That Song from Transcendence

Trying to Not Let a Bad Movie Ruin an Old Favorite

No real need to see this movie

The other day I went to my local multiplex to see Transcendence, the new techno-thriller starring Johnny Depp. As a movie about the possibilities and consequences about replicating or transferring intelligence and consciousness into digital networks, it had the potential of exploring many scientific, sociological, and philosophical issues raised by our actual current technological environment. As a big budget Hollywood movie, of course, it did none of this or did so in the most cursory, and/or ham-fisted ways. This did not surprise me, of course, nor was I surprised by the ponderousness of the script, or the heavy-handed use of religious metaphors. What I was surprised at was hearing Jorma Kaukonen’s beautifully wistful 1974 song “Genesis,” playing throughout the movie.

My first thought was, hey, good for Jorma. It’s a beautiful song and he deserves the windfall of royalties that he’ll be (or should be) receiving due to its prominent placement in a major motion picture.

My second thought was specifically about how the song was used. Though it seemed like an odd choice at first, the pastoral song seemed to be a nice, albeit completely unsubtle, counterpoint to the paranoid techno-fear theme of the movie. The characters seemed to recognize this. The song is heard in the film when the main characters of Dr. Will Castor and his wife Evelyn (played by Depp and Rebecca Hall respectively) repeatedly play the LP on their portable turntable as a way of distancing themselves from the technologies to which they devote their lives and work. In fact, the actual physical record is shown to be a prized possession for the couple and, as the film goes on, a nostalgic artifact of their earlier simpler lives before murder, robotics, and other amusements intervened. There was one thing that bothered me, though, and that was that the filmmakers or set-designers or whoever is in charge of these decisions, decided to give the LP a different, older looking label.

Does this label seem too modern?

I was almost embarrassed to write that last line. I mean, what kind of geek would care about something like this? Here’s the thing, I think it matters more than some other trivial inaccuracy that only a sexually frustrated overgrown child living in his mother’s basement would point out. The reason I think it matters is that by making album look older, it seemed as though the filmmakers were trying to make the practice of playing records and cherishing them appear to be an even older and more antiquated practice than it already is. One that is more associated with industrial revolution era luddites than something from our own childhood memories. Why did they have to make it seem so foreign? Why do they have to make me feel so damn old?

My last thought was that the song was somehow being taken away from me. If Transcendence gets to be widely seen, the song will become far better known than it was a few weeks ago. Now, I wouldn’t say that the song “Genesis” is all that obscure a song. In fact, most of my friends would even consider the song to be a bit of a classic. But then, many of those friends are people who spent the bulk of their twenties going to hippie music festivals and have a preference for, how shall I say it, post-psychedelic roots music.

Jorma Kaukonen, circa 1978

My own introduction to the song was when I saw Jorma perform at The House of Blues in Cambridge, Massachusetts, sometime in the summer of 1998. I was already a fan of Jorma’s through his work with the bands Jefferson Airplane and Hot Tuna, but I did not know any of his solo work. In the middle of Jorma’s set of masterful finger-style blues, he dropped in the song. Its lilting melody and contemplative lyrics set it apart from the rest of the pieces, even in an all acoustic show. I was taken aback. I asked the guy next to me what the name of the song was. “Genesis,” he screamed into my left ear.

(Prior to that, when I was hearing audience members shouting “play ‘Genesis,’” I thought they were drunks who thought that the ensemble in front of them was a cheesy bar band taking requests and were just dying to hear “Invisible Touch” at that very moment.)

Quah - 1974 - Grunt Records

I went out the next day and bought a copy of Quah, Jorma’s first solo album which opens with the song. I immediately began to play the song for everyone who would visit my studio apartment. I would put it on mix tapes for friends. The song was my gift for them.

