Record Store Remembrances

With the recent death of Tower Records founder Russ Solomon, I've spent a lot of time reflecting on record stores.

Rock 'n' roll grabbed a hold of me early. Hearing the Beatles harmonize on “She Loves You” electrified me; the resulting adrenaline rush was one of the best things I'd ever felt in my seven years on Earth.

It lured me into the local rec center, where on summer evenings a jukebox would play deep into the forbidden recesses of night (which was probably all of 10 PM). I would wander among the dancing teen-agers while Tommy James & the Shondells' “Hanky Panky” blared its lurid message, aroused by the vague but tangible feeling that something illicit was in the air.

Even in the innocent hours of afternoon, word of a “combo” running through some songs in a local garage would spread like wildfire, and suitably ignited, my friends and I would chase the sound like caffeinated bats honing in on food.

(I remember one band playing an unusually fiery version of “Gloria”, and wonder in retrospect if it wasn't the Shadows of Knight. The home was owned by an open-minded music teacher, who would've been sympathetic to a bunch of guys needing a place to rehearse. Plus it wasn't very far from the Knights' home base. But I'll never know for sure.)

My ability to listen to rock music went through the usual stages, moving from the transistor radio one grandmother bought me to the AM/FM radio another bestowed upon me to the eventual purchase an actual stereo. A very nifty and durable Panasonic.

Bereft of income, I asked for albums as Christmas gifts. The Beatles, Rod Stewart and early Chicago were deemed appropriate by my parents. It took my grandmother (yep—the same one who gifted me with the transistor radio) to introduce the hormonal wail of Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix into the family home.

(To this day, my siblings fail to appreciate the parental tenderizing I did so that they might one day enjoy this music unburdened by the social unease that accompanies being regarded as an alien lifeform by your mom and dad.)

This incremental access exploded with the receipt of a driver's license. Armed with cash from a part-time job, I could now venture to the 'cool' record stores, which invariably lay beyond the confines of my provincial hometown.

When time and money (not to mention a car) were available, I was off to Old Town, where Uno's Bizarre Bazaar—a remnant of the counterculture that had flowered in the neighborhood a decade earlier—offered bootlegs.

The nearby suburb of Norridge featured Rolling Stone, a noisy, enormous store with coquettish cashiers who smoked cigarettes and wished you were David Bowie or Robert Plant. But only E. J. Korvettes could beat their prices.

The demands of higher education soon absorbed the majority of my money and my time, and my record-buying suffered accordingly. It was only after graduation that I began to explore the enormous city I lived in and satiated my lust for vinyl.

Wax Trax was my first obsession, since their remarkable inventory either carried every punk and new wave forty-five and import LP Trouser Press raved about or every punk and new wave forty-five and import LP they should have been raving about.

(That the cooler-than-thou clerks would sometimes condescend to speak with you was just a bonus.)

Unfortunately, this period coincided with the arrival of my first Visa card, and soon I was spending a disproportionate amount of my income there. On the bright side, I was able to list Wax Trax as a dependent at tax time.

When co-founder Jim Nash died, holes began to appear in the rigorously-maintained inventory, and it gradually became a less-urgent destination. While this was a boon to my financial well-being, area entrepreneurs had taken note of Wax Trax's success and it wasn't long before their shops were—to varying degrees—taking up the slack.

Evanston's Vintage Vinyl was probably foremost in my experience. It was similarly pricey, but what I assume was its owner (a very tall guy with clear plastic glasses and unfailingly dressed in leather pants) was at least helpful.

It was also the cleanest record store I'd ever been in. God knows I've crawled through places capable of incubating the Hanta virus, but there wasn't a chance of that at Vintage Vinyl. Hell, sometimes I felt guilty just rifling through the stock.

The only thing capable of marring those carefree days was the burden of parking. I could listen to the extended dance mix of my favorite song more times than anyone ever intended in the time it took to locate a $#@!& parking space.

It was on one such trip to Evanston that I glimpsed my salvation: the CTA. Its Red Line ran all the way from Evanston to 95^th Street, and conveniently stopped everywhere there was a record store I needed to visit. (That's needed, as in involuntary.)

