Psychotic Record Organization

So the other day I picked up, among a few other esoteric records, a copy of Sonny Bono’s album, Inner Views. Panned at the time, hipsters and cognoscenti have reappraised the album, calling it a misunderstood masterpiece, a peculiar psychedelic artifact, and a brilliant piece of outsider art made by the ultimate insider. Frankly I wouldn’t go that far, but it is an entertaining listen, and I can imagine myself spinning it again. I put it up on my shelf under “S” for Sonny, awaiting my next listening perhaps in the next four or five years. Some would, and have said that that is not proper organization.

Record collecting has to be a sign of mental illness. I say this as an avid music fan and rabid collector himself, though my collection of consists of just under a paltry two thousand vinyl LPs, and about a thousand CDs. This is not a humble brag; this is simply to illustrate that, in the scheme of things, I am only a mild obsessive. I am usually content with one copy of an album, as opposed to ensuring that I have every different new edition on every format that I may or may not have the ability to play. I suppose I just don’t care enough about music. After all, my set up is not equipped to play 8-Track cartridges, 78 rpm records, or wax cylinders.

I am a member of several fan groups on social media, and it seems that a major pastime of many participants is to take pictures of their collections, showing just how many copies they possess of each release. They make me seem quite tame by comparison. (I will confess that I have owned five copies of Huey Lewis and The News’ Sports. I am not obsessed, it just happened that way, replacing copies that were destroyed on the floor of my mom’s car, finding a copy for fifty cents in the cheapo bin to replace both of those lost or fucked up cassettes, later finding a CD in a thrift shop so I could get the album onto my iPod, and the later fining myself in possession of a Mobile Fidelity Sound Lab LP just because one of my Mom’s friends was getting rid of some shit… But I digress.) However, I speak primarily for myself when I say that there is a connection between compulsive obtainment and obsessive organization. The temperament must lend itself to both habits, and that it is also quite fortunate. Imagine having thousands of records and not knowing how to find any of them in that giant mess.

There is a scene in the film High Fidelity, a movie that I both love and abhor, in which two of the obsessive collectors compare notes about organization. The protagonist explains that his organizational system for his records does not follow any conventional rules, but is pure idiosyncrasy tied to his own neuroses and nostalgia. “I can tell you how I got from Deep Purple to Howlin’ Wolf in just twenty-five moves. And if I want to find the song “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac, I have to remember that I bought it for someone in the Fall of 1983 pile, but didn’t give it to them for personal reasons.”

Hey, as long as he can find what he’s looking for.

Personally, I go Genre → Alphabetical by artist → Chronological within artists’ catalogs. It sounds specific, but it already leaves too much room for interpretation. For example, for bands that release a lot of archival material, do you sort it in the order of recording or order of release? You may laugh, but you try to figure out a consistent logic when dealing with a band like the Grateful Dead and their copious amounts of live releases, both contemporaneous and retrospective, their Dick’s Picks, Dave’s Picks, and Road Trips. How are you gonna find that Ithaca show that everyone always raves about?

A needle in a haystack

In polling other record collectors, I have found basically two basic methods: The Library Method and the Record Store Method. The Library Method is pretty self-explanatory and is pretty close to what I do. The Record Store Method is a bit more idiosyncratic. Now, when I’m talking about a record store, I mean a proper record store. I don’t mean a Sam Goody, or HMV, or Strawberries, or any of those other places that stopped existing around the time iTunes became a thing. I’m talking about a place that sells used vinyl and has, well, geeks like me behind the counter.

The record store method groups things together that are connected in other ways, usually collecting side and solo projects alongside a parent band. Example: Were you to walk into Bleecker Bob’s (okay, you can’t do that since that’s gone too) or Academy Records in New York, you would find albums by Mike and The Mechanics, Anothony Phillips, and Peter Gabriel under Genesis. Is this good for Genesis fans? Sure. Is it somewhat disrespectful of the artists (particularly those who had left the band) who doubtless want their solo work to stand on its own outside of the band? Also, yes. Is it annoying for Phil Collins fans who won’t find their favorite artist under “C,” the logical spot for it? Once again, yes.

The Record Store method presupposes knowledge of music and groups. That is its major flaw.

What are the flaws with the Library Method? Well, aside from the chronology issue (largely not dealt with in actual libraries), there is the opposite problem when it comes to grouping. Here are some examples to bend your brain. Where would you file Iggy Pop? Probably under “P,” right? Now where would file the Stooges? “S,” obviously. Now where would you file Iggy and the Stooges?

Here’s an easier one: Where do you file The Modern Lovers? Where do You file Jonathan Richman & The Modern Lovers? I consider that one easy because the Modern Lovers were a unique band that was fronted by Jonathan Richman that existed between 1970 and 1974, whereas Jonathan Richman later resurrected the name for his ever-changing backing band in 1976. Not the same, and not in the same place on my shelf.

Am I insane for even dwelling on this? Probably. Welcome to the mind of a record collector. Fortunately, I am not alone. A record collector’s forum that I frequent yielded comments such as:

“File it where you’ll remember it. My Mott the Hoople records are all under H for Ian Hunter, all of the solo Beatles have their own section by their last names (and yes, “Wings” is under “M”), all of my Funkadelic, George Clinton etc are under “P” for “P-Funk”. I would never argue to defend my choices. I just know that my collection is big and I don’t want to waste time hunting for albums if I don’t have to.”

“I struggle with alphabetization too. My Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers are all under T, as is Johnny’s solo stuff. And, in violation of several laws I am sure, I have Iggy Pop solo and Iggy & the Stooges all under P. Blasphemy, I know, but at least I can find them.”

“I’m so OC, I file it by year recorded, then within each year, geographically east to west, north to south. Try it! It’s great for context[.]”

I’m pretty sure that last one was a joke.

So why did I file the Sonny Bono album under S? Because in spite of the fact that most of us know the former Congressman and Mayor of Palm Springs as Sonny Bono, he released this album, his sole solo release, under the mononym “Sonny.” If he released any other albums under his surname, maybe that would be a different story. As it is, it sits on the shelf next to Look at Us, by Sonny and Cher.

I feel good about this decision.

Record Store Field Trip: Amherst, MA

It’s been a while since I’ve posted. I’m going to try to be better about that, particularly about these Record Store outings, calling attention to places that I discover, or re-discover, when I dare to leave the boundaries of New York City.

I recently made a quick trip up to my Hometown of Amherst, Massachusetts, and while I did not have the time or money to visit all of the places I wanted to (most of them in neighboring towns requiring more planning for people such as I who do not drive), I never go back to Amherst without stopping at Mystery Train.

