A Bum Note and a Bead of Sweat

Last week I received a text from a family friend asking me who, in my mind, “has the best discography… a perfect or near perfect discography?”
 
Obviously that’s a big question, and deserving of something more than a flippant answer. My mind started racing around, thinking about my favorite artists, what made their catalogs great, and the circumstances that led to albums that, shall we say, ruined their track records.
 
I will say that the first band that came to mind was The Police. However, as they only released five albums over five years, it almost felt like cheating to name them. But why? Maybe they did it right, knowing when their working relationship would no longer prove to be fruitful. It got me thinking about the ideas of perfection, innovation, and longevity. It’s also got me thinking in terms of musical styles and circumstances behind the scenes, how management and record labels affected the product that was released.
 
Before I go further, I want to warn you, dear reader, that I am on new medication (usually prescribed for ADHD) that, along with my daily coffee consumption, makes my mind race and even more prone to psycho-babble than normal. If you just want to see my limited list of artists who managed to achieve a “perfect” discography (whatever that means), skip to the end. However, if you wish to know how I came to this (subjective and limited) list, and if you are curious as to why I believe that the traits and circumstances of truly great artists are many of the same things that keep them off that that list, read on. Caveat emptor.
 
I will begin by proposing the following axioms:
            Perfection in art is impossible.
            Excellence is not perfection.
            Perfection is not constancy.
            Consistency is not innovation.
 
Bearing these in mind, I’d like to change the framing of the question from one about perfection and think more of terms of artists who have catalogs of continual excellence. Of course, it is the continual part that is the big part here. For example, it could be argued that Jeff Buckley had a “perfect” discography. Sadly, he didn’t live long enough to mess it up, leaving us with only one pretty glorious album. Obviously an artist needs to have a certain minimum of albums to be mentioned in this conversation.
 
In judging a body of work, one can hope to find a high and consistent level of craft, but true masterpieces occur at an intersection of craft, innovation, authenticity, a deep level of emotional and/or intellectual engagement, and usually a strong foothold in the zeitgeist. These works are rare, and few have managed more then one over the course of their careers. I think about the artists who made what are rated as the greatest albums of all time, and I find that there were some equally terrible albums in their catalog. With any artist that has been producing for an extended period of time, I think that the best one can hope for is a “stinker-free” discography. Maybe not every album is essential, but even the worst has something to offer.
 

Brian Wilson

Contrary to what the Rolling Stones asserted, time is not on their side. We all know of musicians who, as they aged, lost their chops, burned out, or became jaded and out of touch. Some of the greatest, most innovative bands of the 1960s, for example, have remained together and keep releasing albums, with each succeeding release a pale imitation of the one before it. The Beach Boys bottomed out with Keepin’ the Summer Alive (1980), an album rushed out at the behest of their record company at a time when bandleader Brian Wilson was plunging to the depths of his mental illness. Wilson, of course, in his heyday helped to usher in the era of the LP as a carefully constructed, complete artistic statement (the “album era” is generally considered to begin around the time of The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds [1966] and The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band [1967] and with the rise of the MP3). During his most creative era, he was one of the most visionary, risk-taking artists.
 
Even artists that maintain the spirit of experimentation (and mental and physical health) can fly too close to the sun and plunge into the ocean. And frankly, that’s not a bad thing. To avoid becoming stale, artists need to get out of their comfort zones. In art, all experiments work.
 
An example of this is The Kinks, one of the greatest and most influential bands of their era. However, their foray into “rock theatre” with their Preservation albums (1973,1974), along with Soap Opera (1975) and Schoolboys in Disgrace (1975) is to be considered the nadir of their career. (Interestingly, the Kinks’ earlier songs, wonderfully rich character sketches and short stories, were a huge influence on The Who’s Pete Townshend, who was to create the quintessential rock operas, Tommy [1969], and Quadrophenia [1973].) Later, the Kinks would have a great second act in their career by “getting back to basics” and focusing on individual songs that were hooky, unique, and often wonderfully odd. With the rise of punk and new wave, that approach fit in nicely with the cultural climate. The zeitgeist came back around to them.
 

