Tales from the Thrift Store

For 2010, I resolved to do my record shopping at the thrift store. It wasn’t so much a financial decision—though I saved a few bucks in doing so—but a fun experiment to see what I could unearth or be turned on to. In this age of instant gratification, music can be had with a simple click or tap, and elusive records are within easy grasp on eBay. But for me, and I’m sure most every other record collector, the hunt is just as thrilling as getting your grubby hands on that desired LP.

Ever since I started shopping at thrift stores in college, I would always thumb through the records. Occasionally, I’d find something worth spending 50 cents or a dollar on. But never had I considered the second-hand store to be my main source of music. And for good reason: If you’ve shopped for music at Goodwill, Salvation Army, Value Village, et al., you know that most of what they have is the pop culture waste of previous generations. The Al Hirts. The Andy Williames. The Art Garfunkels. That and much worse: Grandma’s crappy classical collection? Check. Ten copies of Firestone Christmas? Check. Ferrante and Teicher? Check. Mitch Miller? Check. All that crap, no matter which day or what store—the thrift store is where the bad records go to die. So I knew that getting some decent LPs was going to be a hell of a task.

You're likely familiar with the smell of thrift store. It’s not a good smell. Yet, every time the musty-dusty scent of the second-hand shop greeted me at the door, anticipation would pulse through my arteries, so excited I was by the prospect of finding some forgotten castoff or maybe a decent copy of a well-known favorite. Mostly, though, after rummaging through the usual detritus of moldy oldies, that feeling would soon yield to disappointment, and I’d inevitably leave empty-handed. But undaunted. If it’s treasure you’re hunting in the junk store, well, you have to be patient and persistent. Even then, you’ve got to be lucky, and on several occasions over the last year, I got lucky.

For these next several posts I am sharing some of the highlights of my 2010 vinyl thrifting. Have a look.

Today’s entry is Dark of Light (Buddah) by Norman Connors.

I won’t lie to you, I had no idea who Norman Connors was prior to seeing his face look back at me from the dusty stacks at a Value Village (location classified). Upon close examination of the LP’s cover, though, I saw that the record features a who’s who of jazz luminaries, including Herbie Hancock, saxophonist Gary Bartz, bassist Cecil McBee, trumpeter Eddie Henderson, et al. (a good sign) and was recorded in 1973 (an even better sign—I’ll get to that in a moment). Seeing that the actual vinyl was far better shape than its well-worn (or well-loved) only made me happier. Indeed, I had high expectations for this record, expectations which were easily surmounted once I dropped the needle on it.

Dark of Light comes from an era when jazzbos, be they avant-gardists, hard boppers or free jazzniks, explored the outer limits of electric funk, drifted off into mystical meditations, freaked out in the cosmos or improvised deep into the unknown. It was an interesting period for jazz—at least to my ears. A time before all that sonic exploration was synthesized and diluted into the catch-all commercial ghetto of fusion (bad fusion, Weather Report/Return to Forever-style fusion). Accordingly, what flooded from my speakers were sounds both exciting and expected (not a bad thing): cosmic, mystical jazz, a head trip of mood- and mind-altering mellow gorgeousness and ecstatic fire, tugging grooves that bubble up to the surface, and some truly inspired improvisations.

Dark of Light was Norman Connors’ first album as a leader, but he was hardly a newcomer. Connors, a drummer, most notably created percussive thunder behind two jazz legends, Archie Shepp and Pharaoh Sanders. As his solo career progressed, though, he changed his tune from jazz to more commercial-friendly R&B, creating super-smooth soundtracks for singers such as Michael Henderson and Phyllis Hyman, scoring several hits late into the ’70s. However, if I come across any of those records in my future thrifting, I’ll leave them well enough alone.

Impulse Records for the Impulsive Collector

How Not to Collect LPs

I was impulsive, when I should have exercised caution. Naturally, I’ve learned an important record collecting lesson I thought I had already mastered: When bidding on records on eBay, steer clear of sellers who offer vague descriptions of their goods, particularly if it appears these sellers rarely deal in the vinyl trade. Even if it seems like a good deal. Especially when it seems like a good deal. And especially when the item is minutes from closing and no one’s bid on it. Do so and you just might end up like I did, winning two collectible jazz records, one Coltrane, one Yusef Lateef. Records that, in spite of their descriptions, were all beat to hell and warped, with covers that were advertised as being in “great” condition, but instead had split seams, peeling lamination, mildew stains, and bent corners. Records that set me back about $45 with shipping.