 

Mystery Train
178 N Pleasant St
Amherst, MA 01002

Though the Amherst location was not open when I lived there, I had been going to Mystery Train since I was in college, when I would frequent their locations in Cambridge and Boston.* When I was younger, there were at least three independently owned music retailers in downtown Amherst, now Mystery Train is the only one left.

I would recommend this store to all collectors, whether they live in Western Mass or are on some kind of vacation or pilgrimage (and not just because it is the only place in town). They have good stuff, and a selection that is just different enough to notice. The place has a lot of interesting records that I can only imagine comes from buying collections from people in and around Amherst: Academics, artists, aging hippies. I’m not saying that those people do not exist in New York, but visit Amherst and you will feel a certain vibe. Yes, there are colleges in cities, but cities are different from “college towns.”

The jazz section is solid, and again, for some reason, that is where I seem to find more things that I don’t come across in other places. The rock section is pretty standard, but with a few surprises, records by bands that fared better in smaller cities but never broke through in a huge way. There were some great records by the Baltimore based band Crack the Sky, and the Long Island based Good Rats.

Organizationally, it could be a bit better, but that’s a common problem. Categorization is all well and good. It is nice to have a designated “prog” section, but often over-categorization can make things hard to find. This place, though, seemed to suffer from both overcategorization and disorganization. Subcatagories would be on the other side of the room, while there were boxes and boxes of records sorted only by price. I think these boxes, once upon a time, would have been called the “cheapo” bin, but it isn’t quite the bargain it used to be.

The “cheapo” bins seem to be getting more and more expensive, and obviously that’s not unique to Mystery Train. I suppose that’s just a consequence of the times and the resurgence in vinyl’s popularity, but man, I remember back when there was great stuff to be found in the fifty cent bin. At Mystery Train they have the “$5 New Arrivals” box, close to the floor (elevated only by an upturned milk crate) and similar boxes which get progressively more expensive until the end when I wondered why I was screwing up my knees and back, squatting to look through a bunch of unsorted ten dollar records. I mean, I don’t want to sound like an old fart (which I suppose I am now) but once things get beyond, say, 8 bucks, I think it should be at standard browsing level. I should be able to stand up straight and leaf through.

As I sauntered to the counter I made a stop at the rare vinyl bin. You know the one: Basically a box of disparate record unified by no theme other than the fact the everything in the box costs more than thirty dollars. I can kind of see why, at Mystery Train, the box is right the front of the counter, which is also to say, farthest from the door. Perhaps this is to dissuade the rare animal that is the vintage record collector who is both of criminal nature and quick and spry of body. On the other hand, having it right by the counter, which I have only approached once I have reached the limit to what I should spend greatly decreases the likelihood that anything in there will come home with me.

“I don’t know why I do this to myself,” I said to the stereotypical, graying, bespectacled dude behind the counter. “Best case scenario is that I find nothing of interest rather than find something that I want, but not be able to afford.”

“Hmm,” the guy said and noddled, neither with impatience or interest.

“The last time I was here you had the first album by Patto for, like, a hundred bucks. I’m still kicking myself for not picking that one up.”

“Oh.”

I leafed through the rack and found that the average price of the records in the rarities bin had gone down a bit. Most of the discs were priced at thirty bucks, and most of those were even worth it. I was definitely hoping that the Patto record was still there a year later (and marked down), but even as I went through, I knew that I was being hopelessly optimistic. Then I stumbled across the second album by the criminally underrated early 90s Boston band, The Cavedogs. Soul Martini (Capital Records, 1992).

“Wow. That’s crazy. I didn’t even know this was even issued on vinyl.”

This looked far more impressive in the catalog.

I mean, I shouldn’t have been too surprised. By 1992, vinyl still had some life in it. As I think back, I only had started buying CDs in early 1989. The holiday season before had included gifts of a Yorx Stereo System and my first CD player. Those who were in early adolescence back in the late 80s might remember Yorx electronics. I believe that they were entirely designed for catalog purchase. You see, in the pictures, it looked like you were getting an incredible rack system of dual cassette deck, turntable, AM/FM receiver, and graphic equalizer. All of this also came in a cabinet with room for media storage, and floor speakers. When the “system” ultimately arrived, the recipient would discover that the whole unit was essentially a single plastic box, with flimsy parts and much smaller than it appeared. In fact when playing an LP record, the disc would stick out beyond the edges of the unit. While the speakers stood about 3 feet high, it was exaggerated for effect. The same woofer and tweeter could have fit inside a tiny bookshelf cabinet. That was my Hannukah gift, but in spite of all this, I loved it to death.

The CD player was a Christmas gift. A Sanyo something or other. As relatively cheap a model as it was, it was certainly a step up from the Yorx unit, and was designed to be plugged into a proper receiver. I discovered to my dismay when I went to hook it up that the York system only had one single mono input for an auxiliary device. Not to be deterred, I went to my local Radio Shack and bought a stereo to mono RCA adapter cable. So at least I could hear both channels, even if they were flattened into an unintended monoaural mix.

An audiophile system, this was most certainly not. But it was mine, and I would spend hours locked away in my room listening to my new Guns n’ Roses CD and my dad’s old Beatles LPs. Even though I had come up listening to vinyl, by this time they were third class citizens. My parents’ records were not things to be cherished and appreciated for their sonic superiority (which was lost on this system, which, also, if I recall, played the records slightly too fast, resulting in the music being a quarter-tone sharp). They were just things that were there. At that time, I generally wouldn’t buy vinyl. If I didn’t have enough money for an album on CD (a common problem for a twelve year old), I would buy the cassette tape. If I couldn’t even afford the cassette, I would grudgingly buy the LP.

So yeah. Thinking about it, I guess major labels were still pressing records at that time.

Anyway, I digress. So I began telling this guy about how I had first heard of the Cavedogs through my stepbrother and ruminated about the strange and inconsistent relationship between obscurity and perceived rarity, mentioning that my entire collection of Cavedogs on CD had been found in dollar used CD bins in New York… And then I just kind of stopped talking.

He looked back at me politely, then when he noticed I was done, went back to whatever it was he was doing. I was kind of taken aback. I don’t know what I was expecting out of this guy sitting at the counter behind stacks of CDs with an empty plate and fork sitting precariously on top. I guess I was expecting a different kind of energy, or any kind of energy at all.

He wasn’t even cantankerous. I could accept that. I’ve come across many of the old school, aging record collector guys who shit on everybody else because they are unworthy trespassers in the curated museum of rock history that is their dungeon of a shop. Some act aloof and “dickish,” feeling a deep need to protect their knowledge with a cool nonchalance in a desperate attempt to hide the fact that their wells of wisdom came from being geeky kids listening to records alone in their rooms while poring over issues of Rolling Stone and memorizing liner notes.

