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.
Serves me right. Last time I wrote one of these things, I had some snarky words to say about poet-songwriters being depressed in New York in the winter. So naturally I found myself on a train heading to New York about 6 or 8 hours before a blizzard was scheduled to hit. To be honest, I was giddy. Manhattan in the snow. And me without a car to get stuck, without a walkway to shovel. Without my kids with me, I felt like one: I owed the world nothing. Let the snow fall. Let the city get pummeled. Let the magic happen. And it happened. When it hit, it came down sideways. The wind screeched against uncountable fences, grates, and walls. With my N95 mask on, my breath fogged my sunglasses. Without the sunglasses, I was blinded. I trudged and slipped past more than one church. I didn’t stop in and pretend to pray, but I could see the logic in it. But all that happened several hours after I arrived. I did get in a decent amount of time to wander about without a bunch of weather in my fac...
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...
When I lived in Chicago and Milwaukee was an hour away, I rarely heard of anyone's day trip to Milwaukee. Living in the D.C. area, you find that most people have a solid sense of Baltimore (also an hour away) and can name a few favorite spots there. And I kind of get it. I can see how a Chicagoan (rightly or wrongly) would think of Milwaukee as being the same...but much less so. Baltimore, however, is an entirely different animal than D.C. Baltimore isn't the smaller version of anything. It's just big enough to be on the national stage, so to speak, and just small enough to have the chip-on-its-shoulder pride that smaller big cities have. Baltimore, I am a fan. And not just because of The Wire--a show largely shot on streets the likes of me will probably never see. (But, god damn, The Wire was something.) The neighborhood "up there" that I'm most likely to find myself in is Hampden. Once a haven of funky thrift shops, it has sense evolved into a haven of well-...
Comments
Post a Comment