The Who

And what about The Who? Their sound varied from album to album, but with a profound emotional reality linking them. They were a bit more methodical, though. They were not nearly as prolific as their peers. Still, every experiment worked… until they stopped experimenting. I would argue that Quadrophenia was their peak. It was rich and complex in its composition, explosively broad in sonic impact, yet emotionally raw and intimate; beautiful and angry at the same time. Where do you go from there? In Pete Townshend’s case, he became less theatrical and more direct. He stopped hiding behind fictitious characters to express his personal truths, a change that one might say was a more conventional type of songwriting. What followed were two albums, The Who by Numbers (1975) and Who Are You (1978), that were deeply confessional, if at times cryptic. The band had lost none of its thunder, but it could be argued that they were entering a new period. Pete was still searching for the sound, still toying with technology, still looking forward, but making songs that were more introspective at the same time.
 
Then in 1978 drummer Keith Moon died. “It was the end of an era,” Who frontman Roger Daltrey said in the aftermath. “We’re going to try and go on. But one thing everyone must understand: It will never ever be the same. That died.” The band went out on tour with their new drummer (the unfairly maligned), Kenney Jones, and they seemed like they would move forward with another album. Pete had other plans. He felt that his increasingly confessional songs needed to be presented unadulterated, without the musical voices and personalities of his bandmates. Pete’s subsequent solo album, Empty Glass (1980), was probably the epitome of Pete’s songwriting as fearless personal exploration. It also was, and still is, the top selling solo album by a member of The Who. While all members of the original group had released solo albums in the past, as the primary songwriter, Pete’s burgeoning solo career posed more of a threat to the band. It is argued that the two subsequent Who albums suffered from lackluster material, with Pete’s bandmates feeling resentful, believing that he kept many of his best songs for himself. Face Dances (1981) and It’s Hard (1982) fared poorly. It seemed that the band had run out of steam, and they broke up shortly thereafter.
 
Many people think the band should have broken up when Keith Moon died. If they had, they might have had that “perfect” catalog. Is it better to burn out than fade away? The band would regroup numerous times over the next several decades. They would always be a serious concert draw. They recorded two further albums, both of which received mixed to positive reviews, but they seemed somehow apart from their “classic catalog.”
 

Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits

Another thing that can mar a catalog is the “sophomore slump.” It’s frequently said that you spend your whole life making your first album, and six months to make your second. There are many bands whose second album sounds just a little too much like the first album, well played by uninspired. A notable example of this is Dire Straits (sorry Patty). Their second album Communiqué (1979), was panned, with the songs being described as “pale imitations” of those of the first album. The band would redeem itself with the following LP, Making Movies (1980). Arguably their best album, they would begin incorporating country and jazz to their rootsy, pub rock sound. Coincidentally, the band would never again have the same line-up from one album to the next, with leader/singer/songwriter Mark Knopfler and bassist John Illsley being the sole continuous members. Line-up shifts that often would have a deleterious effect on a band’s output, didn’t seem to affect Dire Straits. In fact, quite the opposite.
 
Sometimes it’s the record companies that are responsible for lackluster releases. Labels often pressured artists to put out product even when the creative well was dry.
There are many cases where musicians would rush material simply to fulfill or get out of a contract. These “contractual obligation albums” can take the form of slapdash compilations of unreleased material and new recordings made with no consideration of quality. The Band released Islands in 1977, simply to fulfill their contract with Capitol records. Consisting almost entirely of songs that didn’t make the cut on previous albums, it was a commercial and critical failure. Emerson, Lake & Palmer, on the other hand, completely burnt out and tired of each other, were forced by their label to create one more album of original music. It has been said that Love Beach (1978) not only ruined ELPs reputation, but also killed the entire genre of prog rock in the 70s.
 
On the comical side of things, some musicians would deliberately record sub-par or unreleasable material to get free of their record companies. The Rolling Stones delivering the single “Schoolboy Blues” to Decca is a classic example. With references to oral and anal sex and object insertion, there was no way it could be released and get radio play. (It’s kind of an awesome song, though.)
 