I could not get a feel for the guy. Maybe that kind of behavior and attitude is frowned upon in the warm, liberal town of Amherst. Maybe he used to be more like that until he got a visit from the town council who gently admonished him, saying: “Sir, we admire your tenacity as a small business owner in our town, and love what your shop brings to its cultural life. However, as a town that prides itself on being welcoming and understanding of all, regardless of race, religion, class, sexual orientation, gender and gender affiliation, education level, and musical taste, we would appreciate it if you would tone down the curmudgeonliness.” Maybe that’s why he was so quiet.

I don’t think I was out of line for expecting some kind of conversation. Hell, I’ve even been shamed for being too perfunctory when buying records. I was once at one of my favorite spots in New York and I went to the counter and put down my stack and asked if I could get a break on the price if I paid cash, something not uncommon at this place (and many other used record places). The dude regarded me with a look that could only be described as sadness and disappointment colored with the slightest touch of repugnance.

“I don’t want to get in to the dirty business at the start. I haven’t even seen what you’ve got yet,” he muttered as he started to look through.

When he got to the copy of Depeche Mode’s Music for the Masses, I told him that I was buying that one because I promised my wife that I would get it the next time I found it, but in fact the album had been on my back burner for almost twenty years when a regular at a bar I worked at in the early aughts recommended it to me. This patron, incidentally, was a budding fashion designer whom I had first met when serving a bottle of Veuve Cliquot to him and one of his model friends before grossly injuring myself while polishing a wine glass, necessitating a trip to the emergency room to get stiches put into the tip of my pinky.

“See, that’s the stuff I’m talking about,” said the guy behind the counter, now somewhat satisfied.

I don’t think that I’m wrong in saying that most people who own or work in record stores are people who really, obsessively, love music, and most people who really, obsessively love music, love talking about music. Particularly when I was younger, record stores were social places as much as places of commerce. Sometimes I would even win over the curmudgeons.

But I digress again. Back to Amherst. I don’t know what was going on in the head of this dude at the counter. I don’t know what kind of day he was having. In any event, I handed him my stack of records, he quietly rang them up, told me the total, and then asked if I was paying cash or charge. I paid cash even though it was clear there would be no discount.

As I headed towards the door, I discovered found a section of 80s records that I had overlooked. Evidently these deserved their own section. I took a cursory look. There was a copy of a record by The Bongos that I kind of want, but I wasn’t about to go back to the counter. It would have felt too awkward.

Maybe it’ll still be there next time.

My haul for the day. It turns out I already had the Herbie Mann record. 

*Evidently, while I was going to college in Boston, Mystery Train was planning it’s state-wide conquest, opening up locations in Gloucester, Amherst, and… Well, somewhere else. The website for their Gloucester location reads: “[T[he shop expanded over the years to five stores, then settled back to one large (most vinyl in New England) store in Gloucester, MA.” This tells me/insinuates a few things: Firstly, the stores that I originally frequented are no longer in existance. Secondly, there was one location that I did not know about, and still don’t. Finally, the Amherst location is probably no longer under the same ownership as the original Cambridge and current Gloucester locations, and thus likely functions as an independently owned entity.

Behind Closed Doors with Rush

Limbaugh... Not the killer prog rock group

I am not posting a picture of that guy

I found out about Rush Limbaugh’s death a couple days ago via Facebook. It was via a post from a person who is a friend of a neighbor of a family member in Florida. It simply read, “RIP RUSH.”  I knew then that I was in for a deluge of posts echoing that news. Few of them would be as short, and none of them would be as charitable.

The expected deluge came. The proper obituaries in the New York Times and Washington Post came out. Fox News freaked out because those eminent new organizations had the audacity to actually illustrate in those obits who the man was and what he did, and round and round and round it went. Friends on social media commenting on the comments on the comments.

It did get me thinking, though, that there was one thing that I could add to this story. The fact is that I have had an experience that almost all these people have not: I have heard what Rush Limbaugh would say behind closed doors.

Let’s set the “wayback machine”  to the spring of 2009 when I was crashing yet another so-called "New Media Seminar." A convention for talk radio professionals, largely a right-leaning medium (and mostly on the AM band), I would propose that  the name was a bit ironic. For most, “new media” brings to mind a much hipper group of folks than the conservative luddites found in this room.

My father, a talk show veteran himself (though not the right-wing kind), would let me tag along sometimes. I rather enjoyed these events. Don’t get me wrong. Most of it was boring as hell. But sometimes it felt like I was going right into the belly of the beast. Plus there was often an open bar, and how often do you get shake hands with G. Gordon Liddy?

These events were put on by Talkers Magazine, the industry trade publication. Every year they would give a “Free Speech Award” to people who exemplified the virtues of, or pushed the limits of, the First Amendment. At this convention in 2009 the award was being given to Rush.

In contrast with the previous years’ awards dinners, on this day the presentation ended up happening in one of those small auditoriums in convention centers that are specifically designed to inhibit any artistic use. The steps to the stage were inconveniently located at the far end of the room, opposite the door, so there was no way of making a good entrance. I remember that we were sitting front and center, which meant that every speaker had to cross right in front of us, and pretty awkwardly close, as well. Standing up to make more room for the presenter and recipient able to pass more easily, I recall thinking that I thought Rush would be taller (to be fair, he was actually above average height).

This is not Rush Limbaugh

The presenter, Talkers’ Publisher Michael Harrison, made his introductory remarks in a way that almost
seemed apologetic, as if he felt the need to explain why this award was to be presented to a person  who routinely used our cherished First Amendment in the most despicable ways. Much like the old adage of “I despise what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it,” he launched into a solemn speech about how this right needs to afforded to all, and if not… and these words still ring in my ears… “There is no America.”

(Here I begin to paraphrase due to being over decade removed from this event, but I believe I accurately present the spirit of his words.)

He continued: “Without allowing voices of dissent, there is no America. Without allowing voices with which we vehemently disagree, there is no America. The paradox and irony of America is that if we muzzle those voices that seek to destroy America, there is no America.”

Those words shook me to my core then. They seem naively idealistic to me today.

Rush took to the stage and I saw something in him I had never seen or ever thought I would: Humility. He accepted the award graciously and spoke to this room full of broadcasters, not about politics, not about partisanship, but about the one thing that they all had in common: Radio.

“All I am interested in is making good radio. I am not a political pundit. I am not an expert.  I am an entertainer. I want to engage and provoke listeners. I’m not saying that I don’t believe what I say, but I am a political commentator as a very distant second to being an entertainer. It’s all about good radio.”

