We're talking goals such as locating every Nirvana single or owning every Bob Dylan record. These are the sort of geeks who assume everyone knows the term "black metal" has nothing to do with Body Count or Living Colour.
I suspect some collectors hold deeply and truly the pursuit of one record above them all. I know I did.
As anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis may have noticed, I'm a rabid Dave Matthews Band fan. For me, the ultimate treasure is the highly rare vinyl edition of the group's 1998 album, Before These Crowded Streets.
This isn't the first time I have written about this pursuit.
However, it is the first time I write of ownership.
Oh, yes.
It gives me great, immense joy to say this: I own Before These Crowded Streets on vinyl.
It was a long road here.
I pursued it like a bloodhound following a scent.
Any trip to a record store came with a visit to its vinyl section. It was the same every time. The hopeful walk back to that section of the store. The cards in the vicinity in alphabetical order — Madonna, Massive Attack, Ian Matthews. When I'd get to "John Mayall's Blues Breakers," there was a crushing sigh of disappointment and a long, slow walk to another part of the store.
After the first five or six years, I would have settled for even a used copy.
A decade passed and I was no closer. On the 10th anniversary of its release, I was on a sailboat in the San Francisco Bay, telling a former co-worker about my reflective mood. It was a beautiful, sunny day as my teenage self listened to the record for the first of what has become countless times.
It's a sequence burned into my brain, from the short, 41-second opening track "Pantala Naga Pampa" to the hidden reprise of "The Last Stop" at the end of the record. They've been a home, a comfort, a joy, a place in the storm — everything a record you love should be.
Part of the record's story, too, is the legend of the elusive, unreleased 12th track known only as "MacHead."
As I related these sort of thoughts to the co-worker, he shot me an appropriately awkward series of glances, seeming sufficiently creeped out that I cared so much about any record.
Today marks a dozen years.
I assume most people are like my former co-worker and don't get it, but I think everyone has their quirks, their ticks, something that drives them. For me, it's amassing a great big pile of music I love.
The road to finally possessing my coveted prize was filled with plenty of inner debate, considering, reconsidering and evaluating the purchase's worth.
I'm filled with a sense of accomplishment and yet I've really done nothing other than plunk down some money for a wax-covered saucer in a cardboard sleeve and shrink wrap.
This took persistence, diligence, tenacity and a fair amount of withstanding the comments questioning my sanity, not to mention a bitter, unwarranted disappointment associated with the very sight of John Mayall's name.
Was it worth it? There is something bittersweet about its ownership. The fact that I have it still astonishes me. It's no longer out there, waiting for me to find it. It's right there.
One day, it will be displayed on my wall.
It's what I want, but that still seems like a silly place for an album to me.
Records are made for listening, not decoration.
They're not trophies.
They're not just part of an expansive playlist on iTunes.
They're not wasted bookshelf space for old people.
They are to be played and, if they're really good, celebrated and dissected.
They are an extension of who I am. When friends and family hear DMB songs on the radio, I get text messages saying someone thought of me.
When a friend hears news about the band, I get a message.
When saxophonist LeRoi Moore died a year and a half ago, people I knew expressed their sympathy for my loss. My loss? It was a sweet, touching sentiment, but all I ever really knew of the man was his music.
The only thing I can think of to do with such a record is to elevate it to royal status.
There so many albums in my great big pile of music, but the one I chased for a dozen years and so closely defines me deserves a special, framed place on a wall in my home.
In a manner respective of a monumental search, this record nerd's long-sought vinyl copy of "Before These Crowded Streets" deserves a monument all its own ...
It's crazy, I'm thinking
Just knowing that the world is round
And here I'm dancin' on the ground
Am I right side up or upside down?
Is this real or am I dreaming? ...
Comments