Hence, what I had in my head was an idea of Maine. A Family
Feud-esque word association: Lobsters. LL Bean. And I guess Steven
King lives there?
As an outsider, Maine feels way the hell up there and that
seems to be the appeal: it’s away from stuff.
Untouched—maybe?—from all the noise down here.
A thing that comes to mind is this sketch from the very
short-lived Dana Carvey show: skinheads in Maine:
(Yes, that's Stephen Colbert on the right.)
What’s the joke here? I mean, they probably do have bigotry
there, but the sort of self-conscious, “bigotry is my identity” thing feels
hilariously out of place. Wouldn’t a true Mainer be too busy—lacing up their
Bean Boots…hiking in Acadia…pulling up a lobster trap—to bother hating anyone?
It's easy to romanticize a place when you haven’t been there…or when
you spend a week there at a quaint AirBnB on a quiet street in a nice
neighborhood...or when you visit a famously cold place in June. On many “Welcome to Maine” signs and mugs and shirts, you’ll see
the slogan: The Way Life Should Be. And the week I was there, this rang true.
Portland, Maine is loaded with breweries and bookstores…and
hence a few solid record stores are to be found. The first one I looked
at was Strange Maine, which comes up a lot on people’s lists. At first glance,
it was incredible. At second glance, not so much. I was excited to see this
copy of Quiet Riot's Mental Health, and less excited to see that they were selling a copy that
you definitely couldn’t get a decent sound out of.
Why even have it on the shelf? So guys like me can take a
photo of it and text it to their friends: Remember this, LOL? The three or four other records I looked at were in equally crummy shape. I moved on.
I later found another goofy shop that, thankfully, was a bit
more serious about actually selling music. Electric Buddhas--on the same street, just a few blocks down.
Electric Buddhas, as the placard indicates, has a lot of random kooky stuff (I bought a pack of Umbrella Academy trading cards), but the main thing on offer is records: a nice mix of new and used.
I flipped through a rack of 80s New Wave a few times, and at the last minute opted for something different:
Maybe it's a cop-out to buy an album that I already know and love, but I've come to think that the best vinyl purchases are the ones that you are happy to listen to in their entirety. And this album makes me happy from start to finish.
I'm not the only one who likes it. When it debuted, it won the Grammy for Album of the Year. That being the 7th Annual Grammy Awards, in 1965. Scrolling through the winners that year is...interesting. Not to put too much weight on the wisdom of the Grammys, but you get the sense that the culture was ready for something other than regular white American dudes. Getz/Gilberto actually won four awards. Best new artist went to The Beatles. Best comedy album went to Bill Cosby, the first non-white comedian to win.
As for the music? The fusion of bossa nova and jazz? I'm not the guy to say something smart about it. The Casio SK1 keyboard that I owned when I was 12 had a bossa nova mode and a samba mode, so I'm pretty sure they are two different things.
A knowledgable breakdown between the two--and what it means to incorporate jazz into the same record--will not be found here. But I can try to say something about why I like it. It's breezy and cool. It evokes a mood of, well, elsewhere. Brazilian beaches. Quiet nights of quiet stars. Wherever you might be while listening to it, it puts your mind somewhere better. At an outdoor cafe in some tropical setting...at a nightclub where waiters in white jackets bring you exotic cocktails...or... well...whatever does it for you.
And what am I even picturing when I say that? What place, country, town, cafe exactly? I don't know. I'm not sure that it even exists. Like the way I felt about Maine before arriving, it's a dreamy idea of a place, a notion of what life might be like if you weren't where you currently are.
Post script: an actual, thoughtful look at this album can be found here.
Okay, that’s a wrap. 12 months, 12 records stores(ish). This little jaunt spanned six states (I am granting D.C. statehood for our purposes here) and included one traveling record show. Stores visited: January: Crooked Beat Records February: Academy LPs March: Byrdland April: VoltageRecords May: Record Riot June: Electric Buddhas July: Tumbleweeds August: Red Onion Records September: SOM Records October: Village Revival Records November: Smash Records December: Celebrated Summer That first one I went to, Crooked Beat, is the closest to my home. And they are moving even closer. Its current neighborhood is tearing down a block to rebuild it into something fancier. Luckily, Crooked Beat has found a new home. Shops like this don't always get to live on. They need your business and mine. I'm done writing about this stuff, but I will keep seeking these places out. Oh, and hot tip: checking out the local record store while traveling is a pretty swell...
In the summer of 1994, I went on a road trip to the west coast—a first for me, a kid from the Chicago suburbs who had previously only made it as far west as Iowa City. I was nineteen. The world was rediscovering the Beatniks. One song on Jawbreaker’s new album name-dropped Kerouac. Another song on that same album featured a recording of Kerouac in the background. More visibly, Ginsburg did an ad for Gap. More bizarrely, Burroughs did one for Nike. Say what you want about the commercialism of counterculture…say even more about whether any of those 1950s white male hedonists would survive a contemporary, woke reassessment. All you might say is true. But here’s something: When you grow up in a world believing sports were everything—and you sucked at sports—it was more than a little bit liberating to learn about this other world where suddenly the writers were the cool guys. All of which to say: a long road trip out west with barely any money, nowhere to stay, and no firm plans…this re...
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