Now it’s just “that song from Transcendence,” and utilized in the movie in such an overly dramatic way as to make the song seem even more saccharine than it is, and I guess that irks me a bit. I always feel the need to say that I am not a hipster, but maybe I share some unfortunate traits with that group, namely the feeling of self-satisfaction that comes from knowing something that is not common knowledge in mainstream circles. However, I will defend myself by saying that while hipsters guard their stockpiles of useless information like Masonic secrets, I like to turn people on to things that I have discovered, and I guess I just resent the fact that Transcendence has taken away my ability to play someone “Genesis” for the first time.

On the other hand, it was nice to see the song used in a way that reaffirmed the importance of the musical artifact as a thing to be treasured in of itself. It also illustrated how the power of those objects lies not only in the ability it give to replay and relive music, but also to share it with others in a more intimate way than via networks. I know I’m a bit out of touch, but “Hey man, I want to play you this record” will always trump a link to a Spotify track or YouTube clip any day of the week. So, in spite of the fact that I heard the song probably one too many times throughout the movie, I still went home and played it one more time for just my girlfriend and myself.

And at any rate, the movie isn’t doing so well. With a bit of luck, maybe the song will maintain some its semi obscure status.

When You Play It, Say It!

A New Podcast That's All About Music... Except When It's Not

Click Here to stream Episode 2 of When You Play It, Say It

Those who are acquainted with me already know that I am at my best/worst when I get a few drinks in me and start talking about music. I am known to seize control of the jukebox at bars or the stereo at parties, and engage in lively discussion of (pontification about) songs and artists as they come up. My favorite “house-hangs” tend to be just one or two friends, a bottle of something, my record collection, and a lot of arguing. Opinions are indelicately asserted, connections are discovered between artists and songs, personal stories and associations are shared. Sometime there is crying.

Sounds fun, you say? How can I get in on one of these, you ask? Well, it is tough. With much regret I have had to turn down requests from celebrities, royalty, and heads of state. In fact, just last week the King of Laputa dropped by unannounced bearing gifts of a bottle of Henri IV, Cognac Grande Champagne and an original 8-track cassette of Frank Zappa’s Lumpy Gravy. I had to turn him away, as my apartment is not very big and I have few chairs.

That embarrassing episode did get me thinking, however. How can I share this marvelous experience with everyone? How can I insure that everyone who wants to can have a little time with a verbose, slightly tipsy, pretentious music freak like me? I felt sad contemplating the huge masses of people who were bereft of my knowledge and company. It was while pondering this question that I was looking through a stack of records at one of the few still existing vinyl shops in New York and came across a DJ copy of The Best of Marcel Marceau bearing a white sticker that read: “When you play it, say it.” The sticker, a common sight during the mid-eighties (when DJs often would play blocks of songs with no introduction or commentary, only interrupting the music to announce the time and weather), was a reminder from the record company to the DJ to stop now and then and actually tell the listeners the name of the songs and artists (this was particularly important in the case of the Marcel Marceau record in question, as many people listening on the radio thought it was John Cage).

Holding that record in my hand, I had an epiphany. A radio show… or something like it. Anyone who wants to be can be a fly on the wall while I’m joined by a rotating cast of characters and we engage in inane banter about music and musicians and make complete assholes of ourselves. My living room, my records, my friends, probably some cheap tequila, and maybe some beer nuts.

So now for your entertainment and edification, the second ever episode of “When You Play It, Say It.” (Yes, there was a first, but we’re just going to say it’s like an unaired pilot for now.) On this occasion, I was joined by me old friend, actor/musician and front man for the band The Trembling Turncoats, Brett Warwick, for a lively discussion of that obscure little English band, the Beatles. Enjoy!

(For those who get through the whole thing and want additional information about the tracks discussed, as well as where Brett and I may have fucked up, click below to read more...)

Learn to Take a Joke: When Satire Becomes Disinformation

Pastor Rafael Cruz.
Do we really have to embellish this dude's bullshit?

