Verily, Vinyl's Very Much in the Air Again

  • By Mike Dewey
  • November 7, 2013
  • 421
                        
SUMMARY: Everyone has a moment when a single song saves him or her and Mike Dewey's no different, though he doesn't quite know what to make of some good news back home. The other night, when I was trying to catch up on my email – don’t ask why I’m so far behind, it’s all very much my fault – I came across something that brought a smile to my face. It seems that, in a town where I once worked and these weekly ramblings first took serious root, some folks have opened a record store, which is such good news, but that wasn’t all. Another fledgling enterprise, this one featuring vintage stereo equipment – the kind of stuff I still use – has also opened its doors. Just fantastic news. Now, I’m not privy to the details – names, places, etc. – and I wouldn’t feel comfortable using them, anyway, since what we’re about in this space isn’t necessarily the endorsement of private businesses. I leave that to the pros. After all these years in journalism, if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that editorial and advertising don’t mix and the best policy is to observe a kind of detente, one that enables both to accomplish what they do well. I’m trying to think of a parallel circumstance and I suppose the most logical might be the way a book or a movie comes to life. Creativity and commercialism: the age-old relationship. Anyway, the notion that old-school music systems are still viable cheered me, since I’m a huge proponent of speakers that weigh 75 pounds apiece and have been providing me with such pleasure since the Carter administration. Those JBLs, faithful readers might recall, create such a powerful, clean sound that I currently have four of them and, when the moon is in the right phase and the planets otherwise align, the roof of the home my wife and I share is sometimes in serious jeopardy. Of course, nearly 60 and living in a gated community, I realize there’s something rather incongruous about the whole thing; I mean, who else thinks it’s a good idea to pull out a Blackfoot album and listen to “highway Song” at 4:30 in the morning, hoping to understand the reason why three-guitar bands are so important. Especially in the South: the Outlaws and, of course, Lynyrd Skynyrd define the genre. My answer? It just sounds good. AND THAT’S THE WHOLE point, when you get right into the marrow of the matter. You might think that a pair of speakers the size of playing cards provides perfect sound. Who am I to argue? I have friends whose whole systems could be packed into an empty case of beer. Which is fine. I grew up in the late Sixties and early Seventies. My first concert was Lou Reed. I spent my first professional paycheck on those JBLs. I must own a thousand albums, a couple hundred singles, more cassettes than I can count and who knows how many compact discs. The sheer numbers are staggering but I have other friends whose collections make mine look modest, even miniscule, and when I’m in the presence of that kind of staggering dedication, I melt. You ought to see me, all wide-eyed and excited, so grateful to be invited into that kind of vinyl vault that it’s all I can do not to say something stupid, like, “Um, I don’t suppose I could borrow that live Dylan bootleg from 1975?” There are versions of “Isis” out there that daze me. Permit me a very quick and concise tangent. I believe that Blood on the Tracks is Dylan’s finest album. Start to finish, the alpha and the omega, amen. I realize that a lot of you are, at this very moment, saying things like, “Man, I used to respect his opinion, but now, well, I wonder if he’s too stupid to live.” And I can’t blame you for thinking I’m seriously lost, but I can’t help the way I feel. I know ... I know: it’s got to be Highway 61 Revisited or Blonde on Blonde or even The Basement Tapes and I agree, they’re all indispensable, but when it comes right down to it, I’m all about Blood on the Tracks. Context, my friends, can’t be minimized, especially when it comes to a piece of music, and when that record and I collided in 1975 I was, well, open to all it offered. It’s all about lost love and, back then, I was 20 years and experiencing the worst kind of break-up, one that had nothing to do with me, but was all about her. And that’s when Dylan and I slipped into each other’s lives. I could crank “Like a Rolling Stone” with the best of them and I believed I had “Visions of Johanna” figured out, but the truth is, until I dropped the needle on Blood on the Tracks, I knew nothing. As a college junior, though, I was willing to learn and what washed up on my shore of ignorance was the pain of lost love. I know. I know. Oldest song in the book: I should have known better. VINYL’S WARM AND COMFORTING and even when you don’t think there’s any way to shake off the blues a broken heart can endure, there was always a record store. South Bend had two of them and, believe me, they were oases to ease a tortured soul. One was tacky ... the other was even tackier. Perfect. I’d catch the bus and get away from campus, where it all went bad, and sought solace in a place where kindred souls gathered, posters on the wall, records organized haphazardly, hippies everywhere. “Man,” the guy with the Jerry Garcia beard said, “you look terrible.” I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to smile. I didn’t want anything other than to find a record that would make me forget her and her treacherous betrayal. Garcia-beard said, “ Ever hear of John Cale?” And that’s the way it used to be with a record store. Now, maybe, things are boomeranging back to where they used to be. When I was a kid, I got an allowance of 50 cents a week – a shiny Ben Franklin half-dollar every Friday – and since a 45 cost 99 cents, well, you can do the math. Every other Saturday, I could walk downtown and lose myself in the record store. So that’s what I did. I’m not nearly a good enough writer to convey the sense of well-being an 11-year-old got when he’d walk into that place and have nothing but time to scour the shelves, looking for a record that could hold him intact for 14 more days. I remember a few of them, wonderful singles by the Beatles and the Stones, in particular, but every now and then, I’d have to have something by the Blue Magoos or the Strawberry Alarm Clock, perhaps the Blues Image or Badfinger. The thing about records is that, even 50 years later, assuming you’ve maintained your system, there simply waiting for another chance to make you dance. Now, I’m not a good dancer – ask my wife about that – but when it’s 4 in the morning and the mood is just right, I know I can always throw on Ziggy Stardust or Horses or, yes, Blood on the Tracks and I can put off the dawn. Forever and ever. On Christmas morning 1965, Mom and Dad (in their Santa guise), gave me a guitar. Couldn’t play a lick to save my mortal soul, though my brother said, “Hey, is that ‘Satisfaction’ or did you break another string?” Just for one day, it was alright. So, the moral of this story is there’s always a song out there that can save you. Find it. Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol..com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560. You might enjoy his Facebook page.


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