Vinyl

The Big Bad, by The Big Bad. 2016, age 44.

I grew up on vinyl. My brothers, 15 and 13 years older than me, were already avid rock and roll fans by the time I'd come along. The first album I remember hearing (and seeing) was The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars.

Growing up I listened to every record they owned: The Beatles "Red," "Blue," and "White" albums; Abraxas; Electric Warrior; Band on the Run; Houses of the Holy; Never Mind the Bollocks; London Calling; 1999; Mott the Hoople Greatest Hits; The Name of This Band is Talking Heads; Bella Donna; A Night at the Opera; more Bowie, more T. Rex, more Zeppelin, more Beatles, some Stones . . . a bit of everything.

My parents were older and their tastes reflected it. They didn't have a lot of records, but the ones they had were important: Hank Williams 40 Greatest Hits, Nat "King" Cole's Unforgettable, some big band stuff.

The first record I bought (at 8-years-old) was The Beatles' Story, which is more of a sound documentary than a music record. (My twin sister bought The Muppet Movie Soundtrack, arguably a more important musical choice.) Something New was my second record. Later came LOTS of Prince records (usually bought the day of their release), The Time, Duran Duran, Heart, and all kinds of 80s goodies.

Then I got "serious" about music and bought hard-to-get jazz records. Blue Train was the first jazz album I bought on a reborn Blue Note label in the mid-eighties.

In college, we played "drop the needle" in saxophone masterclass and had listening parties with other music nerds. My roommate Eric, took me to the Princeton Record Exchange when I went home with him to New Jersey. We'd come back to school with armloads of experimental classical music, folk and world music on Nonesuch, and tons of jazz. I'd also grab a few rock-and-roll records.

After I got married (the first time), I'd make a point of visiting the used record stores in every town where we vacationed. I'd hit them up in Chicago, the Lower East Side, Memphis, and New Orleans. Lots in New Orleans.

Somehow, I ended up with a couple thousand records.

I mean, it didn't keep me from buying CDs. And cassette tapes -- though that format was more for making mixes for others. And then downloading digital music when all that happened.

When I got divorced, my wife let me keep all the vinyl. I had a turntable, but I didn't make it out with the stereo. I had all these treasures and no way to enjoy them.

I moved around with all of it. You wanna know how committed you are to vinyl, move a few times with a couple thousand LPs.

All of the sudden, I had a new family and all this stuff.

I had a small portable record player -- very retro, except that it is probably actually from about 1976 -- but what I didn't know what that turntables from that era won't play microgrooves on newer albums. I could play original Stevie Wonder through the tiny speakers, but not anything after about 1985.

And I kept buying new vinyl. Stuff by new favorite bands like The Cryptkeeper Five and Harley Poe. And some old vinyl. Which made no sense because I had no way to hear it. I just knew I eventually would.

A little over a month ago, I decide to organize my home studio. I also decided to find a way to listen to my turntable through the board and speakers I use for playing keyboards. I got everything hooked up just right and then went to put on my first record.

The stylus was broken. (For you youngsters, the stylus is the needle that transmits the vibration from the groove of the record to the amplification system.)

So I ordered one.

It came in today.

There is something so different about listening to an album on vinyl. Yeah, I think it probably sounds a little better, but that may be mostly imagination. I'm not sure.

But putting on a 12-inch platter, dropping the needle, sinking into a chair, looking at the jacket, reading the notes in a readable font size . . .

The first record I selected was The Big Bad. It happens to be a record by a band I play in.

The last time I could listen to vinyl on a stereo, I couldn't have had that experience. It makes me feel really good.

I think it's going to be a late night.

Ashes to Ashes

2016, Age 43. "Blackstar" by David Bowie, from Blackstar.

David Bowie died yesterday. He was 69.

I've written elsewhere about my love for Bowie. It would be hard for me to overstate his impact on me musically and personally.

I was born the same year that The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars was released, the same month that Bowie broke Top of the Pops with his live performance of "Starman." In fact, "Starman" was the very first record I remember hearing as a child.

My brothers played Bowie when I was young: Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane, Hunky Dory, Space Oddity, Pinups, Young Americans, Scary Monsters, and the Live! album. Oh, and Lou Reed and Mott the Hoople and anyone else Bowie influenced. By the time I was 10, I knew all the words on every one of those records.