Today I was checking my Facebook page and saw a friend linking to an article regarding statements made by the father of Texas Senator Ted Cruz, asserting that atheists should be kept in “camps.” My friend was incredulous. Other friends of his posted outraged comments in response. I checked the link, read the article, and judging from the ludicrous content (“…if they step one foot outside the electrified fence we shoot them between the eyes. Two or three times, just to be sure”), I assumed it to be satire. The fact that I didn’t recognize the site as a reputable news source, and could not verify the story on any sites that were more established, reinforced that belief. It was a cute piece. Not funny enough to be in The Onion (even though The Onion isn’t what it used to be), but topical and humorous.

My friend is a very intelligent man, and I hope he did not feel like I was being condescending when I pointed out that the story was almost certainly a joke, and that in this media saturated age, we all need to be a bit more careful about checking sources and using critical thinking before believing and reposting articles. I’m not sure how he felt. He didn’t respond to my last post.

Maybe he felt embarrassed. I know I would have, but admittedly I am more neurotic than most. Perhaps he didn’t read the whole article. I find with most of these pieces that they begin plausibly and escalate into absurdity.

The thing is that all too often I see people posting links to articles that were clearly written as satire, but

Jesus celebrating Easter? Even Sarah Palin isn't that dumb.

accepting them as fact, and passing them off as such. More often than not, they tend to be political in nature, like the outrageous statements attributed to Senator Cruz’ father (Sarah Palin appears to be another favorite target, with the “Jesus celebrated Easter” story, famously re-tweeted by Piers Morgan, being a notable example), and I have observed that people tend to be suckered in by pieces that jibe with their political inclinations and provide ammunition for their own arguments. People are simply less apt to scrutinize and discredit things with which they agree.

What is more interesting is that I have noticed that people getting called out (usually by someone posting a link to snopes.com, that famous “debunking” site which has yet to be debunked, as far as I know) tend to shrug it off. On one more than one occasion I have seen the poster of the dubious piece defend doing so because it “sounded like” it could be true. This is not exactly a “eureka” moment,” with a realization that we habitually inundate ourselves with unreliable information and view it with an uncritical eye. There is no understanding that we discredit our own positions when we habitually cite faulty sources.

I understand that there is so much information around us that it has become difficult to sift through all of it, but that does not make it less important to do so. One can argue that the news has become stranger than fiction, and I agree that many public figures seem to be becoming increasingly cartoonish. However, if we cannot discern satire from news, that is a huge problem.  The purpose of satire is to get people to think more, or to think differently. Now, all too often satire is becoming disinformation by being passed on, skipping that whole “thinking” thing.


Here's a link to the original article for those who are interested: http://www.newslo.com/ted-cruzs-father-suggests-placing-atheists-in-camps/

Kiss them Goodbye

A Campaign to Keep Kiss Out of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

So Kiss has been nominated a second time for induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. As their first nomination was in 2009, this marks their first time since the creation of the “fan ballot” which allows fans to have some limited input into the selection process (the five bands with the most votes on the fan ballot will each get one additional vote on the official ballot). I will, of course, be casting a vote to try, in my small way, to keep Kiss out. I urge all people who truly care about music and rock and roll to join me in my efforts.

Sure, they have recorded a good party rock song or two, and I think I might actually like Kiss if they were just some hard working New Jersey or Long Island bar band, but it is their “you wanted the best, you got the best” arrogance combined with a stage show seemingly designed more to sell comic books than albums that makes me abhor their unwarranted combination of mediocrity and bombast.

I do not want the Hall of Fame sullied by their presence.

I recall being at a Springsteen concert in 2009, and while waiting for the Boss to take the stage, I was talking to my friend about the Hall of Fame nominations. I said to him that I thought it would be outrageous if Kiss were inducted their first year being nominated and the Stooges got snubbed again (they were finally inducted that time after seven prior losses). Suddenly, this little guy who had been standing next to us got right up in my face (or as close as he could given his stature) and started making his case as to why Kiss deserved to be honored. It was something like: “Kiss has sold 40 million albums. How many did the Stooges sell?”