An unintended benefit was that without a trunk, my impulsive excesses were kept in check. I mean, did I really want to lug around a copy of The Country Soul of Mrs. Miller for six hours?

Probably not.

An emerging interest in rhythm and blues and soul led me to the south side and Hyde Park, where Dr. Wax and 2^nd Hand Tunes nourished and sustained it.

Chicago was an ideal place to be interested in R&B, as its sizeable African-American population meant an enormous number of records had been bought and subsequently re-sold to resale shops when supplanted by rhythm and blue's latest and greatest.

Visits to Hyde Park yielded copies of albums by Ray Charles, LaVern Baker, Laura Lee, the Chi-Lites and Little Beaver. 100 Proof (Aged in Soul), Ecstasy, Passion and Pain, Denise LaSalle, Syl Johnson, Esther Phillips and Latimore.

Those record stores were islands of commonality. Places where only one strain of human being existed: music lovers. It was in these shops that the delusion of blacks and whites living peacefully side by side could be entertained.

In between the terminuses of the Red Line lay a raft of great records stores: The one whose name I can't recall on Sheridan Road near Loyola. The three-story monolith on Wabash that was Rose Records' flagship store. And the Jazz Record Mart on Grand, where on a good day owner Bob Koester would regale you with stories.

The purchase of Howlin' Wolf Live in Germany 1964 provoked my favorite.

Koester was backstage at a blues festival in the early-sixties when Sonny Boy Williamson happened to run into Howlin' Wolf, who had just completed his set. Williamson sized up the imposing Wolf, sweating from the exertion of his performance.

Then he spoke.

“I got to tell you something, Wolf. You sing like a motherfucker!”

High praise, indeed. I'd be lying if I claimed not to want that kind of life.

Not that my quests for vinyl weren't fulfilling. 

There was the Saturday night in the early-eighties that I strolled down Michigan Avenue in a light snow, in no particular hurry to get anywhere. At Dearborn and Washington, I descended the stairs to the subway and paid my fare.

Midway through a cigarette, I was greeted by a train consisting of the green and cream-colored cars of the nineteen-fifties. They featured brown naugahyde-covered seats and incandescent lighting and were, in retrospect, almost intimate.

I took a seat, opened my bag and examined my latest treasures.

Engrossed in the liner notes to a “5” Royales or Siouxsie & the Banshees compilation, accompanied by the rhythmic click-clack of the car's wheels on steel and the slight rocking motion endemic to rail travel, I needed nothing else.

Amid the noisy rush of my youth, this was a lesson in how resonant and sublime quiet contentment could be.

Fast-forward to the twenty-first century. Perusing e-Bay and the hordes of online sellers just isn't the same. With instant access to a world of vendors, there is no anticipation, no near-misses. The product is there, first time every time. There is no sweat equity. It is utterly drama-free.

I didn't know it at the time, but I liked the drama. I liked flipping through thousands of albums over countless visits, which only intensified the shock and subsequent slow-motion joy when I finally went face-to-face with a copy of Paul Kelly's Dirt or Willie Hightower's If I Had a Hammer.

Not only did I like the drama, I miss it. For better or worse, life is different now.

My mother was really good at not taking things for granted. Hopefully, so am I.

Why I Support a Boycott of the NRA

I have an occasional interest in anthropology. It can be intensely interesting to learn of different cultures and how they processed the world around them. Which is the primary reason I read editorials by folk like Marc Thiessen, a fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.

After numerous showers, he has my begrudging respect. It takes a master magician (or illusionist as they prefer to be called nowadays) slash linguist to turn logic inside-out as expertly as Mr. Thiessen has.

In Thiessen's piece, he lauds the actions of Stephen Willeford, who by sheer coincidence happened to be across the street from a church that was under attack by a shooter armed with an assault rifle. Willeford was able to wound the attacker, who subsequently took off in his vehicle. Willeford gave chase, wherein the shooter crashed and then killed himself.

Which is all good and laudable. I wouldn't dream of pointing a finger at Mr. Willeford, who is obviously a hero.