For that moment I had a grudging respect for the man. I mean, in terms of “radio guys” (and they do call themselves that), in terms of grabbing onto the ears of listeners, being unorthodox and unpredictable, energizing and growing a listener base, and being just damned entertaining, it cannot be denied that he was extremely effective.

...and neither is this.

In my defense of my momentary feeling lapse of disdain, I never really listened to his show. So at that moment, watching him appear to speak from his actual heart, I didn’t remember some of the more egregious things he had said and done. For one thing, I don’t think at that time that I knew about his infamous “AIDS Update” segment, which he would introduce with Dionne Warwick’s “I’ll Never Love This Way Again,” and proceed to mockingly read off the names of people who died of AIDS. Also, back then in 2009, I was yet to see just how much he would embrace his status as an alt-right (i.e. facist) mouthpiece. At this innocent time, the neo-Nazis were largely still in their bunkers, and Rush was still pretty much just a run-of-the-mill right-wing stooge.

Interestingly, as I started writing this, I came across a piece in Talkers magazine ruminating on his legacy in radio. The piece, written by the magazine’s managing editor, Mike Kinosian, attempting to eschew political bias, illustrated the man simply as the groundbreaking figure he was in the business. While the piece did not validate his politics, it was too effusive in its praise of him as a shrewd and inventive broadcaster for my taste. Still, written from an insider’s point of view, it presented an angle not found in his other obituaries:  His insecurity and feelings of isolation from the mainstream figures in his industry. Kinosian ultimately wrote that “we can only speculate if he believed his own hype.”

Evidently, this side of him was an open secret within the industry. Clearly, he was driven by insecurity and was well aware that he was not providing his listeners with unique insight, but candy wrapped with fool’s gold.

Frankly, I do not know what is worse, an ideologue or an opportunist. I would say the latter. That moment in the auditorium when I actually appreciated his candor, is actually what makes me find him all the more despicable. See, it’s just lovely to say a person that he had a well of resentment, anger, and insecurity which caused him to act in a certain way, but sometimes it’s just like pointing out that the guy who killed his entire family was, himself, abused as a child. At some point, you just say: “How poignant. Fuck him anyway.”

And that’s all I have to say about that. For a brief moment I saw that there was another side to that man, a man more in touch with his own reality even if not the reality of the world around him. He seemed reasonable enough that I can say with utmost confidence that he must have recognized that moment he went from being an entertainer to being an instigator and a dissembler, willfully sowing seeds of disinformation and division for glory and financial gain. He was most certainly aware of that turning point. And he kept going, with even greater determination. As long as he stayed on top.

So fuck him.

A much better kind of Rush.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Anal Retentiveness, and Scarcity in the Time of Pandemic

Definite gaps in the paper goods aisle

As someone who has dealt with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder his whole life (which includes therapy and medication), as well as being someone who, years ago, was occasionally accused of being a hipster (I wasn’t, the jeans were too skinny for me), I was using hand sanitizer way before it was cool. Now, it’s like my favorite obscure band has gone mainstream, and I have to wait in line and pay more for concert tickets in order to stand next to some kid wearing the band shirt, but can still only name the hit single.

It was almost two weeks ago when I called my wife and asked her if she could pick up a refill jug of hand sanitizer, as we had run out earlier that day (my wife shares some of my obsessive compulsive tendencies along with a nice dose of hypochondria). She told that our local drugstore was cleaned out. I told her that it was fine. I was recovering from a relapse of the flu, and felt well enough to return the next day, and thus would be heading into town (i.e. Manhattan) and I would check the stores there. No luck.

My own brand

Still, I understand, given the rapid spread of the Coronavirus, and the conflicting information thereof. I would never dismiss people’s fears or their very reasonable impulses to be more cautious. Now I find myself doing what an increasing number of people are doing, making homemade concoctions with rubbing alcohol (or Everclear, as even rubbing alcohol has become scarce), aloe, and essential oils. It’s a little runnier, but actually it’s been quite nice on my hands, and the smell of the lavender is quite enchanting.

Then I heard about the run on toilet paper.

Yes, I previously stated that I believed myself to be ahead of the curve when it comes to hand sanitizer. On the other hand, though I have been doing it since shortly after birth, I have never considered myself to be on the avant-garde of defecation. To put it succinctly, I didn’t invent shit. So while I imagine that the scarcity of Purell can be partly blamed on a rush of new consumers, I simply do not believe the same can be said for toilet paper.

Or maybe I’m wrong. These are strange times and it takes more and more to surprise me. All of sudden this bizarre image comes to mind of a confused individual contemplating hygiene for the first time in years thinking: “Okay, they say that I need to wash my hands frequently and for at least twenty seconds. I read somewhere on Facebook that if you recite Lady Macbeth’s ‘Out, out damn spot’ speech in your head while lathering (of course not forgetting to scrub underneath the fingernails) that is just the right amount of time… Which one of my friends is such a theater geek that they remember that thing, and assumed that I would too? And… Oh my God, what is this putrid thing coming out of the hole underneath me. Nothing has ever come out of there before! That hole was for prostate massage only! I must get to Duane Reade quickly to get copious amounts of that “toilet tissue” that I have seen people buy, but never knew for myself its usefulness. I am so new to this, I don’t know what to get. Extra soft, or extra strong? Will there be someone there who can help me with that? And will I still be able to massage my prostate?”

Good Movie. If you're stuck in
quarantine, you should check it out.

And so on and so on. In my reverie, the inner monologue of this fictitious character eventually touches on the subjects of cybernetics, free jazz, Milky Way bars, and culminates in the sudden realization that the classic Rick Moranis / Dave Thomas movie Strange Brew was, in fact, based on Hamlet (“How had I not figured that out sooner?”).

Again, perhaps I should not make fun. We are still talking about basic human needs and fears. The bread aisle was empty yesterday as well, and I found nothing funny about that. Sure, there was the one guy who looked at me and said “This is just like a movie.”

And I suppose it is. There is something extremely unreal about all of this, particularly to those of us who have grown up in a place where every basic need could be found within walking distance in a ginormous, fluorescently lit, super modern mercantile. Hell, living in New York, I get pissed off if anything stupid little thing is somehow inaccessible at 3:30 in the morning. I know that I am spoiled in this capacity, even by American standards.

All of a sudden, we living here in what so many call the greatest city in the world (and not without a decent argument), find that for the first time in generations, even the relatively well-to-do are now worried about pestilence and scarcity. (Not the rich. I’m sure they’re doing just fucking fine.) There’s nothing funny about that. The reason no one can find hand sanitizer or toilet paper in New York is because people are scared of this thing they can’t see, and are being told that all they can do is wash their hands. And that makes us shit our pants.