David Bowie was the reason I had rock star fantasies. The Beatles were big to me and Prince a little later, but it was Bowie who first combined the music with the costumes and rock-star attitude.

Like a lot of people, Bowie gave me courage to be the person I was. He still does, as a matter of fact. All of those songs about being an alien — is there life on Mars? — gave comfort to all the freaks, geeks, and queers of the world. Thousands of kids like me growing up in small towns got strength to be ourselves through his music.

I puzzled over his weird turns of phrase, trying to work out what they meant. "She's a tongue twisting storm, she will come to the show tonight, praying to the light machine." "I'm closer to the Golden Dawn, immersed in Crowley's uniform of imagery." "As they pulled you out of the oxygen tent, you asked for the latest party. With your silicone hump and your ten inch stump, dressed like a priest you was, Todd Browning's freak you was." His lyrics sent me to the dictionary and to the encyclopedia. They were smart, but to creative ends — not just playing at cleverness.

Of course, the music was something else. At times just pure rock and roll — "Rebel, Rebel," "Suffragette City," "Jean Genie" — at times arty or experimental — "Space Oddity," "Warszawa," "Yassassin." And what about soul? The Thin White Duke was funky enough to be invited on Soul Train and name checked in one of Parliament Funkadelic's best-known tracks.

And he played saxophone. I wonder how many people can say they chose to play saxophone, which in turn led to a career in music and two college degrees in saxophone performance because of David Bowie? Before Trane, before Bird, I knew Bowie. I can still see my junior high school band director's puzzled look when I told him Bowie was my favorite saxophonist.

His music has truly been the soundtrack of my life. I boogied to Let's Dance in the early years of MTV. I obsessively watched the TV show Life on Mars because of it's constant references to Bowie. When I was teaching, I wanted to share my love of the music so much that I asked my friend Steve to arrange four songs for a Bowie tribute show with the marching band. I listened to "Loving the Alien" over and over when I was going through a loss of faith. I put Bowie on several playlists for my children, include track one of the mix they listen to every night when they fall asleep ("Kooks"). I blasted "Modern Love" driving to the church when I got married. I never saw him live, though I did see a great cover band one at the Empty Glass and sang along very loudly and very drunkenly. Just Friday I found myself listening to all of Low for inspiration with my electronic music. Facebook tells me that I've mentioned Bowie more than 55 times, more than any other person other than family members, and that's not including the times I just posted lyrics or shared articles.

So it was that I noted his birthday just a few days ago and downloaded his new album, Blackstar. I hadn't yet had the chance to give it a listen, because I wanted to give it my full attention and in a house with four kids, that's not often possible.

Then I was up late, watching some Netflix with my wife and I saw it on Facebook.

I don't ever remember being this distressed about the death of a celebrity. John Lennon, maybe, but I was eight-years-old at the time. It feels a little silly, to grieve someone you don't know, but I can tell you that I do.

I went to my basement and put the record on.

It's brilliant, of course.

It's also obviously meant as something of a last statement to the world. Hitting me heavily right now is this lyric:
​
Something happened on the day he died
Spirit rose a metre and stepped aside
Somebody else took his place, and bravely cried,
"I’m a blackstar, I’m a blackstar!"
​
How many times does an angel fall?
How many people lie instead of talking tall?
He trod on sacred ground, he cried loud into the crowd,
"I’m a blackstar, I’m a blackstar, I’m not a gangster!"
​
I can’t answer why (I’m a blackstar)
Just go with me (I’m not a filmstar)
I’m-a take you home (I’m a blackstar)
Take your passport and shoes (I’m not a popstar)
And your sedatives, boo (I’m a blackstar)
You’re a flash in the pan (I’m not a marvel star)
I’m the great I am (I’m a blackstar)

Almost no one knew he was dying, but he did. The New York Times reported today in it's arts pages today that "it's a good time to be David Bowie." While probably not exactly accurate, this is certainly the way to leave the world.

So goodbye, Davy Jones. Goodbye, Major Tom. Goodbye, Arnold Corns. Goodbye, Ziggy Stardust. Goodbye, Halloween Jack. Goodbye, Jean Genie. Goodbye Aladdin, Sane. Goodbye, Thin White Duke. Goodbye, Goblin King. Goodbye, Tao Jones.

Rest in peace, David Bowie.

Long live rock-and-roll.