Over the past year, I’ve bonded a little with a patron at the library, where I spend too much time telling people not to lick the computer keyboards. I guess there’s three points that this patron and I ultimately connect on; we’ve both been art teachers, we both have LP collections, and we both agree that I’m a handsome devil. With this knowledge, she occasionally pays visits to drop off stacks of records for me. While many aren’t in the genres that I’m currently exploring (as many are opera or musical theatre), there are always a few strange gems mixed in. During her last visit, she left a smart little stack of folk albums - Joan Baez, the notable Allan Sherman folk-parody album ‘My Son, The Folk Singer’, and a whole collection of albums by The New Christy Minstrels and The Back Porch Majority, whom I’d never heard of before.

I was attracted despite my ignorance, and I had the distinct feeling that THIS genre of music, and these ‘large folk ensembles’, were exactly what the excellent mockumentary ‘A Mighty Wind’ was parodying. I explored deeper, because anything worth a good loving mock is worth learning more about, especially if it was alarmingly antiseptic and delightful as the album covers implied. These guys were gonna MAKE me delighted, whether I liked it or not - and the masochist in me was going to like it either way.

I consulted an older generation than myself, and the mere mention of ‘The New Christy Minstrels’ brought a few looks of disdain and fear. Indeed, their practice of forcing joy upon all who encountered them had left a few scars, carved into the skin of their victims like little smiles. ‘The Back Porch Majority’ wasn’t nearly as recognizable, and even the omniscient internet doesn’t offer up too much on their popularity - if it ever existed.

Both groups were organized (and sometimes performed in) by a man named Randy Sparks, and if The New Christy Minstrels were center stage, The Back Porch Majority were the opening act - something of a rehearsal space before moving on to The Minstrels, and many group members did transfer from one group to another. While the two groups were seen as competitors of one another, it seems that they traded members as sports teams might.

A number of things attracted me to the albums, beyond the ripe-for-parody musical genre. First off was the Jack Davis album cover on the Minstrels’ ‘Advance to the Rear’ album, thanks to Derek - but even MORE interesting to me was the progression of The Majority’s album covers.

The first 4 in the stack, and the first 4 sequentially released, are images of smiling, happy, waving youngsters, clearly excited about life and haircuts and soda pop and drive-ins and poofy dresses. Album number five, ‘The Willy Nilly Wonder of Illusion’ takes a sudden psychedelic turn, as a single male member of the band gets all grabby with three women at once, one of whom is making devil horns behind his head. Their bodies stretch strangely off of the album and into unknown spaces, though we can safely assume that they end up in a acid den somewhere. I mean, c’mon - the guy’s top button isn’t even buttoned! What kind of ne’er-do-wells have The Majority turned into? These are no longer ‘Riverboat Days’, and we’re suddenly covering Paul Simon songs about suicide.

I love it.

I wasn’t around to watch the music of the 1960s slowly devour a straight-laced society, and I never experienced the infectious plague of rock ‘n’ roll that destroyed our youth culture. By the time I came along, DEVO had already done their weird pseudo-sexual damage, and by the time I was conscious of it, Nirvana had already ripped holes in my jeans. From what I can tell, 1967’s ‘Willy Nilly’ was their last album, though given their rate of moral decay, one can only assume that their next musical output would be all about sacrificing goats and hailing their dark underlord. Play it backwards and the messages might even be offensive.

I live in a small town, as I’ve mentioned before. A vast portion of it is relatively unsettled state park lands, and the rest is fairly centrally located. I work at the library, which seems to be the epicenter of all things hilarious and tragic that concern town politics and personalities. People know me, for what it’s worth. I help them find the books of town code or get on the internet or summer reading for their kids, and I like doing it.

Word has gotten around town that I collect LPs, as well as whatever manner of spinny black discs that our small town might have hidden in its spidery attics and squirrely garages. It was a few weeks ago that a gentleman came into the library seeking me out, as he understood that I collected these records. He’d been driving around with a considerable collection of them in his car, looking to get rid of them somehow, and while the overpriced record shop in the next town over had given him a few bucks for a handful, a majority of them remained unclaimed. Sure, I’m always excited about the prospect of a new stack of records to play during my lonely evenings at home… and usually, I’m excited enough to go out to some stranger’s car and poke around inside of it to see what he’s got to offer me. I live dangerously.

