Thursday, May 28, 2009

Final Vinyl

This is the last place I’d ever expected to be. I’m standing at the counter of Pitchfork Records, a music store in downtown Concord, with a stack of record albums in my arms. The owner, Michael Cohen, motions for me to set them down, and he starts flipping through my collection. He’s chatting with another customer as he examines each one, tilting the album and sliding it out just so, keeping his hand on the sleeve and off the record’s surface.

It’s taken a lot for me to get here. I’m selling my records for the simple reason that I almost never listen to them anymore. I’ve been carting them around for over twenty five years, and even though my collection’s been thinned over the past two decades through loaning, poaching and subtle family pressure, I still own enough to make me wonder why I cling to stacks of unused vinyl as they gather dust. If someone else will listen, then why not sell what I can?

Still, these records have been a big part of my life, and as I watch Michael scrutinize each one, I feel like the pig farmer taking his beloved pet hogs to the bacon factory. “Be gentle,” I almost whisper, but I remind myself that my thirty-year-old copy of a mediocre Doors album can withstand a scan of its vitals, so I take a deep breath and let the man do his job.

I don’t have to do this – I could hide the records somewhere, stash them away in a trunk or maybe even use one of those services that turns them into bowls and ashtrays. But watching greasy-fingered guests scoop store-bought bean dip from the vinyl grooves of London Calling is like laying down pages from the Book of Psalms in a hamster cage. No – the right thing to do is sell them.

I start by dragging all my albums into the living room. I once had close to 400 records but own less than half that number, all of them now spread out on the rug, couch and table. My plan is simple – keep no more than twenty records and sell the rest. To do this, I start making two piles –Sell and Save.

Immediately, I take my eight Doors albums and place them in the Sell pile. This will be painful, but it needs to be done. Three Grateful Dead records join the Doors. Next is Joe Cocker, with his pugnacious mug screaming out from the album cover. Scream for someone else, Joe - into the Sell pile you go. A moment later, I realize this may get harder as I find Hot Rocks, the Rolling Stones’ greatest hits collection from the ‘60s and early ‘70s. My middle school friends and I would sit for hours listening to this record, and I can’t say goodbye just yet. Hot Rocks is the first record in my Save pile.

I spot Surrealistic Pillow, my lone Jefferson Airplane album. Grace Slick’s friendly smile from the cover makes me pause and consider saving this record from the Sell pile, but I’m quickly reminded of her future complicity in such ghastly efforts as “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” and “Sara.” It’s like looking at the Unabomber’s high school graduation photo (cue the narration: “No one knew the terror Slick and her musical goons would inflict on American society years later . . .”). For this reason, Jefferson Airplane goes into the Sell pile. Granted, one fan’s “White Rabbit” is another’s “We Built this City on Rock and Roll,” but not in my record collection.

This is easier than I thought. Creedence Clearwater Revival? Into the Sell pile. Cat Stevens, early U2 and Billy Idol’s Rebel Yell? Sell. I’m now putting handfuls at a time in the Sell stack, and my Save pile is still just one record high. Stevie Wonder? Sell. The Byrds and Steppenwolf? Sell. My three Pretenders albums – sell, sell and sell.

Then I find Billy Joel. Growing up near Billy’s hometown and having an older brother who played the piano meant we listened to a lot of Billy Joel, and, technically, these are my brother’s records, but when Billy married Christy Brinkley and released “Uptown Girl,” my brother’s interest evaporated, and the records stayed with me. Billy goes into the Sell pile. Besides, there’s room for only one marginally talented short guy from Long Island in my house, so he really had to leave.

I make a run through my soul and R&B records – they all go into the Sell pile. Even the promise of James Brown’s “Hot Pants” and “Sex Machine” doesn’t sway me. James joins Jackie Wilson, Wilson Pickett, Aretha Franklin, Sam Cooke, the Four Tops and Sam and Dave. We had a nice run, but it’s time to move on.

