On the Record

When I was 19, my one desire was for a record player. I don't know why I wanted one so badly; I just knew I wanted one, and that I would be somehow happier if I had one. I didn't have to wait too long for a record player, thankfully, and my aunt and uncle were more than willing to donate their old turntable to me, along with an old Technics receiver and some hefty wooden Ohm speakers. The amazing retroness of this Hi-Fi system was exactly what my muddled 19 year old self craved, and I couldn't wait to spin some vinyl and bask in the crackly, popply sound of "authenticity". Problem was, I didn't have any records.

So I did what any independent, self-assured 19 year old college student does when she wants something: I asked my parents for records. I knew we had a ton of them; when I was a kid, my favorite rainy-day activity was to put on a little Paul Simon or Joni Mitchell or The Smurf's All-Star Show (seriously, great album, and I remember every single song from that thing. And I better - I listened to it nearly every day from 1984 - 1988) and dance in the basement playroom. I recall a large, musty travelling trunk full of records, and the way their dry cardboard sleeves smelled when you opened that trunk after a few days. Musty, but warm; it's what I believe to be the smell of music.

My mom was less than forthcoming with the albums. Seems she was emotionally attached to her pressing of Hair, Hejira and The Hissing of Summer Lawns. I would be destined to purchase nearly every Joni Mitchell album on CD later in my life, but at the time I was just frustrated. I had the record player, not she, and I deserved those albums. My dad, being the type who is wistful only in his memory, was more than willing to donate to my cause. I remember walking out of his New Jersey rec room with nearly fifty pounds of vinyl-coated music.

I was surprised at the collection my dad had amassed. As a child, my married parents had consolidated their records, and so my innocent mind hadn't associated any particular artist with any particular parent. To be honest, most of my musical association was to my mother, as she was the one home with us during those rainy days when we spun records. Didn't matter if it was that hippie stuff by the Grateful Dead, or the jazzy stuff by Michael Jackson - it was all her, all the time, and our dad was basically a wallflowered participant occasionally able to join into our musical festivities. My dad was the suit-and-tie guy, the guy who we loved more than anything, and the guy we all wished would roller-skate around the basement with us to Diamonds on the Soles of her Shoes on wet Mondays. But Dad had to work, and we got to play. And that's how it goes as a child in a traditional family.


After the divorce, my parents didn't just split up marital assests like homes and children; they also had to split their record collections. I admit that it wasn't until I was older, and the divorce was years old, that I felt I was learning who my parents really were. Going through those records my Dad gave me, I realized how much his music was part of our childhood. HIS music. These were his records, before I was born, before he had met this part of his life, when he would blend his audible tastes with his first wife, and later extricate that taste back as a singular posession. It was his history, and therefore my history, told through song.

My father was more eclectic than I had given him credit for as a child. Where I had for years though of my mom as the carefree hippie, and my dad as the suited businessman, I now discovered he was the owner of all those Grateful Dead albums. And here is a Bob Dylan record, with Bob happily puffing away at a joint on the back cover! Dad had an original pressing of Pink Floyd's The Wall, with all its provocative album art; my Dad had the Psychadelic Furs album with that song Pretty in Pink that he would sing to us absent-mindedly. Dad's was the gentle Cat Stevens, the hard-driving Steve Miller Band, and a little pop with XTC, Elvis Costello, and Dire Straights. Dad was hip!

Album by album, I recalled childhood moments where a song carved a wrinkle in my brain, and left an indelible memory. The train-centric country songs such as Orange Blossom Special of the masterpiece album Will The Circle Be Unbroken was his, and I recognized this gift as the treasure it was. I knew I loved that song The Weight; it was fun to finally realize that it was my father who had bought an album by The Band sometime back in the 70's.

However, one dicovery was the most moving of all. I understood as I held it in my hands, that it was my father who had made the purchase of my beloved Paul Simon albums. I cannot begin to describe the movement in my heart when I placed Graceland on my record player, and let those gorgeous songs work their way back into my ears, into my heart, and into my soul once again. It was the first record I played on my new record player, and I think it was the first time I really heard those songs as a true adult. As a child, I danced to Paul Simon; my father had told me "He tells a story with his songs; listen now, really listen - he's telling a story."

It isn't just Paul Simon who tells a story, though. Personal taste in music is perhaps the most clear depiction of an individual's soul; seeing, touching, and of course listening to those records was like looking straight into the eyes of my father's soul. I was amazed that so much of my own soul looked right back at me. Our lives were on the record, pressed in the lines and released by a pin-thin needle, one song at a time.

"People say she's crazy, she's got diamonds on the soles of her shoes. Well, I guess that's one way to lose these walking blues - diamonds on the soles of her shoes."