It was clear that this man was a music lover. These wooden crates full of discs were listened to and appreciated. As he leafed though them, he’d pull out a few to mention how great this or that album was, or how he loved Emmylou Harris… but he had to get rid of them, all of them, or his wife would kill him. He no longer had a turntable, and his sentimentality didn’t justify marital strife. Was this a dark telescope into my future? Would I one day be making daily, forlorn trips to the Toys for Tots box against my will?

Through a process of negotiation in the parking lot, I made it clear that I had no personal knowledge of which record would be worth what, since I’m a record collector concerned only with the listenability of the music, not the condition of the sleeve. There were a few options to make his wife happy, but we eventually settled upon a convenient donation of records to the library, to benefit everyone. I didn’t have the money or frankly, the energy, to buy them outright, and the library was about to have a big bi-annual booksale. We could sell the records as a library, I’d buy them from the library (and get first pick), the library could get a few bucks, and he’d get a tax write-off for his generous donation. I didn’t know the tax value for a record donation of that size, but I hope that the financial and marital compensation was worth the loss.

And the donation was generous. Generous enough to make me feel physical pain as I watched him part with his beloved music collection, which he vocally lamented as I tried to comfort him in his loss.

We estimated about 500 records, and while I had to sort through them before the sale to remove the ones that were destroyed by mold, moss, moisture, cracking and general grossness, the resulting pile of leftover music was still excellent. While it hurt to have to chuck a copy of Zeppelin’s IV that had been colonized by alien spores, we kept Duke Ellington, Sly and the Family Stone, Donovan, The Young Rascals, Joe Cocker, Santana, and all kinds of things that would be great to listen to on a turntable. Especially notable was Santana’s first album, which came signed by Carlos Santana and six or seven of the other recording artists on the album. I’d brought it home to listen to, and only afterwards discovered the signatures.

I limited myself to about 30 one-dollar records, since I’m still indoctrinating myself into the parts of the musical world of the 1970s that didn’t involve Jethro Tull. I’m already a total Tull expert. Don’t tell anyone that. I’ve also outgrown my own LP spaces and have expanded into the unfriendly climates of the garage, which are never good for records.

I could likely download any one of these albums in perfect clarity, but now I know the guy who’d once listened to and loved them, and I want to listen to them like he did - hisses, pops, and all.

Every box of records I’ve ever found at a tag sale, or a Goodwill, or a Salvation Army, or laid outside the library door like so many defenseless newborn kittens, has had at least a half dozen Christmas albums in it. And they make me recoil in horror. Sometimes, entire boxes brim with the beasts, and my disappointment is fairly obvious upon their discovery. It’s probably the gagging sounds.

It’s not as if I detest Christmas music, but its omnipresence between November 15th and January 10th of every year is enough to inspire revulsion. The typical Christmas radio fare is saccharine and overdramatic, with the most recent, manufactured singer belting out a Christmas classic as if their face is just one nanopascal away from complete explosion. What’s even better is when it’s a duet in which two incongruous singers try to out-belt each other with every verse, thereby damaging both of their credibilities at once. Bah, humbug. The only pair that could do that successfully was David Bowie and Bing Crosby, a feat of wonder which shall never be duplicated.

Somehow, I’ve let my distaste for ‘modern’ Christmas tunes infect all of my holiday cheer, so I can honestly say that I’ve never intentionally dropped a dime on any Christmas vinyl, ever - even though it unrelentingly presents itself to me at every turn for next-to-nothing prices. Unless it had ‘hi-fi’, ‘organ’ or ‘space’ in the title, or somehow snuck by my angry judgment sensors unscathed, any holiday music that I have is purely accidental, and very likely mixed into larger crates of things I’d purchased. Recent inspections of these crates of records out in the garage has reveal that I’ve apparently been in about 40 accidents I didn’t even remember having. Ergo, my Christmas record collection is significant… and still largely unpleasant.

