Thinking I lost an unhealthy amount of old images and folders of some life-affirming sessions was somewhat of a mind fuck. While it is rough on the brain. Coming to the conclusion that most things in life are temporary kept me from jumping from the proverbial bridge. When many, or most of the lost sessions, appeared on an old hard drive. There was definitely reason for celebration.
However when an image from a trip to Philadelphia, one I have no memory of taking. The joy was overwhelming. Taken in 2016. This image properly documents my obsession with music and my need to visit, at the very least, one record store per city I’ve visited. That includes, but doesn’t limit to cities suck as close as DC, Baltimore, and Raleigh, and as far as London, Paris, Dublin, and Tokyo. Looking back, I wish I had the guts to doument each one, it’s shoppers, employees and owners. That and bring a bag of records home with me would be great. Though I don’t recall what record store this is, I love the picture.
During my first days in Seattle I found myself in a small record shop talking to a native New Yorker who did time on the early New York Hardcore scene. He pointed himself out in a Live DVD of the first Bad Brains show at CBGB’s. Later on that week I struck up a conversation with another employee who used to volunteer at the legendary Gilman St. Project. Just last week I was pulling records out of the bin when I learned that the clerk behind the counter was also originally from New York City and worked at a record store just a few blocks from the one off St. Marks St. where I was working nights.
No more than four, maybe five years old. Completely freaked out by the cover art of records like Leon Russell’s “Stop All That Jazz” Frank Zappa’s “200 Motels” or Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here”. Album covers that told stories I might not be quite ready to read. One’s that might have me checking the closet or under the bed that night. A few years later, as my ear for music began to form. My Dad would sit me down and play Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton’s Blues Breakers, and for me, the most painful torture a nine year old can suffer, Frank Zappa’s 79′ release “Joe’s Garage.” Years later though, many of the records and artists my parents introduced me to reside in my own record collection. Artists such as Frank Zappa, Hendrix and especially Tom Waits get countless play on the turntable and all my other modes of music enjoyment. I pick up just about every Leon Russell and Frank Zappa I see and being drawn to record based on it’s cover art remains crucial to many of my crate digging adventures. Still, I can recall sitting in my pajamas among those piles of records, How each cover either told a story or inspired me to create one,
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