I should have known better; I’ve been collecting records for more than two decades. I know when so-called “rare” records are priced too high, or too low. I know what to look for when examining LPs—how to find a seemingly undetectable warp when the shop won’t let you spin the record on their turntable. And I’m particularly suspicious of used records with a sticker that says “clean.” Just last week, I picked up a “clean” original copy of the Sonics’ 1966 LP Boom at a popular Seattle vinyl outlet; upon close examination, I saw that it was scored with all kinds of hairline scratches. Not surprising, the shop was asking a near-mint price ($225) for a VG record worth maybe $75. I swiftly returned the record to the altar of rarities—the display shelves high above the more common LPs, where all the other overpriced records wait for someone foolish or wealthy enough to grant them salvation from their predicament as precious pop-music artifacts.

What does this have to do with getting ripped off on eBay? I’ll get there, eventually.

For Christmas, I was given a copy of Ashley Kahn’s The House that Trane Built: The Story of Impulse Records (WW Norton, 2006). I’m a big fan of John Coltrane and Impulse Records. When I started collecting jazz LPs about 12 years ago, I began with John Coltrane. No baby steps with Brubeck or Kind of Blue, but straight to A Love Supreme, which I bought as a brand-new reissue, a faithful reproduction (gatefold and all) of the awesome original. I’ve picked up plenty more Impulse Records over the years, on those rare occasions when a record store isn’t charging a small fortune for a well-loved (er, slightly trashed) copy or in the even rarer instance an Impulse LP turns up at a thrift store. I found VG++ to NM original pressings of Coltrane’s Ascension (in mono) and Tom Scott’s Rural Still Life at thrift stores. Reading Kahn’s thorough and detailed portrait of Impulse, its players—from producers Creed Taylor and Bob Thiele to blowers like Coltrane, Sanders, Shepp and Ayler—and all the brilliant avant-garde jazz records it produced rekindled the collector in me. I got all swept up in the Impulse mystique, the mind-blowing music, the trademark orange-and-black spines. The only thing to do: fatten my Impulse collection.

That’s when I got impulsive.

Last week, I had my eye on 40 Impulse LPs on eBay. But as the auctions drew to a close, most of the LPs were bid up way beyond my budget (which wasn’t surprising—a mint first pressing of A Love Supreme is worth several hundred dollars). Jazz collectors know what they’re worth, which is why I only own about 25 Impulse LPs. However, to my surprise, three records I was watching had no bids and ridiculously low starting prices: Art Blakey and His Jazz Messengers, John Coltrane Quartet Africa/Brass and Yusef Lateef The Golden Flute, the latter of which I already owned, but the price was too good to pass up. All were being auctioned by the same seller. All three were original pressings. And yet all three had vague descriptions, like “great condition, but some wear” or “the cover looks great, the record plays well.” Missing, though, was your typical used record jargon: “slight ring wear,” “no seam splits” or “spidering,” “VG++.” Because all three auctions were about to close, there wasn’t time to quiz the seller further about the conditions of his records. So I bid on them—and won two.

Three days later, as I opened the box containing my new acquisitions, my excitement gave way to disappointment. Disappointment in the items. Disappointment in the seller. Disappointment in myself. The Coltrane record was trashed. The description said “has some wear”; in actuality, it was worn out, as if someone had sanded the record. I put it on just to hear how poorly it sounded only to discover it was warped, too! Meanwhile, the Yusef Lateef was in better condition than I expected—though the cover was not in “great condition”—it was a weak VG-. The record looked pretty “clean.” Playing it revealed audible wear (probably from a bad needle) and a significant warp.

Next time, I’ll ignore my impulses, if not Impulse Records. What works for musicians doesn’t work for collectors of their records. I’m just glad I didn’t win the Art Blakey LP.

Never judge a record by its cover (or photo of its cover): The above photo of John Coltrane Quartet Africa/Brass is of the record I won--and is the actual photo posted in the eBay listing.