Archive for the ‘Vinyl Record Day’ Category

Vinyl Record Day 2008 – Grappling With the Beast

August 11, 2008


Hail to you Mr. Edison!

Greetings all.

I come to you today (long with a host of others so inclined) once again to celebrate Vinyl Record Day. Make sure to head over to The Hits Just Keep On Comin’ for a list of all the participants.
This time last year, I related to you my personal take of woe from my very brief sojourn as an indentured seller of vinyl. It was – as the kids say – a hoot.
When I was asked to participate in this year’s blog-swarm, I have to admit that I was at a loss. This of course is something of a chronic condition these days, with the two little kids, and the advanced age and the worries of the world and what-not. That, and the fact that I’m pretty much preoccupied with writing about records, or at least music (all drawn from records) 24/7/365, so I had a spot of difficulty coming up with a new angle from which to focus on the subject.
If you’re a regular reader of the Funky16Corners blog you’ll already be aware of a phenomenon that I’ve spoken about many times, that being how my record room (or cave, or vault, or mess as the case may be) is in many ways the gift that keeps on giving.


Where the “magic” happens. Note autographed pics of Eddie Bo and Betty Harris…

This is not to say that I have some vast – Raiders of the Lost Ark style – storeroom attached to my house , shelves of records running to a vanishing point near the horizon, wherein my vinyl hoarding takes place. The room I speak of is the smallest of the three bedrooms in our ranch-style house (which was a huge upgrade from a corner of our old apartment). It is rather precariously stuffed with records, books and CDs, to the point where I seem to have constructed myself a small maze, through which I must navigate to get to my recording station.
I’ve been collecting (and periodically shedding) records since I was about twelve years old. In the three decades since I purchased that Beatles album in an Englishtown, NJ candy store, my music obsession (never exclusively vinyl, and for a few years back in the heyday of the CD, almost vinyl free) has only grown.


Soulstrutters take note: All Hail the Mighty Expedit (tablas not included)

In the last decade, during which focused mainly on soul and funk records, the amount of vinyl in my clutches has expanded exponentially. As a result, I have boxes upon boxes, upon stacks, upon piles, which although I try intermittently to restore order, resists organization.
This has much to do with my blogging and DJing. I’m always pulling records out to record for the blog, as individual tracks or for inclusion in the Funky16Corners Radio mixes. Very seldom do these records go back where they’re supposed to.
Thus the focus of this little essay.


So, these are the famous “crates”??