But only now do I realize that I might have passed up some real gems during this past summer’s yard sales - most specifically, two huge boxes of Christmas records that were being given away for a total of ten dollars - which I unwittingly passed up.

I only realized my error when I recently happened upon FaLaLaLaLa.com - a wonderful blog that collects this lost holiday vinyl, documents it, and even allows readers to download select tunes (or entire albums) from them. I’ve surely encountered quite a diverse smattering of these in my travels, but I’ve never thought to, like, APPRECIATE them. Of course, most of these encounters would have been under the golden, searing sun of mid-July, when Christmas couldn’t possibly be more distant or unattractive, so pardon my ignorance.

It seems that almost every recording artist is contractually obligated to record a Christmas album, or at least a single, at some point in their careers. The Beatles recorded 7 super-rare holiday flexi-discs for their British fan club members. The Beach Boys (and later, Brian Wilson solo), Elvis, Chicago, Jethro Tull, The Supremes, The Jackson Five, Rockapella, Bright Eyes, Mariah Carey, Don McLean, Aimee Mann, Twisted Sister, Air Supply, 2 Live Crew, and Chris Isaak are just a few of the diverse artists who’ve dedicated entire albums to the holidays, often lending their unique styles to classic songs, along with one or two original compositions. Hell, I’ve even contributed some especially bizarre and bad music to a Christmas compilation a few years back. No one is immune to the dreaded holiday spirit. Even Scrooge was swayed, eventually.

Of course, none of these compare to the genuinely warm and classic albums of Burl Ives, Vince Guaraldi and Bing Crosby, which will forever reign superior to all other Christmas albums. I can’t help but actually start to CARE about the holidays when these come over the speakers. I’ll copy some of THOSE albums for my grandparents this Christmas, instead of the god-awful Phantom soundtrack we’re forced to endure every year. By the way, a close fourth place album comes by way of Christmas Cocktails, from the Ultra-Lounge series of albums.

Of course, these aren’t nearly as interesting fare as the various Christmas concept albums out there. Of course, I’m a fan of the Star Wars Holiday Album, but strange concept albums like ‘Have a Jewish Christmas…?’ (downloadable in full from FaLaLaLaLa) are always welcomed additions to the collection. Pair that with ‘Oy to the World’ by the Klezmonauts and you have a Christmas that appeals to a larger group of people than usual.

1994’s ‘Christmas in Luke’s Sex Shop’ is 2 Live Crew’s decidedly profane contribution to the vast collection of musical Christmas fare. Most of the songs on the album feature titles that are a bit too offensive or potentially controversial to even mention here - but I encourage you to seek it out on your own, at your own discretion. It can’t be worse that whatever Larry the Cable Guy and Mr. Cork have decided to destroy Christmas with. If you can point me to a genuinely funny Christmas song, I’ll gladly marry your least attractive daughter.

Of course, there are ten times as many alarming Christmas albums for children, including the 5-song CD single featuring a whole array of Shrek characters that causes me to hurriedly leave the house any time the kid decides to pop it into the CD player. I’m just grateful that we don’t have Pokemon Christmas Bash. One day I’ll get my revenge by torturing the household with 700 slightly different versions of Jingle Bells.

Of course, my own accidental collection of holiday records is another thing entirely. I’ll tell you more about it, and give you a listen, on Saturday.

=============================

Gotta Collect? Then You Gotta Connect - Join our Collectors’ Community

During last weekend’s sweaty tag sale exploits, I found myself in a garage full of unappreciated LPs. Among the two full boxes, a vast majority of them were either holiday albums or musical soundtracks… and the rest seemed to be stuck together with some mysterious, dried liquid. I never let myself be deterred by the unwashed detritus of tag sales, so I boldly dove in, assigned some positive mental energy to my immune system, and came out six records richer. How could I resist Jimmy Walker’s spoken word album, ‘Dyn-O-Mite’? I’m only mortal.

