HUMAN WRECKAGE

The Thrill of the Hunt

The Brick and Whiskey is a newish addition to Edmonton’s pub and live music scene. It has been around three or four years and found its legs, carved its niche, early on. The B&W is on Whyte Avenue but some distance from the hipster portion of the strip as it lies nestled in a tired strip mall beyond the Mill Creek Ravine. The décor is generic drinking establishment but the beer lines aren’t skunky and the reasonably priced food is a few notches above chain pub fare. Not an obvious venue for Heaven on Earth as it was for me for a couple of hours on Sunday afternoon.

Ann and I probably don’t need any more recorded music in the house, disks of vinyl or aluminum. There is plenty here already, enough to see us out. Then again, who does not want more of what they love? Moderation is for Methodists and Lutherans. The B&W Sunday hosted a record fair: buy, sell, trade. We turned up a few minutes after the event was underway. I found Ann a stool at the bar and then hunted down another one to squeeze in beside her, face to face with a faux brick pillar and six inches of forearm space. Ann ordered a spicy Caesar and an appetizer; I requested the first of two pints of Trad.

“How are we going to work this?”

“We’ll alternate,” I said. “Go in shifts.” How great is this, I thought, record crate diving in a pub with my best friend?

The only collectible I have actively though casually sought through the decades is the Rolling Stones’ debut release on Rolling Stones Records: the ‘Brown Sugar’ maxi-single. The B-side couples ‘Bitch’ with a live version of Chuck Berry’s ‘Let It Rock’ recorded during their 1970 European tour. We have all three songs in our Stones library of course, and versions uncountable, beyond the capability of a Lotus 1-2-3 spreadsheet, but not in that 45 format and configuration. The relic has become something of a personal fetish; I want one even if it’s unplayable. Actually, what I’m really seeking at the swap is far more sensuous and ethereal: I want to study the large format graphic design of the sleeves, smell the damp cardboard and the shag carpet dust of maple-paneled rumpus rooms, and then revel in the surprising 16mm montage flashbacks they provoke.

Partisans of a particular sports team and other more peculiar cultists comprehend the comfort derived from being surrounded by like-minded misguided souls. Lou Reed would’ve turned 77 last Saturday. He muttered about New York, “Ah, but remember the city is a funny place, something like a circus or a sewer.” When I croak ‘Coney Island Baby’ in the shower I substitute “world” for “city.” And so, the fellowship of strangers remains a reassuring lifeline to the rest of humanity even if the link is a mere used record album.

The fellow flipping through the bin next to me paused at Van Morrison’s Moondance. “I listened to this just this morning.”

I said, “‘And It Stoned Me.’ Was there ever a better opening track on any album anywhere? Great album.”

He said, “Astral Weeks is his best.” He showed me the sleeve to make his point.

“My favourite of his is Saint Dominic’s Preview,” I replied. “Title track, epic genius.”

A third fellow, younger than my fleeting companion and me, chimed in, “Is Saint Dominic’s Preview there?”

I said, “No, it’s not.” I wondered how any Van Morrison fan could not own an absolutely essential title in the Caledonia canon.

I excused myself and got back to work. I came across a Bobbie Gentry album in stereo and realized the kudzu gothic of ‘Ode to Billie Joe’ cried out for the enhancing ticks and pops that only a stylus can provide. I bought two more albums, ones we already have, ones I’ve paid for at least twice before. The upper corners of Big Hits (High Tide and Green Grass) had been chewed either by a rabbit, a cat or a mouse, possibly all three, but the photo album featuring the young Stones pasted inside the gatefold sleeve was still intact. The LP itself is mono, the glorious sound of my sister’s suitcase Fleetwood with the penny taped on the tone arm and the hi-fi Dad built from a kit and then installed in the dining room. And bless Rod Stewart’s cotton socks, I shelled out five dollars for Every Picture Tells a Story simply for the gatefold cover which I’d never seen before; his wry liner notes charmed me and my wallet.

The second best part about browsing and buying records is the subsequent post-coital languor. I don’t really know what that is because I was raised a Catholic boy but I imagine it’s got something to do with ashtrays and stomachs. Anyway, I love to examine and handle my haul before I get home and play it. I retook my stool, reintroduced myself to my beer and tagged Ann the way wrestlers do; her turn in the ring. I wished it was still legal to smoke in pubs.

I was contemplating Bobbie Gentry as Capitol presented her in 1967 (I was in grade one) in what could easily be misconstrued as a dirty and sinful way when Ann called my name. She beckoned me over with a Quicksilver Messenger Service semaphore sleeve, Happy Trails.

“Jim (Ann’s older brother) had this one. He played it constantly. I loved this album.”

“Buy it.”

“But it’s ten dollars.”

“I’ve got a ten. We may never find it again in such good condition. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard it. Get it.”

And so Ann did. We left shortly thereafter. We sat in our 12-year-old Honda CRV in the angled parking space waiting for the engine to warm in the extreme cold. There used to be a layer of insulation on the underside of the hood over the motor but neighbourhood squirrels have shredded it, fibreglassed their nests. We rolled down the side windows and lit cigarettes.

I said to Ann, “That was fun. Was it good for you?”

She said, “Yeah.”  

Copies of my latest novel The Garage Sailor are still available and ready to ship. Get aboard at Megeoff.com.