I calmly explained my admittedly rather naïve and idealistic notions of the Hall of Fame, that nominees should be judged based on a mix of quality, integrity, and influence, and that sheer popularity, while a factor, should not be the only criterion by which a band should assessed. He responded by barking the album sales again, and some shit about the “Kiss Army.” I calmly looked at him and told him that we would “agree to disagree. One of us is right, and one of us is you.”

I know that all Kiss fans are not necessarily as obnoxious as the little creep next to me at that concert (and he liked Springsteen, so his taste wasn’t all bad), but I have had some bad experiences with Kiss fans. I do freely admit that, like many people who dislike the Grateful Dead because of their hatred of the hippies who love them, my disdain for Kiss has a tremendous amount to do with my first encounter with a hard-core fan. You see, years ago, on my first day at a job working at a music store,  my manager, who was a brusque, abrasive, diminutive, goateed, stringy-haired… just straight-up unpleasant little man, subjected me to a lengthy lecture as to why Kiss was the best band on earth, walking me through the catalog and giving me bios of the band members. I can imagine my old boss and this little creep at the Springsteen concert getting into it over stale Budweisers, comparing their collections, talking about how long they had to wait in line at a Kiss convention to get Paul Stanley’s autograph, and giving each other high fives in a ritual resembling a cross between male bonding and ‘roid rage. At any rate, in spite of those events, I will allow that liking Kiss does not make you a bad person.

Yes, I am aware that my reasons for not wanting Kiss to be inducted into the Hall of Fame has a lot to do with my own pretention, idealism and hypocrisy. I am fully aware that I am frequently guilty of subjecting people to pontifications about music similar to that of my old manager. I know that, based on my own predilections, I am trashing something that brings other people joy. I also recognize the fact that the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is hardly an unimpeachable organization.

But so what? Sure, it may be a bit perverse, but not surprising that my contempt for Kiss actually brings me a hint of joy, and I’m sure Gene Simmons isn’t crying over it. So I am mounting this campaign purely for fun and with the hope that I can do my small part to make sure that (what I consider to be) more worthy acts are inducted into that (somewhat dubious) institution.

The Meters are good. You should vote for them.

So go to http://rockhall.com/get-involved/interact/poll/ and vote. Vote your taste. Vote your conscience. Or just close your eyes and point. But whatever you do, just don’t vote for Kiss.

By the way, in the end I voted for Chic (brilliant musicians who never get enough credit), Deep Purple (snubbed long enough), Hall and Oates (saw the on the Big Bam Boom tour in 1985), The Meters (legendary funk), and The Zombies (underrated legends). As a prog rock geek, I feel bad for not voting for Yes and Peter Gabriel. However, Gabriel got in with Genesis a couple of years ago and can wait a few years to get in as a solo artist. As for Yes, I’m sure I’ll vote for them next year.

U-Melt Rides Again

U-Melt at Brooklyn Bowl 9/21/13

Last Saturday, the New York based improvisational-progressive band, U-Melt, played their first show in nearly three years to a packed house at the Brooklyn Bowl in Williamsburg. Being a band that had always had a tight connection with its fans, and those fans to each other, it was a reunion in a very classic sense. The night was truly a gathering of old friends, both onstage and off.

In a sense, though, it was considerably more than that. In spite of the fact that it was advertised as a one-off gig, there was a feeling that the band was experiencing its own revitalization and reinvention. This was due in no small part to the fact that the show marked the first time that the band performed with five full members, with founders Zac Lasher, Rob Salzer, Adam Bendy and George Miller being joined by new member Kevin Griffin, a long-time friend of the band. Griffin had filled the role of U-Melt guitarist for a period in 2010 when Salzer bowed out just after completing the band’s final album, Perfect World. At those shows, Griffin’s technical abilities made him more than able to recreate Salzer’s intricately dazzling guitar parts, while at the same time demonstrating his own energetic and somewhat looser style of playing. Now, with Salzer and Griffin playing together onstage for the first time as bandmates (Griffin had often sat in with the band in earlier years), they found a powerful new sound combining Salzer’s fluid, wizardly lines with Griffin’s exuberant style, often featuring breathtaking harmonic lines, often played at breakneck speed, displayed on the show’s opener, “Elysian Fields.”