Where Thiessen goes off the rails is that he implies this is how every mass shooting could end if we would just leave the NRA alone and arm every citizen of the United States. Kindly disregard the fact that this occurred in a sparsely-populated rural area and that this kind of conclusion is the exception and not the rule.

Above all, disregard what put an assault rifle in the shooter's hands in the first place.

Thiessen hides behind the hoary, old argument that “When companies (boycott the NRA), they are not boycotting lobbyists in Washington; they are boycotting upstanding citizens such as Willeford.”

Wow.

Really?

Because when I advocate for a boycott of the NRA, their lobbyists are at the very center of that boycott. As are NRA policy-makers and the unfortunate influence they have over our spineless and self-serving elected representation.

As is the NRA's indefensible refusal to back any kind of gun control measure whatsoever—no matter how marginal the effects to the law-abiding rank-and-file.

That is the NRA I'm boycotting.

I'm boycotting the NRA that doesn't want to outlaw bump stocks. That doesn't want universal background checks. That fights the implementation of smart gun technology. That doesn't want to close the gun show loophole. That doesn't want to raise the minimum age at which people can buy assault weapons.

And most heinously of all, the NRA that doesn't want to ban those assault weapons.

Because everything is fine just the way it is.

I am boycotting the NRA that wants to extend state-specific concealed carry rights nationwide, which I'm pretty sure flies in the face of Republican's default fall-back position when they want to duck a decision on a controversial issue.

 

I am boycotting the NRA that plainly and obnoxiously and without a shred of conscience manipulates a population through fear, because fear is good for business.

I am boycotting the NRA that has convinced generations of hunters that people like me don't care about them or their rights. Which must be the reason every piece of proposed gun reform legislation uses language like 'common sense' and 'sensible' and 'responsible' when describing their highly-specific reform.

I am boycotting the NRA that selfishly advances the argument that our gun problem isn't an epidemic which threatens public safety, but an infringement of gun owner's constitutional rights.

Will someone—anyone—please tell me when and where gun-owner's rights have been infringed upon? Exactly when did their right to keep and bear arms disappear?

Thiessen, I (in your words) demonize the NRA because they relentlessly and unswervingly fight to make the greatest number of guns available to the greatest number of people. Every day. Every week. Every month

You write that criticism “makes it harder to reach bipartisan agreement on solutions that could improve public safety without threatening the fundamental constitutional right of Americans to keep and bear arms.”

Hmmm.

Because aside from letting the NRA do whatever the hell it wants, I didn't know there was a bipartisan agreement to be had! Will you please leave a comment on this blog and tell me what the NRA is willing to compromise on? Because I am very, very eager to hear it.

I'll admit the NRA isn't the only entity responsible for the carnage which has become an almost daily occurrence in what is supposedly the end-all and be-all of human existence. Gun violence is complex; the net result of many things.

But when the house is on fire the first thing you do is put the out the fire.

Debating how or when the fire started can wait. As can the one on how to best fireproof the house.

Turning the United States into the O.K. Corral isn't the answer, as any upstanding, law-abiding NRA member should know. Especially after all those NRA-sponsored gun safety classes.

We must unplug the NRA.

Taking Stock

And I thought 2017 was bad. I have stopped watching Saturday Night Live because I no longer find Donald Trump funny. Everyday I realize anew he is an involuntarily-administered dose of the HIV virus.

In between tweeting obsessively, inserting himself into hypothetical life-or-death situations, assessing third-world countries and spending weekends in Florida, the Trump-whore has somehow managed to unplug the Environmental Protection Agency and moved to kill Planned Parenthood, the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau and abolish net neutrality.

Given the incessant staff turnover and the time-consuming challenges of defending himself from innumerable investigations and law suits, it is—in its way—laudable. I'm sure Trump's predecessors are amazed at his ability to condense the demands of the presidency into a five-day work week.

But as King Donald would only be too eager to tell you, his accomplishments don't end there. (Don't tell him, but King Donald's biggest accomplishment is making George Bush number-two look like Abraham Lincoln.)

The anti-immigration president, husband to two foreign-born wives, has also installed a record number of federal judges for a first-year president. Which reminds me of a joke I heard in the early-eighties: You know what the difference is between true love and herpes? Herpes is forever.