Scattered Memories of Neil Innes

I woke up this morning to the news that Neil Innes, of the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band and The Rutles, as well as being the man affectionately known as the “Seventh (Monty) Python” died yesterday. I was shocked… and stunned.

(Real fans of Neil Innes would appreciate that last bit.)

I only met him twice, and for mere minutes at a time at that, but somehow, I feel like I lost a friend today.

Neil was one of my favorite songwriters and artists. He was the man who was able to give shape to the nostalgic but Dadaesque chaos that was the Bonzo Dog Doo-Band, acting as musical director amd ringleader while crafting wryly witty songs to compliment the surreal, found-art aesthetic on which the band was initially established.  And while Eric Idle will lay claim to creating the Rutles (and yes, he did pen the screenplay to the now classic 1978 mockumentary, The Rutles: All You Need Is Cash), it was Innes who pitched the idea of a Beatles pastiche for their show Rutland Weekend Television in 1975, and it was he who wrote the songs that that were so stylistically spot-on and incisive that some of them were mistaken for being lost Beatles tracks. Also, Let’s not forget that he was Sir Robin’s minstrel.

I want to make clear that this is not merely some moment in which someone I loved in my childhood passed away, causing me to revisit weird little artifacts from my youth. He has been, and will be, someone that I constantly revisit, his new work and old. In fact, I had been on yet another Neil Innes spree for the last month.

It was only a few weeks ago that I received in the mail my copy his new album, Nearly Really. I had been expecting it for quite some time, having pledged £25 to his crowd sourcing campaign over a year prior. The campaign was a success, and I received an email that my card was being charged and asking to confirm my address. Then I didn’t hear anything for a while. As I followed Neil on Twitter, I came to understand that the crowd sourcing platform he used, Pledge Music, had folded, taking all of our money with it. Well, thank goodness for American Express, because they got me my money back, even though the charge had been processed a year prior. I then immediately took my refunded money and went back to Neil’s website and ordered a signed  CD (I originally had pledged for a signed LP, but after the whole debacle, they forwent a vinyl pressing). It arrived relatively promptly, and I eagerly opened the CD up and found a handwritten message reading: “Thank you Robert! (heart) Neil Innes”

Now, unless somehow managed to miss the byline (and don’t know me personally, which I imagine most people reading do), you probably know that my name is not Robert. However, far from being crestfallen, I found it quite amusing. I had thought for a moment to give him a good natured ribbing about via Twitter, but figured that it would take up precious time that could be better spent on another diatribe about Brexit (which was the bulk of his postings).

Also, I supposed that it served me right. The first time I met Neil and saw him perform, along with old Rutles, Bonzos, and Python songs, he was performing songs from his then newly released album (and what has now proven to be his penultimate album of original songs), Works in Progress. I had gone expecting to just hear the old stuff, but was pleasantly surprised by the quality of his new songs. They embodied so many of the unique defining characteristics of his best songwriting: Intense literacy, clever (but not ostentatious) word-play, honesty, and his willingness to be silly without stampeding towards the joke.  

After the performance, there was no question that I was going to buy the new CD and have him sign it (Interestingly, I had received an original pressing of his first solo album How Sweet to Be an Idiot in the mail that very day, but declined to bring it along). I don’t remember what I said, probably something about how I thought his new material was excellent and I looked forward to hearing the album. He was mellow and gracious. He asked me to whom he should sign the album. Being a little cheeky and trying to look smart, I asked him to sign it to Ethel Rosenberg. He looked at me quizzically, and then I chickened out. “Nevermind,” I said, “sign it to Roger. R-O-G-E-R.” (My own aunt misspelled my name, adding a “D” in the middle, until I was 10. I don’t feel bad for spelling it out for him.)

I didn’t bring anything for him to sign the second  (and last) time I saw him, which was a little over a year and a half ago. I was actually in the process of writing an article about the 40^th anniversary of the original broadcast of All You Need Is Cash when I just happened to discover that Neil was playing a gig in town on that very night.  Once again, his set was a delight. Wonderful songs from the past several decades were performed alongside stories of working with the Pythons, recording next door to the Beatles, and explaining to us Americans some of the references  that we might have missed. (Urban Spaceman makes much more sense if you know that what we refer to as “vacant lots” are called “urban spaces” in the UK. And it stands to reason that if there are urban spaces, then there must be urban spacemen, right?) As had become his established format, the show began with a solo acoustic set, followed by an electric set featuring a local Beatles cover band. This time around the electric band featured The Weeklings (a New Jersey based Beatles tribute band featuring Glen Burtnik, onetime member of Styx) along with Ken Thornton, Innes’ band mate in the recent touring version of The Rutles.

At one point, Neil declared that he was going to reach deep into the back catalog and pull out some deep Bonzo cuts. Caught up in the moment (and with my tongue loosened by more than a few vodka and sodas) I screamed out: “Equestrian Statue!” (Again, For those non-rabid fans, “Equestrian Statue” is a song from Gorilla, the first album by The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band, and the first recorded evidence that Neil naturally possessed a Beatles-esque sense of melody). Neil looked out at the audience in much the same way that he looked at me when I brought up Ethel Rosenberg.

When he emerged from the dressing room after the show, I gently accosted him, confessing that I was “the schmuck who screamed ‘Equestrian Statue.’”

He just smiled and said: “That’s because you’ve got good taste,” and he gave me a big hug.

We chatted for a good few minutes before some official looking guy reminded him that there was a line of people waiting to have a fraction of the time that I was taking up. One more hug and a “great gig – nice chatting with you” and he was off.

I don’t know how to tie this up. I don’t know what else to say. I connected with Neil’s songs, his sense of the absurd, and his sense of the real. I’m glad to say that I was able to communicate that to him personally. Pardon me if my words seem scattered. I’m just sifting through memories. Tomorrow I may have other thoughts, other memories, other associations. Right now I’m still shocked… and stunned.

A New Yorker’s Guide to the Record Stores of Bologna

(Note: This was an unfinished piece which I started a year ago, haphazardly combining travel writing, music criticism, and psychedelic reminiscences. Realizing that I would never be able to put it into readable shape, I gave it a once over just so I could put it out simply for the benefit of American fans of Italian Prog Rock who will be traveling abroad and people who did a lot of drugs at Allman Brothers concerts. Caveat emptor and you're welcome. ) 

As a rabid record collector traveling abroad, I had high expectations of what I could find in Bologna, Italy. After all, there is a vibrant arts scene and, for an ancient city, a surprisingly youthful energy, due in no small part to student population from the University of Bologna. That institution being the oldest functioning university in the world, one might say that it is the original college town.

