Days of Lore
Feel good hit of the winter I’ve developed a nasty little addiction. Then again, it could be worse. This habit won’t make my face look like an old catcher’s mitt, or leave me with unsightly white boogers, or make my liver resemble a burnt piece of bacon that’s been dropped on an unswept kitchen floor. No. But all of that sounds glamorous and sexy doesn’t it? (Remember kids, say no to The Drugs.)
No. This is something different. While still lamenting the loss of Tower Records, and still refusing to step foot into the teen retreat of The Underground or the sterile laboratory that is Best Buy, I’ve found myself caught up in a musical regression. I’m trapped. And I can’t see any light at the end of the tunnel. But, I must say, it feels terrific.
Smell the love … I said smell it! My sickness started back when I was a wee lad of 5. It lasted for about seven years; then I was able to contain it for decades.
But now it’s back, stronger than ever.
At a time when most people are listening to their music on boxes the size of a pack of smokes, I’ve returned to the beautiful boxiness of licorice pizza. Now it’s a once-a-week trip—usually Sunday—to Melody Records, where I drop 10 bucks that should be going to … food, bills, a new car. But for that $10 I get three full albums, unless, of course, I go for some first-print Johnny Cash record with nary a crease on the cover or a scratch on the surface.
But why would I want to avoid that beautiful crackle and flutter, and that old record smell and the … oh god … here comes that feeling again. Heart racing. Leg twitching. Fingers failing … can’t stop … must … go … to … the … record … store …
For shame OK, I’m back. I just spent $8.58 on two records—Adam Ant’s Friend or Foe and George Jones’ Greatest Hits. Sorry you had to witness that. I’m disgusted with myself. I mean, come on … Adam Ant?
People were staring at me. I know it. They know damn well what I was up to as I walked down the street with a thin paper bag measuring approximately 33 inches in width. “What did you get?!” they’re eyes would ask.
I can’t stop. Since that godforsaken day in late December when I received that vile contraption, I haven’t been able to deny myself the pleasures of the vinyl.
First it was a Louvin Brothers record. Then it was Stevie Wonder’s Talking Book. Soon the trips were becoming more frequent; the number of records more copious. Waylon & Willie. Ike & Tina. Blood & Chocolate. And finally, Dire Straits.
Now the Sunday clerk recognizes me: “See you next weekend,” she says with a smile as she hands me an itemized receipt totaling $16.08. And, me being the caring person that I am, how can I disappoint her?
It’s big-ass Geez. Time flies when you’re mired in the deep, dark depths of addiction. It’s been nearly a year since the CAMMIES. Remember? Of course you do. The CN&R hosts a number of showcases throughout the month of April with a big-ass awards show in May (note that I just used “big-ass” as an adjective).
In fact, our committee of local musicians, writers, bookers and show-goers just voted on which bands will make the ballot for the online public vote to coincide with the showcases in April. For more info check out our MySpace page at: www.myspace.com/thecammies.
And for a first-look at which bands made it in each category, check out the preview of the official 2007 CAMMIES Ballot.
To hell with who wins; it’s going to be a good time. Hint: The Yule Logs might be making an early appearance this year.
One more thing I’d like to extend a personal welcome to Melissa Daugherty, who’s coming on as our Special Sections/Projects Editor. I would say something snotty, but that would be immature … ahhh, hell with it, “Something snotty.”