Finally, our corporate banks are struggling—again.

It is King Donald's considered opinion that we need to take out our legislative jackhammer and break-up the regulatory speed bumps that inhibit these fine and upstanding institutions from harvesting the vast amounts of cash they feel is rightfully theirs.

Rich guys need money too, you know.

Lest you take offense to any of this, the nearest moron with a 'Make America Great Again' baseball cap will be only too happy to remind you: “He gave you a temporary tax break you ungrateful shithead! So shut the fuck up!”

This is only the tip of the iceberg. There exists so much more, with more yet to come.

A cashier at the local supermarket called me “hon" just last week. Maybe I should break into my happy dance.

Wow (Times Two)

Wow! High school students all over the nation are realizing that way too much of their so-called elected representation are whores more interested in amassing campaign financing than acting in the best interests of the electorate. 

These enlightened students are acting en masse to demand change that, well, shouldn't have to be demanded. This has the smell, the feel of the early days of the Vietnam war protests, with a bottom-up, groundswell dynamic influencing and galvanizing public opinion.

I am so freaking impressed by these students collectively raising their voice and shaming our so-called leadership into doing what should have been done such a very, very long time ago. God bless them and their hope and their optimism and their belief and above all, their don't-tell-me-it-can't-be-done-until-I've-already-done-it conviction.

To say it is heartening and refreshing is woefully inadequate.

I'll see you in the streets March 24—if not sooner.

Wow. Hearing conservative's response to a growing call for meaningful gun reform is certainly sobering. The collective and willful denial they display in the face of the overwhelming evidence to the contrary is jaw-dropping.

Funny how when Republicans are called upon to share their perspective on our gun problem, it invariably comes down to the fact that there aren't enough. We. Need. More. Guns.

Does 'stupid' have a more luminous definition?

Then there's the unnamed citizen who appeared on the NBC network news not so long ago, complaining that by demanding a ban on assault weapons, we are 'scapegoating' the AR-15.

Yeah. Imagine that, dude.

Just like we scapegoat drunk driving, terrorism, SIDS and opioids.

Go figure.

A famous comedian once said you can't fix stupid. Which is undeniably true.

At least its parents can be neutered.

Mark Janus Seeks the Right to Work

In so many ways, Mark Janus is a very fortunate man. He works for a state agency in Illinois—the same state that has nearly bankrupted itself gifting employees like Mr. Janus with plump, well-fed pensions.

But that's not enough. Our poor, put-upon Mr. Janus has his knickers in a twist because he has to pay $45 a month in union dues for his membership in AFSCME.

As a dyed-in-the-wool conservative, Mr. Janus feels he should keep everything he makes. He feels he shouldn't have to pay taxes and fees and especially union dues, which is certainly interesting given the talking points his political party of choice likes to trot out.

Mark Janus should get his sewage treated, meat inspected, roads repaired and libraries stocked and staffed (not to mention his union representation) for free, but god forbid the poor, the disabled and the elderly get help with, well, just about anything.

Because that would make them freeloaders.

But conservatives like Mr. Janus aren't. 

Got it?

In the words of Mr. Janus' lawyer, “AFSCME takes political positions that he doesn't support and advocates for more spending and higher taxes.”

I would like to invite Mr. Janus to work in the private sector, where after airing his complaint he would be told that thanks to the miracle of At Will employment, he was free to leave. 

Of course, Mr. Janus would never leave his public-sector job because that would mean giving up his union-negotiated salary, union-negotiated benefits and that oh-so-sweet union-negotiated pension.

Yes, Mr. Janus wants his cake and a big, giant fork.

And to be honest, so do I.

I can only dream of not paying taxes to the circus headed by Donald Trump and what I call Republicants because they stand for nothing I believe in and everything I don't. But if I want to enjoy the benefits of living in America, taxes must be paid.

Of course, this is much, much bigger than Mr. Janus and his wallet-busting union dues. It's about defunding unions and consequently, Democrats. It's about the tragically mis-labeled Right to Work statute.