Bologna has other stuff too.

Obviously, I wasn’t planning the entire trip to the city around record shopping (at least, that’s what I told my girlfriend), and I certainly ventured to absorb some of the local flavor, get a feel for the architecture and culture of antiquity. Doing so, I do have to say that there was something that felt odd about the city. It some ways it felt like a city that had let itself go. In spite of the lovely architecture, Bologna has a feeling of disrepair. In many places, the crumbling walkways are haphazardly patched with blotches of cement, and the city has long since stopped trying to remove the crudely executed graffiti from its ancient buildings.

My girlfriend, Federica, who was born and raised in a village a few hours away, told me that the city was nicer when she was younger and that the graffiti wasn’t as omnipresent. She expressed sadness and frustration at the current state of the city, while arguing that if young people were going to deface the oldest and most venerated structures with graffiti , they should at least be good at it. (Living in New York we are accustomed to skilled and aesthetically ambitious vandals.)

Also, in places there were an alarming number of pigeons. I don’t know why.

In any event, leaving the train station, we took an inexplicably roundabout route to our first destination.  

La Piazzola di Bologna

Piazza dell Otto Agosto

40126 Bologna BO

This vast outdoor market has been a staple of the city for over half a millennium, popping up on weekends since the mid-thirteenth century. My girlfriend assured me that there we would find everything under the sun with hundreds of kiosks with books, records, and other unique memorabilia. However, most of what we found were cheap kitchen gadgets and ugly clothing. In the adjacent Montagnola Park, there were a few tables with some used CDs, but nothing rare or interesting. The only music memorabilia I came across were some mass-produced t-shirts, wallets, and the kind of chintzy mirrors with printed pictures and band logos like we used to win as prizes at carnival games back in the 80s. I wondered if there were better finds in the summertime or, in fact, at any time that wasn’t the end of December, but it wasn’t that there was a lack of venders, juts a lack of anything that I would ever want.  “It used to be better ten years ago,” my girlfriend repeated, somewhat crestfallen.

Disco D'Oro

Via Galliera, 23

40121 Bologna BO

This was a respectable spot. The main room of the store was dedicated to new vinyl and with copious amounts of it. Reissues, new albums, limited edition box sets. The walls were completely lined with CDs, while under an archway a rack of T-shirts hung just overhead. Painted on the archway were the words of Friedrich Nietzsche (translated into Italian, of course) reading: “Senza musica la vita serrabe un errore.” (English: “Without music, life would be a mistake”) A thought came to my mind that it was the kind of place that one saw a lot more of before the Napster/Spotify revolution happened. I later found out that because of the significantly greater cost of Wi-Fi in Italy, music streaming had yet to catch on there in a big way, and thus CDs are not perceived to be as passé there as they are stateside.

There was a back room dedicated to used vinyl, but I don’t remember it being terribly well organized or curated. I may have seen a good title or two, but nothing I felt compelled to buy and lug back to America.

All said, it was the kind of record store that I would have loved back in 90s. Looking online, I discovered that the place has been there since 1976, so evidently it has been an asset to Italian music lovers for decades, and I hope it remains so for decades to come.

Back To Beauty Vinili e Vintage

Via de’ Monari, 1e

40121 Bologna BO

Reality does not do this picture justice.

 A hop, skip and a jump away, though not the easiest place to find, Back to Beauty is located in one of those narrow side streets that is the size of an American back alley. No new vinyl, which was fine for me; I didn’t embark on this quest to get things easily found at any number of places in my home city, or on (gasp) Amazon. Back To Beauty Vinili e Vintage, in contrast to our last stop, had a small but incredibly well selected section of classic records. However, most of these were by American and British acts, and on this trip I was mostly looking for original albums by Italian progressive rock bands such as Premiata Forneria Marconi, Area, and Arti & Mestieri. While there were a few records by Le Orme, they were less celebrated releases, and I got the feeling that the records were pretty overpriced anyway. Also, it should be noted that the Google image for the shop is quite misleading. Taking advantage of mirrors and angles, the photo of the shop found online makes the space look much bigger than it is. In actual fact, Back to Beauty is less a record store than a bizarre nostalgia outlet. There are many odd trinkets and beauty supplies, which should not have been surprising given the name of the shop, but still seemed incredibly incongruous. The used vinyl section was actually only a few square feet in a room full of strange knick-knacks. It felt like a place that was trying to sell a hip lifestyle far above the products that it actually retailed.

What’s All This About Italian Prog Rock, You Ask?

Okay, so I’ve been a prog rock geek since college. There’s something about being eighteen years old, studying theatre, and discovering the joys of marijuana and psychedelics that makes a young man indulge in feeding his inner-pretentious-pseudo-intellectual-peacock-child. Of course, at first, I was pretty rudimentary. I got started with the basics. Freshman and sophomore years, I was into what I called “the big three” : ELP (Emerson, Lake, and Palmer), Genesis, and Yes. Jethro Tull was right up there, too, and I did obtain King Crimson’s first album at that time, but it would take another ten years before I explored their catalog in earnest.

The one thing that these bands had in common was the fact that they were all English. Despite the fact that even then I knew that one of hallmarks of prog rock was a connection to classical, i.e. European, tradition, I still approached the genre as purely an Anglophile. By the end of my college experience, in spite of working in a music store for a semester, my horizons had not broadened significantly beyond the British bands to which I had been exposed freshman year. Sure, I knew that there were a number of mainland European progressive bands, and if drilled, I could probably have named one or two German and Dutch bands, but I didn’t have any recordings by them and could probably not have even named a song or album.

But even as such, I knew that Italy was a haven for prog rock. It made sense. This was the country that had produced Puccini and Paganini, composers and musicians who were unapologetic with their ornate sensibilities and displays of virtuosity. It stood to reason that prog rock, even that made by Englishmen,  would make an impact there before it became popular in the rest of Europe or America. In the beginning, even the English didn’t get it. Mike Rutherford of Genesis ruminated on the fact that their music went over huge in Italy at a time when it was greeted with indifferent confusion in their own country: “In those days no one really liked us apart from the Italians. So the more time we spent there, the better. The more we were cheered up.”

It wasn’t until I started seeing Federica, and meeting her friends, that I actually got a foothold in with Italian prog. One night I got to talking to Federica’s friend, Sebastiano, about music, and he told me that I had to check out the bands Premiata Forneria Marconi, and Area.