With an additional member to tackle some of the harmonic parts, keyboardist Zac Lasher now had greater freedom to create the ethereal sonic dreamscapes that have come to be a cornerstone of the band’s sound. Indeed, he had his work cut out for him (or rather, he had cut it out for himself) as the band’s last recordings featured some of Lasher’s most dense and layered parts. Lasher and the band had clearly come a long way from the sparse sounds of their earlier live-tronica influenced jams when the band was in its infancy. This is not to say that from the outset, the band did not always seek to combine danceable grooves with elegant and intricate composition, they simply got better at it.

Drummer George Miller and bassist Adam Bendy showed once again that they had the unique ability to hold down a danceable groove when playing music replete with complex meter and key changes, ensuring that the music would be as satisfying for the body as for the head. As George’s deft, thunderous playing weaved between propulsive and jazzy, Bendy displayed his combination of straight in-the-pocket playing with acute harmonic intelligence

To be sure, it was not a standard U-Melt setlist. One thing conspicuously absent was the occasional throw-in of a classic prog or 80s cover song to contribute to the party atmosphere. But this was not just a normal U-Melt gig. There was clearly a sense of occasion, and they had no time for anyone else’s music. While the setlist included  a few favorites from the early years, including the band’s early rave-up “Schizophrenia,” it largely favored the most recent material composed and recorded just prior to their breakup in 2010, including live favorites such as “The Fantastical Flight of Captain Delicious” and “Clear Light.” Songs wove together with others, and in places where the band might, in days past, have thrown in a tease of a song by The Police or Steely Dan, they would reference a song of their own which they did not have enough time to play in its entirety. These guys had a lot of lost time to make up for, and a lot of material to cram in.

 

The evening had high expectations and the band delivered. The band was coy about future plans (Lasher: “Maybe we’ll do this again some time”). However, to listen to the tightness of the band, one would never think that they had been apart for three years. To see the anticipation and reaction of the crowd, one would think that they had been apart for much, much longer. One thing is for sure, they don’t want to have to wait that long again.

Photos by Jeremy Gordon (as if you couldn't tell from the watermark)

Local Man Stops Robbery by Quoting Steely Dan Lyrics

Actually this never happened, but I would be curious to see how it would turn out.

Becker and Fagen: You really want to fuck with these dudes?

See, a number of times on Facebook recently, I have seen people link to this Onion-esque article about some guy who used dialogue from Pulp Fiction to scare off a couple who were robbing a coffee shop (if you haven't read it yet...). I didn’t peruse the piece thoroughly, but I glanced through it enough to digest it as a piece of mildly entertaining absurdist satire (as opposed to those who seemed to think it was a real news story) exploring a geek’s fantasies of badassitude, getting the opportunity to (pretend to) be the menacing man of action he saw in the movies.

It was amusing enough. Obviously (at least to most), something like this would never work. I mean, really, Pulp Fiction? Too well known. Sure, it has somehow retained a reputation as a “cult movie” long after it completely permeated mainstream culture, but let’s be serious. It was a cult movie for about 20 minutes in 1994 in that gap between the indie hype wearing off but before the Oscar nominations. Fine, sure, for a while into 1995, Pulp Fiction was still a favorite and inspiration to film students whose idea of a good time was to watch epic Kubrick and Kurosawa marathons in their dorm rooms until they were so sensory-overloaded and exhausted that they could be completely distracted from issues like student loans for worthless degrees and wondering why they were still virgins. But then I digress. The fact is that I would not take someone quoting Pulp Fiction dialogue seriously unless they had their stiletto blade already sticking half-way into my esophagus. It’s just too common.