So tangled a web have I created, that the record room has taken on a life of its own, to the point where it is – in the most abstract of terms – a living breathing thing.
Having spent a lot of time reading Lao Tzu over the years, I’m a big believer in the Tao, which (very) loosely defined is a principal in which all of existence is an interconnected system where the actions of one effects the destiny of the whole. As a result I find myself – at least in creative pursuits – going with the flow, allowing myself to be guided by what I’ve referred to repeatedly as ‘inspirado’*.
When I make my way into the record room, whether to make a mix or to select a stack of 45s with which to DJ, I may set out with something specific in mind, but more often than not find myself pulled in another direction entirely.
As a result, many of these mixes/sets that I set out to assemble end up being a lot more interesting than first intended (though I always intend things to be interesting, the final results being yours to judge).
The thing is, I’m pretty sure that if I ever got things organized properly (which I keep promising to do the next time I’m alone for a few days, a state of being that is increasingly unlikely), the record room would soon rebel, oozing out of any genre, alphabetical or other constraints that I attempt to apply to it**.
And I’m cool with that.
If you haven’t already caught on, I dig it the way it is.
This phenomenon is the result (about a 50/50 split) of the aforementioned disorganization in combination with the size of the collection. As my lovely wife will remind you, I have more records than I can keep track of. Because of this I find myself flipping through stacks of LPs and 45s and discovering things which I either didn’t know, or forgot I had. Some of these are b-sides of 45s that I neglected to flip over. Some are items that came into the house as part of a particularly large bundle of records that I never sat down and explored properly (and there are a LOT of those).
It’s also important to note that this is a vinyl-specific phenomenon.
When you browse a folder full of MP3s everything looks the same. No 45 labels (or company sleeves), no album jackets, no weight of any kind.
Nothing to hold.
Were I to digi-ma-tize the whole mess, I can’t imagine I’d be willing to let a lot of it go.
I love my iPod, but were you to sit down and plumb the depths of that 21st century convenience, you’d soon discover that the record room has found its way into the digital realm, whether by virtue of the fact that many of the MP3s therein were produced by recording actual records, or because I have a tendency to tag my homemade files in a rather haphazard, some might say ‘devil may care’ fashion, resulting in a panoply of oddball categories that I surf through all day long at work, and every night before I shut my eyes and go to sleep.
This ‘system’ finds its way to you every time you stream or download one of the Funky16Corners Radio podcasts, and therein – as they say – lies the rub. If you pop on over to the F16 Radio Podcast Archive, you’ll see that the vast majority of the mixes are themed. Suddenly it’s apparent that my disorganization exists only in the physical realm, and in the abstract I am in fact a compulsive organizer.
Somebody call a psychoanalyst, quickly.
Perhaps the record room is bigger than I realize, like something out of a Twilight Zone episode.
You know…
The one where I’m going nuts and the devil pops out of a milk crate full of records to reveal to me that the heaven I thought I was in is – A HA!!!really hell!
(OH CRAP?!?)
Somehow I doubt it.
I hesitate to say that vinyl is making a comeback. Though I see turntables (and occasionally even records) for sale in more and more places, I like to think of it as a momentary re-appreciation of a valuable resource.
That room is full of great stories (about the records themselves) and wonderful memories (about how I found them) and someday – Tao willing – I’ll pass it all on to my sons, who in their hermetically sealed, radiation proof underground bunker, will grapple with it as I have for lo these many years. If they find within that mass of vinyl even a small percentage of the satisfaction that I have, I (or the molecules that once composed my being) will glance back from elsewhere in the universe and smile**.
I’ll be back later in the week with a new Funky16Corners Radio mix.
Until then…

*A term I picked up from an old Tenacious D short

**The situation isn’t helped by the fact that the inward flow of vinyl remains unchecked, which only makes the situation worse errmmmm more complicated….

***And probably attempt to shout something about handling the records properly

PSS Don’t forget to head over to Iron Leg for some groovy garage pop!

PSSS Check out Paperback Rider as well.

Vinyl Record Day Post – Will Work for Records…

August 10, 2007


This is my contribution to the commemoration of Vinyl Record Day.

Make sure to check out the other posts (some coming this weekend) at the following locations:

AM, Then FM
Flea Market Funk
Fufu Stew

Got the Fever


It’s Great Shakes

Lost in the 80s
Py Korry



Echoes In the Wind

Good Rockin’ Tonight

The Hits Just Keep On Comin’