Because in the addled logic of right-wingers like Mr. Janus, Democrats and unions are the enemy. Even as they provide a secure and comfortable living for him.

One party rule is clearly the best path forward because even as Mr. Janus rails against the effects of prolonged one-party rule in Illinois, Republicans controlling everything forever would somehow be different.

This because businessmen would be running things.

Perhaps you know how great things were the last time wealthy businessmen were in control. The salad days of the late nineteenth-century. The Industrial Revolution.

Employment was so abundant men worked six days a week, for ten, eleven and twelve hours a day. And not just men. No sir. Those free-thinking, egalitarian businessmen opened up their factories to everyone. Even kids.

And thanks to their generous wages, upward mobility was never more prevalent. Frugal, industrious folk could save enough cash to have stew—with meat—once a week. Or dream of a visit to a cobbler and a new pair of shoes. Or buy a coffin for ma when she died during childbirth.

Yes, life was grand.

Then those goddamn Democrats and their confounded unions screwed everything up.

Thanks to their unswerving dedication to make life better for everyone (i.e. even people who didn't possess millions of dollars), people could not work seventy hours a week and still have a shot at living quarters that included light, fresh air, indoor plumbing and electricity.

They could even afford to see doctors before they died at forty-five of black lung or tuberculosis or dysentery.

But as the best and the brightest conservative minds have pointed out, this sucked.

It sucked because unlike you and me, the folks organizing labor and effectively fighting the offal in the executive wing for a fair share of corporate profits needed money to live. This is where the heresy of union dues enters the picture.

And if that weren't bad enough, some wise-ass got the idea for an urban sewage system. And another for consumer protections. And yet another for an agency that would promote public health.

And boom! We had taxes.

You have to agree this was pointless, wasteful stuff.

Through the widespread implementation of Right to Work statutes, we can—at long last—cede control to Republicans and their healthy, inclusive, we're-all-in-this-together agenda.

Anger is a very unhealthy state of being. It's what makes us cut off our nose to spite our face. It's what makes bloggers post inarticulate rants—like I did last Thursday. When we're angry our thinking is muddled. Our actions lamentable.

Do we really want to destroy unions? Do we really want to remove the checks-and-balances a two party system provides? Do we really want to hand over one-hundred percent of everything to Republicans and wealthy businessmen?

Are we really so naive?

So many things in the United States of America could be better. Our leadership. Our government. Ourselves. But throwing the baby out with the bathwater isn't the answer.

We don't burn down our houses when we discover an insect infestation. We call an exterminator. And despite my howling indignation about so many facets of twenty-first century America, I don't generally advocate for revolution.

Yeah, blowing stuff up and smashing windows is lots of fun. And who doesn't enjoy a roaring fire now and then? But in the end it mostly wastes time and energy. And the clean-up is a bitch.

Mr. Janus, the vast majority of taxes go to the public good, except in places like Illinois where the *ahem* pension obligation threatens the economic well-being of the entire state and demands an inordinate share of tax revenue. 

Whining about higher taxes and political positions as your employer slavishly seeks to honor its pension commitment to you is questionable at best and off-the-charts hypocrisy at worst. Now would be a good time to mention that Janus was a two-faced Roman god.

Tell you what, Janus. Why don't you file a suit alleging your pension is too generous, and that instead of threatening the entire population with higher taxes and service cuts, your employer should instead increase your union dues and scale back your benefits?

You know, show some of that individual responsibility you Republicans are always crowing about.

Yeah. That's what I thought.

So Awesome!

Even as we mourn—in public—the death of seventeen schoolchildren, in private we seemingly sign off on this as routinely as we check our social media accounts.

If you've ever voted Republican you've endorsed the maximum availability of guns to just about anyone who wants one. We're not supposed to consider the reason the weapon was purchased. That's not important. 

What is vital to the ongoing functionality of the United States is that it was (and is) available. Just imagine the shithole the United States would be if Nikolas Cruz hadn't been able to assemble an arsenal fit for an urban SWAT team. 

The hypocrisy is as staggering as it is appalling. And of course is taken to its logical extreme by lead ringmaster Donald Trump, who courted the NRA throughout his campaign. 