Another hilarious case of contractual sabotage is Van Morrison. After leaving the Northern Irish blues/garage rock band, Them, he went to New York to record several singles for Bert Burns’ label, Bang Records. Having not perused the contract, he did not realize that he was also authorizing an LP release of these tracks. The story goes that he wished his first solo LP to be something of a grander, more contemplative statement than a hodgepodge of unconnected songs, and he was angered by the release of Blowin' Your Mind! (1967). Bert Berns died several months after the release, leaving Morrison in a contractual dispute with Burns’ widow, Irene. When Warner Brothers bought out his contract, one stipulation was that Van had to submit thirty-six songs to Burns’ publishing company. Here’s where it gets funny: Van went into the studio, not even bothering to tune his guitar, and proceeded to rattle off thirty-six songs, made up on the spot. To give you an idea of the content, song titles include “Ring Worm,” “Blowin’ Your Nose,” and “Here Comes Dumb George.” Needless to say, Irene Burns did not publish these songs. Van would begin his solo career in earnest with the sublimely ethereal Astral Weeks (1968), but to his dismay, the slap-dash Blowin' Your Mind! remains the official beginning of his discography.
 
Sometimes labels would even put out substandard material without the artist’s consent or even knowledge. It was not uncommon for for a record company, if one of their artists moved on and found success at another label, to rush release an album cobbled together with older recordings in order to capitalize on their new-found success. After Aretha Franklin broken through with I Never Loved a Man the Way I loved You (1967), her first LP on Atlantic, her former label, Columbia, put out Take It Like You Give It (1967), comprised of outtakes with absolutely no sense of continuity.
 
This also could happen on labels with which an artist was then affiliated, particularly in the “pre-album era.” At that time, most artists could only sit back and watch as record executive would crank out their albums, taking the latest hit single and padding it out with filler cuts, hastily written and recorded. This is the case for many Motown artists, who often also had no control over the songwriting and song selection. As the organization’s focus was grooming their artists, Motown often just tried anything, using seemingly random approaches to find what sort of material would work for a given artist. For an organization that was so concerned with quality control, it’s odd to see that LPs like The Supremes Sing Country, Western & Pop (1965) and Stevie at the Beach (1964), an album of a young Stevie Wonder singing surf music, were ever released. Consequently, you can scratch Marvin Gaye, and Stevie Wonder off the list of “stinker-free” catalogs, even though, once they received a degree of independence from the Motown machine, both would have strings of unimpeachably brilliant albums in the 1970s.
 
I’d even argue that The Beatles would get knocked off the list due to the albums released in conjunction with their movies. Whereas the British releases of the albums A Hard Day’s Night (1964) and Help! (1965) featured all the songs from the movies plus other songs from those periods that fit within the same sound and structure of the album, their American counterparts did not have that advantage. Perhaps it had to do with publishing rights or some other legal weirdness, the American soundtrack albums used only the songs specifically written for each movie and were padded out with orchestral scoring from the movie. It was common in that era for English and American releases to have different track lists, but there was a huge disparity between the quality of the British and American releases. However, both British and American record buyers got the shit end of the stick when it came to the soundtrack of Yellow Submarine (1969). The releases were identical on both sides of the Atlantic. The album featured only four new songs, with half of the album being the Muzak-like underscoring. Fortunately, with the EMI/Parlophone compact disc reissue campaign in 1987, it was the British versions of A Hard Day’s Night and Help! that were released and thus established to be canonical. Unfortunately, Yellow Submarine was part of that series of releases as well, making it part of the standardized catalog. Chalk up one “stinker” for the Beatles.
 

The idea of “canon” is quite important to this conversation. For example, many people don’t realize that the Velvet Underground did not, in fact, disband when Lou Reed left the group in 1970. The band continued touring over the next few years, all the while with original members leaving or behind dismissed from the group. By 1973, only Doug Yule remained (not even an original member, he joined the group in 1968 after the departure of multi-instrumentalist, John Cale). Under pressure from manager Steve Sesnick, a final album was recorded and released under the Velvet Underground name. In actual fact, Yule wrote, recorded, and produced Squeeze (1973) almost completely by himself (interestingly, drums were played by Ian Paice of Deep Purple). It received scathing reviews at the time, and many view the album to be outside of the Velvet Underground’s discography. When, in 1995, the band released their ostensibly career-spanning box set, no material from it was included. Is it an embarrassing blemish on the catalog of the VU, or apocrypha?
 