In Dangerous Rhythm

Stepfather of Soul


The Snack Bar 



Greetings all.
I come to you today as part of a blogswarm (“Quick Ma! To the root cellar!!”) spurred on by the observation of Vinyl Record Day.
There are those – astute individuals one and all – who would have you believe that every day around here is in fact “vinyl record day” (hundreds of posts to date and every single one ripped from vinyl), but it would be dishonorable to quibble with so noble an undertaking, and to do so would prevent me from relating yet another chapter in the ever fascinating Larry Grogan Story (coming to screens worldwide in 2009).
As I’ve recounted in varying degrees of thoroughness, my record/music collecting days started when I was about 11 years old when I dropped a couple of bucks – and these were hard to come by, 1973 I don’t work and barely get an allowance dollars, so allow for a considerable amount of inflation – for my very first record, that being a copy of the VeeJay LP ‘Introducing the Beatles’.
This is not that story.
However, that little sliver of an anecdote is necessary as an opening parentheses of sorts on the story that follows (not to mention my entire musical life…). It is notable as the beginning of my record obsession, which by the time I was in high school had thundered into my life like a buffalo stampede and was – believe it or not – running a very close second to my other mid-teens obsession, that of course being naked women.
The love of music, instilled in me from my earliest days by a father who was a both a musician and educator, had become just about all-consuming, with time not spent listening to or collecting music devoted to fantasizing about rock stardom of some sort. I wouldn’t actually get my hands on a set of drums until age 16, but when I did, an obvious lack of skill didn’t stand in the way of my joining a “band” as soon as humanly possible.
Now the mid-teen years are also the time – at least in my day – when the wolf cubs are initially booted from the den to at least try to fend for themselves. In my house, this ritual was observed by a command to go forth into the world and seek some form of employment.
Naturally I was thrilled….
However, seek I did (however feebly) and almost in spite of myself I was able to find work at the local dirt-hole/flea market (known as ‘The Auction’) where I was signed over into indentured servitude to a couple of cantankerous senior citizen “electronics dealers” names Stu and Rose who would awake in the middle of the night, pack their van to the ceiling with CB radios, under-the-dash tape decks, whip antennas and boom boxes(1), and travel from Brooklyn to Englishtown NJ. This is where they would lay in wait for me to come trudging out of the dawn (roughly a mile and a half walk from my house) in my jeans and flannel, where upon my arrival I would unload this 20th century gypsy caravan and set up the “store” (as it were). It was there, in front of two already unstable wooden tables, now loaded with hundreds of pounds of electronics, that I would spend the next eight hours standing in either blazing heat, or freezing wind (the weather never took any other form at the Auction) and make sure that no one was stealing.
This was of course a thrill. The kind of job that only comes to teenage slackjaws, maybe eight, nine times in any given year, and it was mine…ALL MINE!!!
There was no lunch break.
This was taken care of by the bag of cold chicken and catsup sandwiches (and a tuna and egg salad combo that I developed quite a liking for, but my wife will not allow in the house)  that my employers fed me all day long.
As hard as it is to believe, I used to get paid for all of this.
At the end of the day, Stu – much to the chagrin of his angry wife, who gave him the stink eye as he pulled a huge wad of cash from his pocket – would peel off three of the dustiest, wrinkliest, tattered five dollar bills and place them reluctantly into my quivering hand.
Fifteen dollars.(2)
As I said, there was no lunch break, but I was usually able to squeeze in a fifteen minute break, during which I would run to the other end of the flea market, through the clouds of dust, fried onions and coffee smell, and seek out my dealer, Willy.
Willy appeared – as much from 100 yards away as close up – to have leapt from the cover of Jethro Tull’s ‘Aqualung’ and into a pile made up of equal parts dogshit, marijuana and one-dollar bills (3). He was the very embodiment of the pejorative “dirty hippie”(4).
Every weekend Willy would step into the Philadelphia night (he had one of the thickest Philly accents I’d ever heard), pile his wife, children and his dog, a black german shepherd named Satan (yes, Satan, who was actually a pretty nice dog) into his busted old van, along with approximately 400,000 LPs, and head off to Englishtown.
It was in the fifty or so boxes of LPs that Willy would lay out every weekend that my record collection was born. In the few minutes I had to dig, I would manage to squeeze as many one and two dollar albums out of my fifteen bucks as possible, enough so that when I got home, and scraped the accumulated filth from my aching body, I would have lots of new music to make me forget how I had just slaved for eight hours and had no cash in my pocket to show for it.
This scenario should of course come as no surprise to any record fiend that came of age when vinyl was still the coin of the realm. If records are your fix, and you’re jonesing, you must dig, even if it means that’s all you get for your sweat.