Not easy to find in the USA

In the days before I grudgingly obtained a Spotify account, Premiata Forneria Marconi proved to be the easiest to explore and obtain. Through my usual channels, I had found unreleased in-studio radio broadcasts from the mid 70s and was dazzled by their dynamics, weaving of styles, and musical dexterity. Also, having been discovered by Greg Lake during an Italian tour and subsequently signed to ELPs record label, Manticore, the band became the biggest export of the Italian prog rock genre, recording a handful of English language albums which brought them more international success than most of their fellow countrymen. Checking out my usual shops in New York and Boston, it wasn’t infrequent to find copies of these albums which were calculated to succeed in the larger world markets. However, stateside, the earlier Italian albums proved to be either elusive or prohibitively expensive.

And this is why, prior to our day-trip to Bologna, I had done a little online research of a few little spots to check out.

Back to the Subject at Hand…

So far, at this point, the Bolognese vinyl pilgrimage was a bust. Don’t get me wrong. We were enjoying the day, grabbing lunch at a little trattoria, wandered the streets taking pictures, dropping in for wine and negronis at little bars on side streets whenever the mood hit us.

There was, however, one more place I wanted to find, and it wasn’t so much that I wanted to save the best for last, but mainly because it was the most remote of any of my planned stops, and I knew that dragging my girlfriend two miles outside the center of the city on foot would take some convincing and even a bit of lying (“Baby, we’re almost there, I swear!”).

Discobolandia

Via Filippo Beroaldo, 26/B

40127 Bologna BO

After hoofing it for over a half an hour through residential areas and more graffiti covered buildings, we arrived at Discobolandia. It was, to use the words of Nick Horsnby from his book High Fidelity, “for the serious record collector… carefully placed to attract the bare minimum of window-shoppers ; there’s no reason to come here at all, unless you live here…”

When I entered the shop, it immediately felt different from the other places. It wasn’t catering primarily to European DJs, it wasn’t there to sell repressings of old records, even though it did have its share of new 180 gram vinyl. Mostly, it was a shop for people who liked old rock records. Those places feel different. They smell different. Maybe it was a little brighter and tidier than many of the stores in Greenpoint and Williamsburg, but underneath the fresh layers of paint on the walls and bins which sported a South Beach flavored complimentary color scheme of orange and coral green, offset by black and white linoleum tiled floors, I could feel that this was the kind of grungy record store that I was looking for: By record freaks, for record freaks. In fact, it would have felt like any of my NYC haunts if it were not for the effervescent and refreshing enthusiasm of the proprietor, Emmanuele.

Don’t get me wrong. I have had some great conversations with record store clerks and owners in my adopted home city, and have made some great friends that way, but here there tends to be a greater sense of competition. You have to prove your meddle. You’ve got to hold your own in conversation, get their references, know their obscure bands, and stump them with a few of your own, all the while maintaining a distant cool.

Emmanuale, on the other hand, just wanted to turn me onto stuff. True, it could be that he may have been trying to sell me more records, but he seemed so genuine about it.

As I had walked into the shop, the song “Willin’” playing on the stereo. That old Little Feat song has been covered so many times, by so many artists, that it has basically become a standard. Still, this version made my ears perk up. To be honest, I am very picky when it comes to recording covers. I find that all too often people will try to stay too close to the original, or obliterate the spirit of the song by ignoring its original intention. And at first, I thought this version was too close to the spirit of the original, but the voice grabbed me. It sounded familiar, but new. The arrangement was crisper, cleaner than the original, though it still had a loose, down home feel. But this was more soulful. It was that voice, beautiful, wise, and sorrowful.

Scott Sharrard, days before.

Had I heard this album?, Emmanuele asked (with my girlfriend acting as an interpreter) as he held up a copy of Gregg Allman’s posthumously released final studio album, Southern Blood. I was embarrassed to say I hadn’t. As a hardcore Peachhead, I wasn’t about to have my first listen to the album be on Spotify or something like that, but in saving money for this trip, I wasn’t able to drop 50 bucks on the album. And even though it must have been available stateside first, Emmanuele heard it before me. (I assure you, that has since been rectified.)

That, of course, got me talking about how I had seen Gregg’s guitarist and musical director on that album, Scott Sharrard, in New York just days prior. I showed Emmanuele pictures I took at the show, but further conversation was difficult.

The Allman Brothers Band and Unreliable Memories of March 20^th, 2001

If we spoke the same language, and I wasn’t relying on Federica to translate, I would have carried on with stories of my springtime ritual of seeing the Allman Brothers Band at the Beacon Theatre back home. I’d talk about the time I met my best friend at the legendary Bottom Line music club downtown and dropped a bunch of acid before we proceeded to walk the seventy blocks north to the theatre.

I might have mentioned how we were definitely tripping balls by the time we passed by the random pet store somewhere near the United Nations (to this day, I don’t remember how or why we ended up on the east side) and how we challenged each other to see how far we could walk into the arcade of tiny, animated, arfing, chirping, meowing animals on display without completely losing our composure (for the record, I made it further back than my friend did).

How, in a dive bar near the venue, I made the mistake of looking in the mirror in the bathroom, and was greeted with a vision of my face warping, stretching, pulling, drooping, pulsing. I knew then that the rest of the night would be a delicate balance of maintaining composure and puncturing other dimensions.

How getting into the theatre felt like infiltration. To cover up my dilated pupils, I wanted to keep my sunglasses on, but my friend told me that was a bad idea, and that I would blow our cover. He was probably right, but it pained me. I felt like I was stripping away my coolness.  I don’t often feel cool.

How the walls of the ornate theatre moved and swirled. How the ceiling melted, dripped, and cascaded down to the orchestra seats. How we peaked at the end of the first set when the band segued from their ethereal, but fiery rendition of “Dreams” into the minor key opening passage of “Revival.” How my brain felt like it was in a vice, folding into itself, crushed under pressure, approaching the point of snapping , like when you cross your eyes and you intuitively feel like there’s a threshold, where if you go too far, your eyes will stay like that forever. And so I rocked back and forth, clutching at the arm rests, grinding my teeth, as the band accompanied the brooding guitar duet with images of violence and war projected on the screens above them, illustrating the horrors that man inflicts upon man, while a knot of sorrow, anger, and despair congealed in my chest, everything hitting me too intensely, until… until…

Until  the music shifted, and the guitars burst into a jaunty, harmonic decrescendo leading the band into a joyous major key groove.  The images of war were replaced by the smiling visage of Duane, the Allmans’ brilliant fallen leader, projected huge above the stage. Below, onstage, his baby brother Gregg sang in a growling, knowing voice, “people can you feel it? Love is everywhere.”

The ball of dark emotion shot out of my chest like a bolt of lightning. My soul felt cleansed.

These are things that are difficult to express through an interpreter.