So between issues of label interference, bad management, band politics, shifting line-ups, ennui, writer’s block, drugs, mental health, and death, we have basically knocked out most of the greatest artists from the “stinker free” catalog list. You may have noticed that I have not addressed jazz artists yet. Is it because they are just better musicians? Well, I would say that jazz musicians are generally better in terms of technique and knowledge of music theory. It’s not for nothing that many of the best session cats are jazz guys. That said, I would not say that most jazz musicians have catalogs of consistent quality. These guys tend to be so prolific that there is far too much to wade through. As a largely improvisational form, so much of jazz is trying to capture lightning in a bottle. To be fair it often happens. Ascension, John Coltrane’s 1966 album was largely composed in the studio. A single recording session yielded one of the greatest, and most controversial albums of all time. That same year, it took Brian Wilson twenty sessions just to record “Good Vibrations,”
 
Jazz guys have the same issues with their labels, drugs, band squabbling, etc, that popular music artists have, but with one major additional liability: The fact is, the 1970s were a golden era for rock, soul, and funk music, but not so much for jazz. The decade began promisingly enough, with geniuses like Miles Davis, Tony Williams, Chick Corea, Herbie Hancock, and John McLaughlin embracing other styles and approaches to music and incorporating them into their own work. Latin influences, African sounds, funk, even hard rock ended up in the stew later dubbed “fusion.” Unfortunately, as the decade wore on many of the jazz cats would stop charting new territories and starting chasing trends in the search for a broader audience. Miles Davis did himself a favor when he retired in 1975 (but he would end up making some terrible records when he returned in the 80s) as by the end of the decade, fusion would become dirty word, associated with cheesy “smooth jazz” crossover music.
 
In summation, artists with a “stinker-free” discography have to have a strong sense of identity and well honed craft from the very get-go. They do not rush things. They have record companies that are either supportive or sufficiently hands-off. They are aware of sea change, in culture and in music, but do not chase trends. They are willing to experiment and are lucky enough if those experiments take them out of their comfort zones but not outside of their abilities and greatest strengths. And frankly, oftentimes, they know when to quit. That’s a lot.
 
After all that, who has a “stinker-free” catalog? As you, dear reader, can probably tell, I am an old fart and am definitely stuck in the past. As shitty as record companies still are, I would posit that artists now signed to labels, major and independent, in the last couple of decades are better off than those in the early 60s. I have noticed that artists don’t seem to be pressured to put out material as quickly. I am aware that there are many more contemporary artists who have created a body of work that has garnered near universal acclaim (Jill Scott, D’Angelo, and Kendrick Lamar come to mind), but I have not perused their entire catalogs personally. My list was inspired by combing over my own shelves, so forgive me for any omissions.
 
The Police

My first thought. Some people slag off their second album, Regatta de Blanc (1979) as suffering from the sophomore slump, but I think it is a fine follow-up to their debut, with more sophisticated songwriting while stretching what they were able to achieve musically with a guitar/bass/drums band. They would perfect that sound on their following album, Zenyatta Mondatta (1980). Consequently they would begin to incorporate synthesizers and other esoteric instrumentation and change the soundscape on their final albums. After their masterpiece, Synchronicity (1983), they called it a day.
 
Talking Heads

Talking Heads released eight albums over eleven years. True Stories (1986) is considered to be the nadir of their catalog, but taken on its own it would be seen as a fine piece of work were it made by a lesser band. Hardly essential, it’s not a complete stinker. Their catalog is marked by continual experimentation and growth from the stark, sometimes desolate instrumentation of their early albums, to the rich, wide scope of albums such as Remain in Light (1980) which incorporated African rhythms and extended improvisation. Their catalog is marked by a restless chasing of sounds experiment with texture.
 
