Hooray for Record Store Day? Nah.

I skipped Record Store Day this year. (Yes, I know it was three weeks ago—forgive me for being slow.) I just wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. Sure, there were records I really wanted, like the Fucked Up punk compilation LP, David’s Town (limited to just 750 copies), or the Beach Boys 78 rpm double 10-inch, or the Radiohead 12-inch (which turned out to be a U.K.-only release). I just couldn’t will myself to get out of bed on a Saturday morning and queue up for the mad scramble to the limited-edition vinyl RSD display and the subsequent wrestling match/feeding frenzy for the store’s one copy of Nirvana’s Hormoaning—which would be flipped mere minutes later on Ebay for five times the original list price. I don’t need records that bad.

I did the Record Store Day thing last year. I hit a local shop (not one I normally frequent, but the one closest to home), thinking I’d easily get my hands on a couple RSD exclusives I wanted. I got there just before the store opened only to find a mob of about 40 people massing at the store's entrance. It looked like Walmart on Black Friday—albeit on a smaller scale, though the crowd was just as pathetically dressed. Anyway, most of what I had come for had already been snapped up by the time I squeezed inside. I still managed to acquire a handful of records I was interested in and picked up some decently priced non-RSD used records as well.

However, most of the hour I spent in the store was focused on observing the activity and behavior at the dedicated RSD-exclusive vinyl display. One fashionably disheveled dork indiscriminately grabbed one of every release and then walked off with a massive stack toward the counter, where he flipped through his bounty and cast aside the ones he didn’t want—which themselves would get snatched up by circling vultures who had followed him. It was ridiculous. Mostly what I witnessed was disappointment from late arrivals (i.e., the sad sacks who got to the shop 10 minutes after it had opened) and found the RSD carcass virtually picked clean of its exclusives—save for those Hole 10-inches, overpriced Wilco box sets and assorted other major label crap. Another observation: most RSD shoppers never left the RSD quarantine area to browse the store’s impressive (though mostly overpriced) vinyl inventory, as well as the small section devoted to the remainders (or dregs) of 2009’s Record Store Day.

I admit it: I have record problem. I have a fairly large collection of LPs, 7-inches, 10-inches, etc., and I’m always tempted by events such as Record Store Day. But the corresponding ugly consumerism, greed and Ebay flipping that accompany this special day are a real turn-off. Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for events that help preserve the dying business of the record store. I just don’t wish to be part of the collector scum scrum.

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.

Case of the Half-Written Blues

I've got a bunch of new posts in the hopper for the new year. Sadly, this is not one of them. No, the new stuff just isn't quite there yet. So while I agonize over the nascent posts, I thought I'd tide you over with the covers of two uncommonly awful recent thrift store acquisitions. Dig in.

James Lockridge Sings Joy in My Heart (1974)

James' love interest on this record is ... Jesus. But of course.

The Wheeler Family City of Gold (197?)

Looks like a perfectly innocent album of Christian gospel hymns sung by a pleasantly homely and inept quartet of siblings, until ...


... you take a gander at the back cover. This is the Wheeler Family's "Dad" as he appears on the back cover. Kind of makes Murry Wilson or that puppeteer father of the sisters Shagg seem almost rational, reasonable, loving even.

Thrift Store Scores

Ninety percent of all music I've purchased this year has come from thrift stores. It was one of my New Year's resolutions -- to acquire any and all music from the junk store. Had it not been for Record Store Day or new albums from Refused, Melvins and Sun City Girls, I might have kept my resolution. But nine out of ten ain't bad.

In my quest for new, moldy tunes and the discovery of vinyl gold, I haunted thrift stores like a hunter stalks his prey. My searches were often frustrating and fruitless, but in eleven months I managed to acquire almost 200 records -- some good, some rare, most mildewy and awful, and all cheap. As for what I'll buy, sometimes it just comes down to the cover. So for this post, I give you some of the best/worst album covers I temporarily spared from their inevitable date with the dumpster.


