enough cushion in them before I buy them so my feet won't hurt.  The last time I bought a pair of Vans, I had to go with the pro-skater shoe because the insoles are made of memory foam.  That's right, I wear orthopedic Vans.  The last time I bought a pair of Doc Marten's, I had to forgo the traditional eight eyelet boot and go with a work shoe that had more padding.

     Going through the ringer of family court really puts those old school punk rock ethos to the test. That is unstable territory where up becomes down and what's right doesn't always fall in line with the outcome that you're handed when all is said and done.  Being forced to accept decisions that are in no one's best interest is a quite the bitter pill to swallow.

     Having not gone for the punk rock uniform, I never had to be faced with making the concession of giving it up or doubling down on it and looking ridiculous.  I only have a few bad tattoos that are easily covered up by wearing a long sleeve shirt, if the situation calls for it.  Some of the older punks around town can still be seen going about their day to day business in their super tight jeans and denim vests with patches all over them.  The hair is still dyed or bleached and the tattoos are either saggy or stretched, depending on their location.  From the alcoholic bloat, they look like some sort of unfinished Dr. Seuss character that was assaulted by the pencil of R. Crumb, perched upon their skinny legs in their skinny jeans.

     I consider it a failure of my elders for not warning me about ear and nose hair that seems to grow in a constant stream.  For the past decade, I can be witnessed having head twitches as if there were something in my ear.  That's because there is something in my ear.  I have found no hair removal device or amount of tweezing that will adequately restore my sanity.  And my nose hair seems to grow so frequently that I have the same amount at all times regardless of how often I trim it back.  It's to the point to where I want to grow it out long enough to be able to braid it.  I can start a new hipster trend of nose braids.  You can keep your ratty man bun and 1920s boxer mustache, I've got nose braids.