John Coltrane

Most jazz artists are too prolific not to have a misstep or two, and deciding what is canon is difficult. As a band leader, he released dozens of albums in a ten year period (I am not including his lengthy work as a side man), and not all of his albums were highly rated when first released, but that’s a cross you have to bear when you’re ahead of your time. Of the albums released with his authorization during his lifetime, the worst that can be said of those is that he may have only averaged one masterpiece per year, and the rate of growth is astonishing. As is the problem with many jazz musicians, even though every release is worthwhile, there are too many to simply dive into his catalog without a guide (Blue Train (1958), Giant Steps (1960), and My Favorite Things (1961) is a good start). Also, what is considered canon can be up for debate. Passing away in 1967, one can only speculate how he would have navigated the rough waters of the 70s and 80s.
 
Jimi Hendrix

It is true that he only released four albums in his lifetime, they were all stunning, unique, and cannot be ignored. The three albums his did with his original band, billed as the Jimi Hendrix Experience, redefined rock music, even as his sound was in a constant state of conception. Are You Experienced (1967) hit the music scene like a claymore mine, shattering notions of what a guitar could do and killing sacred cows by the herd by wedding blues with psychedelia. His second album, Axis: Bold as Love (1967), often featured a more trance-like, lyrical sound. Electric Ladyland (1969), brought out more funk elements, as well as more extended (but not noodly) jams. Even his contractual obligation live album, named after his new group, Band of Gypsys (1970), was a monster. Hendrix was in the middle of recording his fourth studio album when he died on September 18th, 1970. Six months later, his first posthumous album was released. An attempt by bandmates his recording engineer to get as close to Hendrix’s vision of his next album as possible, The Cry of Love (1971) sounded surprisingly complete, able to stand up to his classic releases.
 
Led Zeppelin

The band’s formidable power and musicality along with guitarist/leader Jimmy Page’s relentless perfectionism, sonic experimentation, and openness to a myriad of esoteric musical influences made Zeppelin’s first six studio albums indispensable classics of hard rock/proto metal while having a broader palate that defies being limited to those genres. Though their seventh album Presence (1977) was less eclectic, it was by design, with the band trying to get back to its hard rock roots. Still, it yielded the epic “Achilles’ Last Stand” and the blues-rock burner, “Nobody’s Fault but Mine.” After that, they should have tanked when drummer John Bonham’s alcohol consumption made him a liability and Page’s heroin use sapped his creativity and drive. However, during he recording of In Through the Out Door (1979), bassist/multi-instrumentalist (and Zeppelin’s secret weapon) John Paul Jones stepped up, with his composition dominating most of the album. It wasn’t the Zeppelin of old, but that was a good thing. There were solid cuts such as “Fool in the Rain” and “All of My Love” that had a sound that was solidly contemporary, but genuine. The stylistic change indicated that they have been able to survive into the 80s had tragedy not struck with the death of Bonham in 1980, upon which the group disbanded.
 
Roxy Music

Roxy Music’s catalog has a definite trajectory, from the wildly varied, dynamic, sometimes caustic and sometimes lyrical, post-modern, glam influenced avant-rock of their self-titled debut (1972), to the sleek, exquisitely airy romanticism of their final studio album, Avalon (1982). The journey between the two is exhilarating and inspired. The genres of ambient music and New Romantic can find their embryos planted in their catalog.
 
Okay. So one thing that is common with these six examples is that all these discographies are relatively short, four years at the shortest, twelve at the longest.
 
I keep looking over at my shelf and I see other possible candidates, but I really should stop here. I’m sure with more time, I could come up with more examples. At the same time, I would need to be far better versed in more contemporary music. In any event, I would argue that perfection can never be an expectation, and universal excellence in a discography is usually only seen in hindsight. It often takes distance to see where an album sits in an artist’s oeuvre, and how it enlightens the other works within.
 
My father used to tell me that “perfection is the enemy of very, very good.” I know that there are albums that never came out because the artists fussed over every detail and ultimately became overwhelmed by the process or simply lost the battle to time (the most well known example being The Beach Boys’ Smile, with sessions recorded between 1966 and 1967 before being abandoned). The search for perfection can often lead to a sterile product (e.g. The Eagles), with the window into the artist’s mind and soul closed and sealed. In many forms of popular music, authenticity and honesty are considered paramount to polish. As The Who’s frontman, Roger Daltrey, said: “Give me a bum note and a bead of sweat anytime.”

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.