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My First Record Player and Other Stories by Alan Haber Part Three: Sweet Baby Mood Ring If commitment were a mood ring, then my color, around about 35 years ago (yes, I am, and I feel it, too), would have been deep red. Used to my practice of buying new albums by my favorite artists on the day of release (a practice which continues today, kinda sorta), my father drove me to Mays department store in Massapequa, on Long Island, kind of the K-Mart of its day, but without the K. And the Mart, come to think of it. The record department manager probably had my DNA filed in his Repeat-Customers-without-cars file. I usually made my way to the store by bike, riding my one-speed Royce-Union number one tortuous pedal at a time. The ride was long, probably over half an hour, and fraught with its own version of a brick wall: In order to cross the main drag that ran in front of the store, a mad record collector had to get his bike over the big fence that ran along the side of the road. That essentially meant throwing it over the fence, which for my scrawny frame was a feat and a half (the bike, but not me, could take it, let me tell you; that thing was made for the long haul). So, over the fence my bike would every so often go. After picking up my latest record score, I would have to repeat the whole travel process again, albeit in reverse, and, let me tell you, you’ve haven’t experienced commitment until you’ve tossed your bike over a fence while holding on to a vinyl record album. Upon its release in 1970, James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James was designated as a must-purchase, and so, getting an advance on my allowance (or possibly a handout from my music-loving father) and a ride to Mays, I snagged that record, not having to ride my bike that day, which was a blessing, let me tell you. The cover shot, an up close and personal snap of the artist, seemed to jump out at me. I couldn’t wait to get the record home and on to my turntable. We only lived 10 minutes or so by car from Mays, so the ride home was short and sweet. I ran upstairs to my room, broke the shrink wrap, and plunked the vinyl onto the plate. I placed the tone arm gingerly on the platter and was greeted by every record freak’s worst vinyl nightmare: the sound of skipping, over and over and over again. The tone arm seemed to jump in the air. I moved the needle to various parts of both sides of the record, and, let me tell you, if that record was a slime ball skipping bail, he would have been in dead-center Greenland by then. Oh, what to do? Simple. “Dad, oh Dad of mine, could you please take me back to Mays? My James Taylor album skips.” No problem. The replacement? A carbon copy of the first. I named it Skipper, Jr. “Oh, Dad of the Year of mine, what do you say we take a father-son ride to Mays so I can return my second copy of Fire and Rain?” “Well...okay.” Well, what they say is true. Third skip’s the charm. Copy number three: Skipper III and warped. Bonus annoyance! "Oh Dad, oh Dad of mine, better than any other Dad out there, would you please take me to Mays so I can-" Nope, not this time. I really didn't expect him to give in again. It was up to me, and my one-speed bike. We somehow made it up there, through the neighborhoods between my house and the House of Mays. We tossed our bike over the fence. We returned the record--again. We rode home. Again. We got stuck with another skip de force. We understood that drastic measures needed to be taken. But first we called Mays and spoke to someone who was working in the record department. He said that he'd heard that the first pressing of the album was messed up. He suggested I wait until the second pressing. I never found out if he was right. I suspect he was wrong. Nevertheless, I was the proud owner of a fourth-generation slab of useless vinyl. Unless... I remembered hearing that some kid had taped a penny onto his tone arm so he could play a record of his that skipped. Sounded like a plan. I taped a penny onto the hot spot, lowered the needle onto the record, and made matters worse. The tone arm was now too heavy. Serves me right for listening to tone arm gossip. Then, I had an epiphany. What if I applied just a bit of pressure to the tone arm when the needle hit each skip? Would I be able to "rub out" the offending moments? Sounded like a job for a surgeon--luckily, Dr. Haber was on call! I proceeded to apply just the tiniest bit of pressure to each skip, and, voila! Now there were more scratches than any record had a right to have, but there was no more skipping. Hurray for me! Thankfully, my cheapie Symphonic stereo (the model whose turntable folded out and whose speakers were attached) would have none of this nonsense--I also used it to determine, once and for all, if Paul was dead. He wasn't, but now, thanks to my no-nonsense surgery skills, not to mention putting the speed control in neutral to play Beatles records backwards, the Symphonic was in no shape to play rock 'n' roll records. So I started in on my father, angling for a new stereo system, which was soon to come into my life... To be continued… May 1, 2005 |
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alan haber's pure pop
(c) 2004 Alan Haber |
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