Making hardened criminals so shocked and disconcerted that they would just turn and run? That takes some seriously obscure references, man. That requires material so oblique and ironic that the attacker will be forced to ask himself “is this 80 pound weakling crazy in the ‘makes sculptures of his first grade crush out of his own excrement’ way, or the ‘will kill me and carve Philip K. Dick quotes over my mutilated body’ way?” What would have that effect?

The answer to this conundrum is Steely Dan. “But they were mainstream, too,” I hear you say. Sure, they had some hits in the 70s. They snuck a few overly intellectual bits onto the Billboard charts. They also composed some of the most sophisticated and darkly humorous music of the 70s. They wrote songs about Charles Whitman type clock tower snipers, down and out criminals, and perverted old men who show pornographic 8mm films to the neighbors’ children. I mean, they won a fucking Grammy for writing about a guy trying to schtup his cousin. Not to mention that they named themselves after a talking dildo in a William Burroughs novel, for shit’s sake. And I’ll tell you this: Taken out of context, a lot of their lyrics, spoken with a steady gaze, unwavering voice, and ambiguously malevolent intention, can be pretty menacing.

So try this: Next time you find yourself in yourself in the presence of someone who is armed and wishes to use that advantage in the furtherance of a crime of violence or economic gain, confront the attacker and say these words:

I could be wrong but I have seen your face before. Are you with me? Or are you really just a shadow of the man that I once knew? I don't care. A man of my mind can do anything. You got the muscle; I got the news. Anybody on the street, has murder in his eyes. So unhand that gun. There's no one to fire upon. And I don't need that kind of action. Don't you know there's fire in the hole and nothing left to burn? It's Cancellation Day. Yes, the Big Adios is just a few hours away. Be glad if you can use what you borrow. In the end, will you still have a song to sing when the razor boy comes and takes your fancy things away?

I think it will make any would-be assailants think twice before they tried to tangle with someone as cultured as you.

(Note: The author of this piece bears no responsibility for injuries or other repercussions arising from actually trying this stupid shit.) 

The End of an Era, or Something

Another Collector Weighs In on the Closing of Bleecker Bob's

Anyone who reads music blogs has probably seen
this image a lot lately

If you told me ten years ago that the near-legendary New York record store, Bleecker Bob’s, was closing, I would probably be less upset than I am now. Back then, I used to wander around the Village every week on my day off and hit the circuit of record stores in the area around West 4^th Street and 6^th Avenue, usually dropping about a hundred dollars on old records and bootleg CDs. Bob’s was just another stop on the tour, and I generally bought fewer records there as they were noticeably higher priced than the other places. Still, I’ve found some great things there, and even though in recent years my record collecting has slowed down considerably, I still pop in now and again. (I believe my last purchase was a copy of Something Else by the Kinks. The fifty dollar sticker gave me pause, but it was in such immaculate condition that I couldn’t not buy it.)

Looking back, in spite of its notoriously cantankerous staff and its high prices, I do have some affection for the place and for what it represents. After all, the first LP I ever bought in New York was there. I was working in a considerably less hip chain music store in Boston when I took a trip to New York to see The Who perform Quadrophenia at Madison Square Garden. One of my managers at the store told me that I could get some great bootleg vinyl at a place called Bleecker Bob’s. I will never forget the day after the concert when my friend and I wandered around the Village in the rain trying to find the place. I guess, we were kind of thrown off by the fact that Bleecker Bobs was, by this time, not actually on Bleecker Street. (The record I bought that day was an LP bootleg of The Who at Swansea in ‘76.)