When I checked the price tag on the records, I saw that they were 50 cents each… or five dollars for the whole boxful. I broke out the abacus and quickly calculated that I was already spending three dollars on some records I wanted… but I could have at least fifty more records I didn’t even slightly want for only two more dollars! What use could I possibly have for a slew of albums I didn’t want to listen to or allow to take up space in my already cluttered life? Could I throw them at the dog and test their aerodynamics and edibility all at once? Could I finally exact my emotional revenge upon the original cast of The Music Man?

(As it turns out, after I inquired about buying the whole box of records, the woman went inside to check on something, and came back ten minutes later talking about how hungry she was, having completely forgotten my inquiry. I didn’t pursue it further, lest I get some kind of contact buzz from being in her apparently herbally-enhanced vicinity.)

But it got me thinking. It wasn’t the first time I found a ‘buy-one-get-ninety-free’ deal on LPs. I’d recently bought a charming 1960s record carrier for only two dollars…. but I had to take the Neil Diamond and Barbara Streisand records that were inside it also. I turned over two dollars, and a small portion of my immortal soul, and brought the whole lot home. WHAT on Earth could I do with this collection of unwanted record albums? I had to think of something fast - I was pretty sure that the restless spirit of Neil Diamond was trying to touch my in my sleep.

As it turns out, I could do a whole heck of a lot with unwanted albums. The craft brigade is mighty, and they have a propensity towards the ‘retro’.

For one, you can make kitschy bowls. Following some simple instructions, one can pop an unwanted LP into the oven for a few moments and the vinyl will become highly flexible and malleable, until it cools - at which point you can easily re-heat it. If you place the LP on an overturned bowl, it will begin to conform to the shape as it wilts, and harden into shape as it cools. From there, fill that sucker up with apples or hard candy and you’re set (though the toxic properties of album vinyl are debated, washing the bowl once you’re done should allay some fears). One might even get sculptural with broken record pieces and a little bit of directed heat.

A slightly more complicated idea involves creating coasters from the center label area. Using a scroll saw and a whole lot of caution, cut out the center disc and sand down the edges. A little bit of varnish or spray fixative will waterproof the paper of the label, and your living room table will be the hippest in the house. Seriously, your nightstand is gonna be totally jealous. I wouldn’t worry about the hole in the middle of the remaining disc, as the dreaded condensation only forms around the rim of the glass, but it’s not hard to plug the center hole with a bit of epoxy, if you find it necessary.

The circular shape of the album lends itself easily to clockmaking. Simple clock movement kits can be found at your local craft store, and the pre-drilled hole in the center of the album is just waiting to be filled with some time-telling hands. Numbers can be aligned with a protractor at 30 degrees from each other, and can either be painted or glued on. If you’re not especially fond of the album you’re using, replace the center label with something of your own design.

Crafters on Etsy have made it a regular practice to create notebooks using both album artwork, cut to size, or the albums themselves (again, carefully cut using a scroll saw). Vintage album artwork is an entirely different creature than it is today, designed to appeal to a 12” scale instead of the tiny CD covers that we have today, or worse, miniature iTunes icons. It looks great on the front of any notebook - even the worst album artwork has a delicious sense of irony. For added irony, heat up an album and bend it into an iPod holder.

Of course, the possibilities don’t end with this short list of ideas. The raw material of circular, black vinyl is potentially limitless and inspiring, inviting all kinds of alterations. Rarely costing more than a dollar a pop, there’s plenty of room to try and fail a thousand ideas - just make sure you’re not melting down a rare gem.

Every Friday afternoon, after I get home from work and remove my boots, I have The Ritual. I grab the local Pennysaver and leaf through it, eyes trained to see anything with the words ‘estate’, ‘moving’, ‘tag’ and ‘sale’ in conjunction. I don’t care about the puppies you’re giving away, or the fact that you can watch my children in a firm yet loving manner…. I want to buy your garbage.

It was only last year that I was still assigned to work every weekend, all day, at my job in the library. I mean, I’d been doing so for the previous seven or eight years I’d been in servitude there, but driving past the hot pink MULTI-FAMILY TAG SALE signs every day on the way to work became too great a temptation. I couldn’t spend one more summer inside while LPs baked in driveways across my town, so I took advantage of a personnel change to make my Big Scheduling Move… and I escaped.