So, anyway….
I worked for the electronics people for over a year, when an acquaintance of mine from school – an affluent pot head, even more feckless than myself (if you can believe that) with whom I had jammed once or twice (5) – who also happened to work for Willy now and again, said that the man himself was looking for another helper.
Imagine my excitement.
It was like being handed the keys to the kingdom. Getting up at the crack of dawn on Saturday would no longer be a chore. I would spring from bed and skip through the woods to the flea market with a smile on my face. I’d get to spend the whole day running my greedy fingers over mountains of vinyl, hand-picking the finest, ripest LPs which would then find a home in my collection, all at what I was sure would be a generous discount.
It was Willy who sold me my first Buffalo Springfield, Jimi Hendrix and Cream LPs (among many others).
This was going to be great!!!
I managed to get myself terminated from my executive position in the electronics trade by “accidentally” sleeping in one Saturday. My keepers cut my chain and cast me out into the flea market, where I was immediately assured by the nearby vendors that I had been regularly beaten like a rented mule, the old folks were out of their mind to let me go, and I would be better off wherever I landed.
Naturally I allowed this smoke to be blown directly up my ass, blissfully unaware of what awaited me a few aisles over.
When I arrived at Willy’s stand, he pulled me in the back and began to reveal to me, like an onion peeled away one layer at a time, the fresh hell I was stepping into.
First, every single record I sold – no exceptions – had to be written (artist, title, label and price) in his busted up spiral notebook, so that he could keep a close eye on his “inventory”, refreshing it when necessary with new stock. This of course at a stand where no one walked away with less than 10 records.
Second, while Willy was off jawing with his fellow dirtballs, I was left under the jaundiced (literally and figuratively) eye of his lovely wife, who’s name lo these many years later is hidden behind a huge, unmovable mental block. While she watched me like a hawk, her children made themselves scarce. They never really had the opportunity to annoy me because they ran free like a couple of hyenas, all day long.
Third, I was informed that grazing through the stock was frowned upon, an edict that I (naturally) had to be reminded of all day long.
All of this, and for the exact same fifteen dollars that I had been getting at my old job.
Needless to say, I didn’t last long working for WillyCo.
After about a month of this tomfoolery – too much for even an unambitious, slackadaisical want-wit like myself – I tendered my resignation, and worked for the very last time in my life as a seller of records.
As I wandered away from the stand, with Satan barking at me and the very essence of the flea market caking in my nostrils, I wondered why and where it had all gone so very wrong.
Despite what you hear about teenagers having convinced themselves of their own indestructibility, I was sure that this was the end of the line for me. What would I do for a job (nothing for a while as it turns out) and more importantly, what would I do for records (also nothing, as I had no source of income)?
Fortunately, by that time I had accumulated quite a heap of albums, enough to keep me busy until the summer, when – my lack of ambition still not remedied – I would move on to a series of even crappier jobs (6).
My vinyl obsession, as ought to be obvious to anyone that reads this blog on the reg, survived this brush with greatness, and went on to heights I never could have imagined during all of those dusty fifteen dollar days.
I have no idea what became of my flea market employers.
The electronics people have in all likelihood gone on to the great haggle-fest in the sky.
Willy…who knows?
Is he still slinging records in the great out-of-doors, or at some point did he find himself a storefront somewhere (where he was surely crushed under the corporate boot heel of a Wal-Mart or somesuch), or, like so many of his brethren did he find himself a lucrative home on the interwebs?
In the words of the great Tootsie Pop commercial of old, ‘The world may never know’.

NOTE: All names have been changed, except my own, and that of Satan the dog.


1 Boom boxes were at the time a brand new, and highly coveted product, running for the most part well over 100USD. In my entire tenure at the electronics stand, the only item I can ever remember being stolen was a JVC boom box.

2 These were after all the mid-70’s where fifteen dollars could feed a family of 12 for a month, and/or be used to purchase a brand new Cadillac…

3 Though, in retrospect, a closer match would be Ron Moody’s Fagin, from the movie ‘Oliver!’

4 His way with a buck would later convince me that Willy only looked like a hippy, being possessed of the cold, flinty heart of a much hairier Ebenezer Scrooge

5 Who introduced me to the music of the Good Rats. Imagine – if you will – a garage full of untalented suburban teenagers attempting to replicate ‘Taking It to Detroit’. I realize that this means next to nothing to anyone not from the New York area, but it’s worth mentioning for the few who might know what I’m talking about.

6 Anyone out there ever picked corn for a living?…heh…I thought not.