Patti Smith at Subterranian

In the past decade, I have seen so many of my favorite haunts close down, places that I used to spend much more time hanging out in than Bob’s. I used to spend hours hanging out at Subterranean Records on Cornelia Street in spite of the fact that the place was approximately the size of a walk in closet. The owner, Michael, was a decent guy, but it was usually Kenny behind the counter when I showed up. Kenny was one of those rare animals: The quiet, unpretentious music fan who seems to know everything but would never make anyone feel bad for knowing less. Always happy to turn people on to new things, his tastes were so broad that he would play everything in the store from the most obscure garage rock to late seventies Alice Cooper songs when the Coop apparently began to fancy himself a balladeer (he particularly liked the song “I Never cry). The steps that led down from the street were so treacherous and with such low head clearance that anyone over the height of five feet would have to contort one’s body just get in. Every time I was to enter or exit, the thought went through my head: “How do I do this without hurting myself?”  Once in, I would usually stay for at least an hour to postpone the perilous journey up those three steps.

When I first moved to New York, though, I spent most of my time at Second Coming Records. Not nearly the mainstay that Bleecker Bob’s and Subterranean were, I found myself there because, in addition to their vinyl, their CD shop (the vinyl and CD stores were separate, but next door to one another) had an extensive selection of bootlegs. When I was unemployed during the summer of 2001, I spent most of my time there. Usually Adam was behind the counter, a spectacled, diminutive, skinny-jeaned hipster, but in fact was quite good company. We would hang out and argue about music (Adam was of the school that believed that the Who never made anything worthwhile after 1966 and I also don’t think he ever approved of my predilection for prog rock). We would often be joined by any number of other denizens, such as Javier, who was a hardcore and metal freak who looked like the offspring of character actor (and former Sonic youth drummer) Richard Edson and Harvey Keitel’s character in Taxi Driver, and would often come in with hardcore tapes with hand drawn covers (which were pretty damn good, actually).

One day that fall, after a fruitless day of handing out resumes, I stopped by the shop and saw Adam and a few of his friends sitting on the street outside of the store, still locked. The owner had not shown up to open the store, and was unreachable by phone. So we just sat on the street, and began on another one of the epic music conversations/arguments that we typically had inside. As the sun went down, I proposed we continue the conversation in a bar somewhere. I think we ended up at a place on 8th Avenue.

I didn’t see those guys for a while after that. A couple of years later, I wandered into Bleecker Bob’s and saw Javier behind the counter, and he told me that Adam was working there too. After that, I would saunter in from time to time and occasionally get into a somewhat watered down version of the music debates that we used to have. Sometimes I would just buy something and leave. Javier is still there. From what I understand, Adam moved to Texas a while ago, Austin, I think.

Though a lot of them are gone, a few of the other places that I used to hit up years ago are still there and some foolhardy record geeks are even opening new shops in the outer boroughs. Bleecker Bob’s is not the last place to get records, but for some reason, I kind of thought it always would be. It was an institution, the biggest of the independents. There has been enough talk about changing music consumption habits and digital downloads wreaking havoc on brick and mortar stores (places to buy actual albums, even CDs,  are becoming so rare that I even find myself looking back wistfully on the days of the Virgin Megastore), and enough of it has come from me. Still, on one hand, we are losing places to obtain tangible artifacts, but more importantly we are losing the places where people with a somewhat more intense affinity for music could come together. These are places where habits of obsessive compulsive consumption, which might be considered a pathology in normal circles, are met with admiration and respect, and ultimately to admission to that exclusive club of insider/outsiders.

To be sure, those people still exist. They can be found every day in the few remaining record shops, but I also have to assume that these stores also survived over the years due also to the patronage of more casual fans, and they don’t seem to come around as much anymore. New York real estate is too expensive for any business to rely solely on a small group of outsiders. And who knows?  People blame the internet for the loss of patronage of the casual fan, but perhaps it also has, to a lesser extent, effected the patronage of the hard core fans who now have a different place to bitch about music.

So anyway, Bob’s is closing, and I guess it’s sad. There is talk that they may retain a kiosk in the chain frozen yogurt shop, but I can’t imagine it being a great hangout for hipster malcontents.

Anyway, in conclusion, here is a great little joke you can tell a record collector if you really want to really piss him or her off: “What is the difference between a record collector and a comic collector? Record collectors think they’re cool.”