So on Fridays, I speed through the Pennysaver, hoping that my vague sense of direction will lead me in the general vicinity of both listed and unlisted tag sales and their secret treasures, demarcated by signs stapled to the occasional telephone pole. While my rural area is light on traffic, it also does not have the benefit of any kind of organization or urban planning where street location comes into play. The denizens of the 18th century were not concerned with traffic flow as much as snakebites and dysentery. Despite the semi-chaotic and labyrinthine organization of the town, we do benefit from creaky old houses with mysterious furniture items, and the mass emigration of kids going to college and never coming back, leaving old action figures and video games behind.

So, we have roads that I’ve never heard of - either because they’re off of 15 other roads I’ve never heard of, or because they just sprung up in the last 5 years due to heavy developing and deforestation. This is where I always thrill to the wonders of the internet, and particularly, the miracle of GoogleMaps. Sure, I use Mapquest to get a general set of directions when I’m driving a long distance, but for weekly tag sales, GoogleMaps enables me to enter vague place names and it’ll always pinpoint what I’m looking for. Not only does it locate every road I need in a handy zoomable interface, but detailed satellite photography allows me to check for landmarks along the way. Since GoogleMaps pulls its images directly from government satellite data, they can get pretty detailed in some areas. For some reason, the US government took a particular interest in my upstate New York town, and possesses satellite maps that are detailed enough to show how many cars are in my driveway. For some reason, there’s almost no detail whatsoever on a town like Woodstock, NY. I’d think that Big Brother would want to keep an extra close eye on such a free-thinking location, epicenter of the biggest insurgence of the rock ‘n’ roll menace known to man… so it makes me wonder what, exactly, makes our town so scrutable. With modern technology, however, no tag sale escapes my grasp.

Usually, it’s a leisurely pursuit, punctuated by lots of U-turns in cul-de-sacs and iced coffees in the front seat, taking pleasure in small and coincidental finds. Last week, I found an old Game Boy in mostly-working condition that I plan on refurbishing or destroying entirely and sticking in the chest of a robot, and a heavy armload of 78s for a quarter apiece (which happened to be at the house of the first person who ever came out to me in high school). I’ve never encountered any signs of competition or avarice… until yesterday morning.

He drove a little red car, which he left idling roadside while be browsed the wares at the tag sale. That environmental inconsiderateness should have been the first indication that he wasn’t a very nice man, but the fact that he tried to race me to a tall, pink armchair I was looking at, and sat down in it while I was inspecting the fabric, compounded it. The game was on. Once I decided to let him have the armchair to himself, I moved over to a box of LPs, hoping to find something listenable. Unfortunately, he honed in on me again and decided to sing loudly into my ear as he was browsing the next box of LPs over, and then stick his sweaty bald head under my armpit as I was flipping through the box I had claimed, still singing offkey. Clearly, I had met my match, my patience versus his passive-aggressiveness, and my mood was soured by the audacity of the invasion, so I left without purchasing anything, while he loudly gloated about his collection of ten thousand records to whoever happened to be around. Which I hope fall on him, ‘cause those things are heavy.

A bit later on, that negative encounter was negated as my mom and I were sitting in the car, determining our next move. Coming towards us was a truck with a table strapped to the top of it, upside-down, clearly piloted by a happy customer from one of the tag sales further up the road. As he drew closer, it was apparent that the table was not in fact a typical dining table, but a foosball table, and unable to restrain ourselves (despite our own desire for such an artifact), we cheered for his find and gave him a thumbs up as he passed, which he gleefully returned.

It’s not only the killer finds, which for me included a wooden sewing kit table that blossoms open to reveal a myriad of hidden compartments, and a vintage cardboard record holder, but it’s the encounters and the experience. We were schooled by an autistic teenager, wildly enthusiastic about his music, about when punk music REALLY started (though I chose not to buy his unwanted Vanilla Ice CDs), and we found an out-of-the-way barbecue restaurant that we’ll have to return to when the thought of barbecue in the hot sun isn’t immediately nauseating.

Next weekend, I’ll be in NYC covering the Big Apple Comic Con and the MOCCA Art Festival, so stay tuned!