Indexing and Classifications

In spite of the nature of my quest, my first stop at Discobolandia were the jazz and fusion sections, searching for a copy of Venusian Summer by Lenny White, but to no avail. I was somewhat surprised to have found that Discobolandia had separate sections for jazz and fusion, and that the records were as appropriately designated as could be hoped given the blurry line between. Though the sections were modest, there contained some interesting treasures. I found a lovely copy of an album by the Miroslav Vitouš Group, featuring John Surman, Kenny Kirkland, and Jon Christiansen. I was particularly excited by this find, having had obtained years earlier an unreleased live recording of this particular lineup that was positively brilliant. I had high expectations of their studio album.

It’s probably the same vanity that makes me pick up an obscure punk record to go along with the Hall and Oates record I found to show the hipster at the counter that I have informed and eclectic taste that makes me hit the jazz section first. I’m aware of my foibles. Still, Europeans always viewed jazz as a true art form, an attitude that American listeners only adopted later, and I knew that there was potential gems to be found.

Obviously I hit the prog section next. And there was a proper prog section, which I always respect even if I don’t know if it is for the shopkeepers to count the enthusiasts or to identify the undesirables. 

The day's haul.

To my disappointment, there were far fewer albums by Italian prog bands than there were Italian pressings of English bands. Not surprisingly, I suppose, there were copious amounts of interesting Italian pressings of Genesis and King Crimson records which I would have loved to have purchased if I had a pay grade that complimented my fetishism and the room in my apartment to store copies of albums I already had just because the covers were slightly different.

There were a couple of good finds: Performance, the live album by PFM, recorded in 1980 as the band was becoming a bit more poppy (but still, even the worst PFM records have dazzling musicianship), Collage, the second album by Le Orme, a bit before they hit their stride, but still a solid outing, and lastly an Italian pressing of the King Crimson live album, Earthbound. It was enough to justify the trip to me, if not to my girlfriend.

Their classifications of American music (outside of jazz) were a whole other thing. They had a definite love of American music, but there was a definite conflation when it came to genres. Their “blues” section had Muddy Waters in the same bin with Stephen Stills and John Mellencamp. It was tough not to laugh, until I stopped and thought that I probably would have been at a loss to explain the concept of heartland rock to Europeans who may not have a solid grasp of the geography of the North American continent. I imagine the conversation going a little something like this:

A Short Play Based on a Hypothetical Conversation with an Italian about American Popular Music Genres

ITALIAN DUDE: John Mellencamp is not blues?

ME: No, John Mellencamp is what we call “heartland rock.”

ITALIAN DUDE: And that is…

ME: So heartland rock is music of the heart of America, the center of it. States where agriculture is the main thing. It is the music of earthy, working class people. Rural, farmers, small towns, you know…

ITALIAN DUDE: So John Mellencamp is heartland rock.

ME: Yeah, John Mellencamp… Bob Segar.

ITALIAN DUDE: Bob Segar was a farmer?

ME: No, dude, he’s a musician.

ITALIAN DUDE: No shit, but his fans…

ME: He was more from Detroit. Car industry, factory workers.

ITALIAN DUDE: No farms.

ME: No farms. Still blue collar, though.

ITALIAN DUDE: Blue collar?

ME: Nevermind. Working class.

ITALIAN DUDE: Okay. And you said it’s called the heartland because it’s in the center of the country.

ME: Yeah.

ITALIAN DUDE: Isn’t Bruce Springsteen considered heartland rock?

ME: Oh absolutely. For many he epitomizes the genre.

ITALIAN DUDE: Where is he from again?

ME: Just check the name of his first album. Asbury Park, New Jersey.

ITALIAN DUDE: And Asbury Park is in the heartland?

ME: Jersey shore.

ITALIAN DUDE: Jersey shore? Like that MTV show?

ME: You saw that over there?

ITALIAN DUDE: Sadly.

ME: Sorry about that.

ITALIAN DUDE: You should be.

ME: Please don’t judge America based on that.

ITALIAN DUDE: As long as you don’t judge Italy from the Italian-Americans on that show.

ME: Deal.

ITALIAN DUDE:  But anyway, Asbury Park is like that?

ME: I guess. Beach side town. Amusement parks.

ITALIAN DUDE: So the heartland is on the beach?

ME: Well, not technically…

ITALIAN DUDE: So where is the Jersey Shore exactly?

ME: About an hour or so south of New York City.

ITALIAN DUDE: So the heartland is the center of the country, a rural place which is also a coastal locale within commuting distance from the country’s largest metropolis.

ME: Uh, I don’t know? Sort of? It sounds weird when you say it.

ITALIAN DUDE: But it’s the music of working class people.

ME: Right. Right. Yes, Exactly. People who do dirty jobs for far too little money.

ITALIAN DUDE: People who do dirty jobs for far too little money. So heartland rock in the music of slaves.

ME: No. That’s the blues.

And that was before we got into folk rock.

To be fair, I would wager that Americans would do far worse trying to define the subtleties of Italian genres. I’m certainly glad that I’ve never been asked.

Last Minute Impulse Buying

My glance through the classic rock sections (organized by decade) was pretty cursory. I could have stayed for another hour, but I was beginning to feel acutely aware of my girlfriend’s restlessness, and I couldn’t help but feel guilty. After all, I had dragged her two miles out of the center of town to a place that I knew she could hardly care less about.

This album is the fuckin' shit.

Emmanuele tried to sell me on a couple more things before I left, reissues of records by The Trip and Alphataurus, two Italian bands who never really got any exposure outside of their native country. Again, I wasn’t about to buy reissues, particularly of bands that I had never heard. This turned out to be a mistake, as original copies of albums by these bands are so exceptionally rare and prohibitive expensive  that they are probably only owned by rich douchebags who don’t even enjoy them. In the case of Alphataurus, when I finally had their reissued vinyl shipped from overseas, I ended up paying twice what I would have paid if I had just bought it in Bologna.

The soundtracks section was located by the register, a last minute impulse buy being Tony Banks’ soundtrack to the movie The Wicked Lady. Not recommended. Leaving only about ninety Euros lighter, I think I showed great restraint. Also, the walk back to the center of Bologna felt much shorter than when heading into the outskirts. We were able to find a nice little bar where we had a few negronis and I reviewed my purchases, telling Federica numerous pointless little facts about each one while she pretended to be interested.

How we almost got arrested at the train station, got on the wrong train twice and our roundabout route home left us stuck in a couple of quaint Italian villages, freezing our asses off in the middle of the night is really another story for another time.

Basically, though, if you find yourself in Bologna on a record buying pilgrimage, skip everything and go straight to Discobolandia.

And tell Emanuelle that Roger says “ciao.”