Hmm ... why is Brother looking at Sister that way?


I love Jesus people. Their records never disappoint.


I know what it looks like, but the guy on this record is not Will Ferrell. As far as I can tell, this was the only Peters and Lee album. At least these lounge losers had the good sense to make their first album their last. Or maybe there are other Peters and Lee recordings. I'll keep looking.


More like Bobbin' for Crapples. Who thought a photo of this goober would sell records? Presumably the goober himself.


A reflective "Frankie Chop" looks back on his career. Despite his violent-sounding handle, Frankie was not a hit man but a polka twat. By the way, there's something so masculine about posing with your hands under your chin.

Single Minded

Everyone's joining clubs these days, on account of it being the new year and all. I, too, joined a club, but not one of those. No, I now belong to the uber-exclusive Sub Pop Singles Club (well, I actually signed up last year). And I'm quite happy about it. For a one-time payment of $90, I can look forward to a vinyl 7-inch record arriving in my mail box every month for a year.

I missed the first go-around of Sub Pop's legendary vinyl clique. And the last one, too. During the original run, I was in college and broke. Not to mention, I didn’t know about Nirvana until 1990, so there was no way I would have been hip to the band’s eventual $1,000 collectable Singles Club offering, “Love Buzz.” I won’t pretend I was there from the beginning. Yes, I was living in the Northwest before almighty grunge eruption, but I was residing in Spokane, well east of grunge ground zero, and was pretty clueless, too, even though Seattle bands would occasionally stop through town (usually for a piss break, sometimes for a show) along 1-90, on their way home or eastward toward Minneapolis. As far as indie labels go, I was just discovering SST records, thanks to Bad Brains. I got into Bad Brains because somebody put I Against I in the reggae section at record store I frequented. Expecting a roots reggae experience I was instead stung by the sonic assault of hardcore Jah. And so began my entry into punk and hardcore and soon Sub Pop, grunge and indie rock.

After finally tuning into Sub Pop’s frequency, I still failed to register for its single of the month club (missing out on another Nirvana single, the Nirvana/Fluid split from 1991—and the only good record the Fluid ever had their name on). I was just too poor to subscribe. I did however manage to get my hands on some of the precious color sides when whatever surplus copies trickled into indie stores I started haunting. And when I was music director of a college radio station, Sub Pop occasionally sent me promo copies of Singles Club releases (I still prize that clear wax Dead Moon 7-inch). (By the way, my college station spun every Sub Pop release, no matter how bad, much to the chagrin of the radio guy at C/Z Records—Sub Pop’s Seattle junior competition at the time.)

In 1993, as the mainstream mutation of grunge continued to fascinate the “Alternative Nation,” Sub Pop pulled the plug on its Singles Club, citing waning interest. At its height, the club boasted almost 8,000 subscribers. By the end of the first run, fewer than 2,000 belonged. Malaise soon spread to the rest of the label. Sub Pop quit signing local bands. Its roster started to suck and the label no longer held sway as a proprietor of hip and cutting-edge music. Not to mention it courted with financial ruin more often than decent new bands. Sub Pop still had plenty of attitude, of course, just not the music to back it up (i.e., Jale, Hardship Post, Five Style, Mike Ireland, Hazel, Grifters, Chixdiggit, Green Magnet School, Heroic Doses, Six Finger Satellite, Combustible Edison, Blue Rags, Heather Duby, 10 Minute Warning, Trembling Blue Stars, Yo-Yo's, Plexi, Supersuckers—according to lore, every record the ’Suckers sold of 1995’s Sacrilicious Sounds... cost the label $50). Nevertheless, I still kept tabs on the label, both as a frustrated fan and as a music journalist. (Sadly, my friends the Makers failed to revive the label, and the Murder City Devils’ massive hype didn’t equate with strong sales.)

