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STEVEN IVORY: Retail Record Store, Pulpit of Recorded Salvation
*According to Tiny, the most “noble” thing he has done with his life thus far is save his hardworking parents' rambling, two-story El Paso, Texas home--in which he and five siblings were reared--from the clutches of Houston land developers.
The saga told by a 57 year-old, USC jerseyed Tiny--six feet-plus and two hundred and something pounds--could be a storyline from “Tobacco Road,” “Patches,” “Papa Was a Rolling Stone” or any number of other hard-luck, what-the-fuck-else-could-possibly-happen R&B songs whose tales become more insurmountable by the verse. Since neither of his parents could read or write, standing up to the developers' evil cadre of attorneys fell to Tiny, who, at the time in the '70s, had just passed the Texas bar exam.
Tiny, a stranger, didn't tell me all this while in the waiting room of a shrink or over cocktails in a dim, lonely bar. Rather, he wistfully shared his story in the R&B section of bustling Amoeba Music, the L.A. retail record store on the corner of Sunset and Cahuenga.
Side by side, we'd been silently thumbing through the H's, when I thought out loud what a brilliant performance Donny Hathaway gave during his "Live" recording of 1972. Tiny glanced over at it and confided that Hathaway's “Extensions Of A Man” LP had served as soundtrack to his nightly law school studies. We began chatting about Hathaway, and before long Tiny was reciting the narrative of his family homestead.
This is what music can do to people--make them profess life events to people they don't know. And, despite current economics and the trend of downloading, the brick and mortar retail record store is still where such music lovers gather to testify.
People like Tiny don't patronize record stores the way they do, say, the post office or the pharmacy. The record store run is not an errand. More like an urge. Or a calling. They come in pursuit of the mighty mélange of rhythm, melody and/or lyric that will cosign or soothe assorted emotions.
A record store has its own culture. The employees--the aging hippie, the obligatory hip hopper, the Cool Daddy, the bespectacled, pierced alternative chick--are right out of Central Casting. Of course, record stores in ethnic neighborhoods cast accordingly.
When I walk into a record store, I enter with authority. Any record store anywhere in the world feels like home. Why do I immediately feel sexy in a record store? Maybe it's the omnipresent beat, or the people with whom I share it. More likely, it's because music is my salvation.
I've always been like this. In the stone age of my '60s youth, when Mama took us into a department store, I'd quickly locate two departments--toy and music. In the latter, I'd while away Mama's shopping time examining the covers of the day's hot recordings. Any cover featuring people holding electric guitars warranted a longer gaze.
Today, a major-label act struggling to find an audience is lucky if the company allows them a second release once the first bombs. In the '60s and '70s, if a label believed in an act, they'd often let it release records until one hit. When I was a kid, it seemed like even the most obscure act had a catalogue of albums in its bin.
Once my teens allowed me some freedom, Oklahoma City record stores became definitive destinations. Don Minnis and I would hit Diary Queen and then the record store, where we might sift for hours through albums before finally purchasing one 45 single for a buck. We'd play the hell out of both sides for a week.
At the vast Amoeba Music (which bills itself as the "world's largest independent record store"), among all ages and demographics you'll find former childhood music fiends, all grown up and searching diligently for the music of their youth. How many times and in how many configurations can you buy Aretha Franklin's 1974 album, “Let Me In Your Life” or Miles Davis' 1959 classic, “Kind Of Blue?” Answer: As many times as you need to.
Sure, these people download online. Just like their own children--many of whom have never visited a record store--they purchase by-the-track at iTunes.
But sometimes, you want to "hold" the music; you want revisit the cover art you examined for hours on end while listening to the melodies you fell in love to. If you can read the minuscule CD print, you might wish to peruse the original credits of the gifted musicians, songwriters and producers who created this glorious work.
That record labels often neglect such info on reissues is the final insult from a greedy industry which, by no longer nurturing real talent and having shunned the Internet as a distribution tool until it was too late, did both itself and contemporary music in.
Because of this, the retail record store has all but gone the way of the dinosaur. No question about it: in addition to new and classic music, Amoeba is also peddling to music lovers the sentimental experience of buying music the old fashioned way.
I emerged from Amoeba after about two hours, having traded stuff I no longer listen to for sonic gems I needed to replace, including Isaac Hayes' “Shaft,” a 5th Dimension greatest hits package, Joni Mitchell's “Court And Spark” and Funkadelic's “Let's Take It To The Stage,” among some other titles I won't mention here. Hey, music is personal.
In the parking garage, I ran into Tiny, who showed me his goodies. “Young man," I teased, pointing to guitarist Jeff Beck's “Blow By Blow," "what do you know about this?”
“Well, I know his solo on Stevie Wonder's “Lookin' For Another Pure Love” makes me cry like a baby," Tiny responded, defiantly. "I know THAT. How's THAT for ya?”
We both laughed. However, halfway home, I turned my car around and headed back to Amoeba. Tiny's mere mention of that Stevie tune worked a mojo on me. Suddenly, I had to have Stevie's "Talking Book" CD for "Lookin' For Another Pure Love," not to mention the funky, sexy cut, "Tuesday Heartbreak." I mean, HAD to have it. Right Now.
Steven Ivory's book, FOOL IN LOVE (Touchstone/Simon & Schuster) is in stores now or at Amazon.com (www.Amazon.com). Respond to him via STEVRIVORY@AOL.COM.
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