Shut the fuck up Donald. Shut the fuck up Republicans. Shut the fuck up NRA.

Don't ever say you're filled with remorse. Or consumed by regret.

This is what you believe in. This is what you stand for. This is what—above all else—you enable.

If we loved our kids (and each other) the way we like to say we do, the NRA would have ceased to exist a very long time ago.

 

Chillin'

It's winter—again. Like the time that passes between unwelcome chores, winter inspires thoughts along the lines of “Didn't we just do winter last year?”

Not that I should complain. Since the epic winter 2013/14, the last three have been fairly mild. A year ago saw February temps reach into the sixties. But about November first the awareness of this becomes a breeding ground for a peculiar kind of Old Testament guilt.

We haven't been made to suffer sufficiently, oh Lord. We beseech thee to bestow upon us the punishment we so richly deserve. As the ungrateful recipients of mild winters we neither deserve or even enjoy, we beseech thee oh Lord for your most unmerciful meteorological displays, that we might be made whole again in your eyes.

Echoing the neutral-to-nuclear social dynamic that currently infests our republic, daytime highs have either been forty degrees Fahrenheit or twelve. 

True, there was a munificent stretch of stress-free weather prior to Christmas that allowed shoppers to empty their wallets without the unpleasantness of wind chills, wintry mixes or winter storm advisories marring the festivities.

But this was followed by a two-week spell (which neatly coincided with student's Christmas break) that saw temperatures remain below twenty. And they were often far-lower. It was the longest such period in Chicago's history.

Snowfall has followed a similar pattern. It was mostly a rumor until we flipped our calendars to February. After what was being termed a snow drought, we have seen snow on three successive weekends.

This past week, it snowed every day, with massive snowfalls predicted for the weekend. This was reinforced at every turn by a panicked media, even as there were no new developments to report. We obediently rushed out and filled supermarket check-out lanes with carts stuffed with food enough to last until spring.

In the end, was there significant snow? Yes. Was it snowpacalypse? No. 

And I am ungrateful because a howling blizzard would have allowed me what I enjoy most about the season: watching people drive. Yes, the first snow of the season unfailingly reminds me of a NatGeo or Animal Planet special, because watching drivers contend with it is like watching baby animals take their first steps.

There is the halting creep to a stop sign or traffic signal. Brake lights flicker as a driver tests their footing. Then there is the tenuous negotiation of a turn. And ideally, the skillful application of acceleration afterwards.

Slow ensures the insurance agent will remain a stranger.

Of course, it doesn't always go this way. Drivers of SUVs and pick-up trucks, armed with an inflated sense of indomitableness, feel compelled to display their vehicular-enabled superiority by passing the rest of us with barely disguised contempt.

Your patience will be rewarded when, several miles down the road, they are seen frantically dialing their phones in search of a tow truck with a winch. Even with high ground clearance and four-wheel drive, ditches, culverts and gullies don't release their captives willingly.

Amusement aside, winter is expensive. And time-consuming. Yes, winter is a lot of work.

It requires insulated coats. Gloves. Scarves. Heavy boots. Hats. Anti-freeze. Windshield washer solvent. Scrapers. Snow brushes. Snow tires. Snow shovels. Snowblowers. Salt. Heat. Not to mention the storage space required for these when it's not winter.

We have to warm up our cars. For those of us without garages, we have to clear off our cars. Scrape windows. Walk more carefully. Drive more slowly. Put more clothes on. Take more clothes off. Leave earlier for work. And arrive home later.

We have to wash our cars more often. And clean road salt off our coats when we don't. Wash floors. And sweep unidentifiable muck from our garage floors. Can the folk who calculate what texting costs American business in lost productivity please tell us what winter costs?

But then there is a sunset painted in pewter, yellow and blue. And the pink sunrises and sunsets that occasionally follow a winter storm. The graceful curve of wind blown snow and the way it can trace the branches of a tree.

There is the distinctive crunch of it underfoot and the clarity of a chilled, star-filled sky at night. A cup of hot chocolate. The smell of cold air. And a renewed appreciation for the comforts of a warm bed.

It could be worse.