But then I stop. I find my Clash albums, and even though I own multiple copies in all other formats (including cassette!), there’s no reason to be rash. Does a ferry boat captain leave extra life preservers on shore because they take up too much space? Never. The Clash goes into the Save pile, joined quickly by the Ramones, Elvis Costello and one of my four Joe Jackson records. And then I hit the mother lode – the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, the Who and Led Zeppelin. That’s more than twenty five albums right there. Without hesitation, I put them all into the Save pile. And with that gesture, I’m done. Sell outdoes Save by about three to one, and I get ready for tomorrow.

For old time’s sake, I give a few records one last spin, grabbing a George Thorogood record from 1978 to start. By the time “Move it Over” slides into “Who Do You Love” I realize I’ve been too hasty. When George rips into his cover of the Chuck Berry tune, “It Wasn’t Me,” I move George and his Delaware Destroyers into the Save pile. For kicks I put on some Wilson Pickett – ooh, that’s good. “Mustang Sally” is too groovy to sell, and after two songs from the Pretenders, I take all three of their albums and move them, with Wilson Pickett, into the Save pile. That leads me to the Bob Seger album I bought in 1981 at Record World in the Roosevelt Field Mall on Long Island. As Bob sings about feeling like a number (“I’m not a number – dammit I’m a man!”), I’m almost in tears. When he hits the chorus in “Fire Lake,” I want the charade to end – this hurts too much. Bob Seger is rescued from Sell to Save. The Animals, Bob Marley, Traffic and James Brown are saved as well, and the piles are now even.

But I need to finish this task, and as the morning arrives, just before I head out to Pitchfork to see this through, I take one last record from the Sell pile and put it on. It’s the Best of the Doors. I know every word on this entire album – from “Moonlight Ride” to “Soul Kitchen,” and “Break On Through” to “People are Strange,” and when “Light My Fire” starts, I’m sad – sad about saying goodbye, but to what I’m not sure. I can replace every song with the click of a mouse, but getting rid of these feels like I’m tossing old family photos in the trash. I sit in silence for a few minutes as the song ends, pack up the records and head downtown to Main Street.

About a third of the way through my Sell pile, Michael stops examining the records and looks up at me, oblivious to the somersaults my belly’s turning. “So what do you want for them?” he asks. I have no answer, half-expecting him to scold me with The Byrds Greatest Hits or smack me over the head with the Sam Cooke LP for my careless hocking of quality music, so I just stare back at him.

“How about $18 cash or $22 in store credit?” he says. I take the credit and spend these guilt-laden gains right here at Pitchfork, taking the next fifteen minutes looking for the right addition to my CD collection. I find it and leave, never looking back.

What’s left of my record collection now fits into a single crate, and I’ve accomplished the task of purging myself of things that sat unused. But something’s changed. Just today I pulled out an old Bob Dylan record and listened to it all the way through. If I can find the time, I’m gonna dive into the Beatles albums over the weekend. Who knows? I hear Pitchfork just got a great set of used records – maybe I’ll take a quick trip down there just to check it out – you never know when you might run into old friends.

What to Do with Your Records


1. Sell – Pitchfork Records will give you a dime or two per record, depending on the condition; but leave the Milli Vanilli records at home - reselling lousy music is the definition of bad karma.

2. Burn – options abound to transfer your vinyl collection to digital formats; check out www.teac.com for a host of turntable-to-digital audio possibilities.

3. Scratch – mix your old LPs, two turntables, a microphone and a nickname (“DJ Short Stack”), and you’re an instant DJ! Your old school cuttin’ and scratchin’ will impress family and friends. You might also win a date with Lindsey Lohan.

4. Frame –visit www.albumframes.com and learn how to frame those Journey albums for posterity. Don’t stop believin’ your spouse won’t care when you hang them on the living room wall.

5. Toss – put your old records on the side of the road and hope that lady in the blue minivan will drive by on trash day before the garbage men arrive. If you’re lucky, she may even take the Milli Vanilli box set.