Preface: Apologies for the long absence from this blog. Hopefully my absenteeism here contributed to my presence at places featuring real, live people. Yeah, unlikely. I've mentioned this before, but it's like I only post when I'm actually busy (i.e. during finals) -- when I'm not busy, the urge to write long screeds on vinyl, politics, and science mysteriously vanishes. Strange, isn't it? Well, to the one, possibly two, but not more than five people who have stuck with me on this blog, thanks, and here's a new post. I've been trying to write it for a long time. Call it my Chinese Democracy.
One thing that hasn't changed this summer (well, actually, nothing has changed) is my adoration for all things vinyl, of the record variety. Sure, my friends are getting married, buying houses, and getting promotions, but I bet none of them found a Japanese bootleg of a Bob Dylan w/. The Band concert from 1974. Here's a list of some notable crate digger milestones from this summer.
With the decision to move my turntable and big floor speakers to my room based in part on the availability of shelf space I thought would last for at least another year, this summer saw that rationale tidily ticked off of the list, "Reasons for Moving All This Shit Into My Bedroom." I probably have 350-400 records now and I've definitely surpassed that ever-important milestone in any crate digger's life: my records weigh more than I do. The only side effect of this accomplishment is the growing dread I feel when thinking about the prospect of ever moving out of this place.
Most people, upon hearing of my vinyl addiction, react with a sort of bemused look on their face that absolutely says, "Oh, umm, that's weird, isn't it? I mean, they have this thing called mp3 players...they play music without the grooved plastic...like, on a computer...it's not like you have a typewriter, do you?" I do. But some people get it. I like those people. You can almost see the wheels churning when they mention the record player lying fallow at their parents' house, the boxes of black gems awaiting discovery by these intrepid explorers. I shared in a few friends' vinyl awakening this summer and it felt good. I'll trade crate digging competition for more people to enjoy it with any day.
I've never gone on a Civil War road trip as my name is not Sarah Vowell. Nor have I seen a baseball game played at every Major League ballpark across the country. And I'm still reluctant to get on the Bieber Express (Bieber or Die!!) and follow that cute little lesbian as she flits from town to town, impressing the tweens. But put a big felt tipped line through the bucket list entry, "Record Road Trip". After driving 10 hours for the perfect wedding, I wasn't too keen on driving all the way back to Minneapolis without more entertainment than the Ira's Flatow and Glass could give me, try though they might (and did). So I googled "Best record stores, Chicago[/Madison]" and programmed my GPS to land at Reckless Records (Chicago), Dusty Groove (Chicago), and Strictly Discs (Madison). And although it contributed to a dangerously low balance in my checking account, it was well worth it. Don't get me wrong -- I love the record stores in Minneapolis. I talk and think about them often. But it's also a little like driving a perfectly fine sedan only to drive a friend's luxury sports car; you don't know what you're missing until you know. A lot of this might be the exotic excitement of things new, but the organization and care that went into the stores I visited hints that it was also something more.
I'm already planning my next vinyl road trip!! Ok, that's not true, but I wanted to convey just how revelatory of an experience it was. So fire up the Bieber Express if you must -- anything for another vinyl road trip.
School (and volunteering and working and being on a journal and still working on interacting with human beings) is set to begin in a few weeks, so expect an curious uptick in posts...