But even though the label had been “going bankrupt since 1988,” you could always expect Sub Pop to throw more money at a problem. So right around the turn of the century, just before bands like the Shins, Hot Hot Heat, the Postal Service and Beardo the Folk Singer (you’ve probably heard his songs in a commercial) rescued the label from certain doom, Sub Pop revived the Singles Club. True to form, I failed to enlist again. Not sure why—I could have made a fortune on eBay with that White Stripes single, or even the Bright Eyes, Death Cab for Cutie and Bonnie Prince Billy sides. Oh, I remember why I didn’t fork over the cash: I was barely eking out a living as a writer (surprises me, too). Which is how I managed to get my hands on a couple of these exclusive records—Modest Mouse, Ugly Casanova and Zeke (thank you, Chris Jacobs and Steve Manning!). Oh, and I scored the Kent 3 single, too (which is still very easy to get and very worth getting). But interest in Singles Club redux didn’t amount to more than 2,000 subscribers and went defunct after a couple years.

Like a true record-collecting dork, I’m in the vinyl trade. I collect and sell records. I’m one of those jerks who earns a decent return on limited-edition, mint copies of color pressings of whatever band you’re into presently, but didn’t hear early enough to have scored a copies of that band’s early output. So you bid and I make a handsome profit. Think Melvins, Ween, Mr. Bungle, Pavement, Guided By Voices, Modest Mouse, Sunny Day Real Estate, Murder City Devils, Desert Sessions, etc. (Though, truth be told, I haven’t actually hawked anything on eBay in almost a year.) As you might imagine, I was ecstatic when Sub Pop announced last summer that as part of its 20th anniversary commemoration, it would bring the Singles Club back for another encore—but only for one year. Twelve months, one single per month, starting in August, 2008. And they would only make 1,500 subscriptions available. Seeing instant profit potential, I didn’t hesitate to join this time (expectedly, all subscriptions were quickly claimed). Funny thing, though: in all my time peddling records on the Internets, I’ve only bid on and purchased Sub Pop singles, I’ve never auctioned any.

The first installment of Sub Pop Singles Club 3.0 arrived in August. It was “Gebel Barkal” b/w “Version” by Om, a band originally composed of Sleep’s rhythm section—bassist/vocalist Al Cisneros and drummer Chris Haikus—and whose recent album Pilgrimage (Southern Lord) was a favorite on the home hi-fi. This particular single—stamped on flesh-colored vinyl with a sleeve design that harkens back to the Sub Pop singles of yore—marked the first recordings with Grails’ Emil Amos who replaced Haikus on the drums. Within a week of its arrival the single was fetching as much as $50 on eBay—not a bad return when you think about the cost of each single (roughly $6.50 per). But I wasn’t about to part with it—even if it’s not quite as significant as anything off Pilgrimage. Don’t get me wrong, it’s good, but it’s not quite satisfying: Just as the tidal force of Om’s swelling rhythm is about to thrash itself on the rock, the band abandons ship. And the flipside is merely a dub rendering of the A-side, complete with the requisite, if cliché, drum reverb and melodica. But it’s single, after all, and one unavailable to the masses at that.

I’m also keeping the other SP singles that have since arrived on my doorstep, records by Unnatural Helpers (featuring members of the Catheters, Double Fudge and Kinski), L.A. girl punks Mika Miko (who get loose and lo-fi on two sides of opaque yellow vinyl), Black Mountain (thankfully minus Amber Webber’s vexing fake yodel) and most recently Brooklyn’s Blues Control (abstract in the abstract).

So far the only of the five Sub Pop singles eBay vinyl fiends aren’t clamoring for is Unnatural Helpers’ four-song pounder, “Dirty, Dumb and Comical.” I guess no one cares about the band’s pedigree or that the propulsive title track which kicks this thing into motion packs a mighty wallop—easily one of my favorite riffs in recent memory. My advice, bid on this one; you’ll get a hell of a bargain.

As for what’s on tap for January, who knows? I’ve yet to see anything new listed in the Discography section of subpop.com. Nevertheless, I’m happy to finally be part of the club.