One of my more modern music faves has apparently announced she is through with performing. I liked Fiona Apple's last CD, probably because I must like the sound of self-torture. Anyway, the producer of two of the tracks is someone else I like, and I liked his arrangements. Also, I bought the CD about two weeks before my broadcast news career came to its conclusion, and the songs just fit my mood to a "T". But it begs another question. What is a middle-aged character like me doing listening to someone like Fiona Apple? There's an answer.
It all goes back to the end of my daily print journalism career, back in 1984. I just walked out (after two weeks notice) with no job. My upstairs neighbor ran a local record shop, part of a small regional chain -- the same chain I bought the Ornette Coleman record at, though in a different, and smaller, town. I was older than everybody, except my neighbor. I had focused on my career, to the extent that I bought very few records and mainly listened to my old college collection over and over again. Occasionally, while a newspaper hound, I'd get the odd movie to review when the regular reviewer had a conflict, so I'd see a free movie, hear a song in it I didn't know but liked, and bought the record, which I'd end up hating. Other than that, I knew nothing about the music scene (local commercial radio was then pretty much like now -- very commercial -- and I did not live in a town with an "alternative" station or get an NPR affiliate that wasn't all classical). I got an education just walking in the door the first day. At the register stood a local politico's daughter (whom I did not know), hair in a four-color mohawk, tats on both shoulders, at least six piercings in each earlobe, and wearing a some kind of tore-up tee shirt under a leather vest. She didn't notice me, because she was busy slamming a customer's record in a bag with the words "Seizure, dude!" She also looked like she was ready to rip somebody's head off. It turns out she had just been told for the millionth time she could not play Black Flag records in the store during operating hours. At the back desk filling out special orders (all had to be done by hand, pressing down the pen as hard as you could to get all four carbon copies to print through) was a slightly older employee. He had his hair in what we called a "shag" cut, was a musician, and hated the manager so passionately he refused to speak to me (the manager's uncool neighbor hire) for about two weeks. He was into ... I don't remember what he was into, actually. I think he played synth in several local bands, apparently hating them all. I think he liked Howard Jones and stuff like that, but he didn't communicate with me. Then there was assistant manager, a large black super friendly guy who knew all music and liked mostly soul and light jazz. I hid my old jazz tastes from him and everybody else, because I was afraid they'd think I was a nut (Plus, I held so-called "light jazz" in utter contempt -- another thing I wanted to hide from the assistant manager). The other employees were music hounds who were quitting in droves. They all hated the manager, who was fired shortly after that. Now I had no one on my side, and was held in such disdain by the staff that all the records I played in-store (we had to take turns changing whatever was on the turntable) were promptly removed with a loud scratching sound. ("You want to play Juice Newton? What are you?") The first CD's were about six months from being released -- it was all vinyl and cassettes then. The job was not boring to me, but Friday and Saturday nights were pure bedlam. Hordes of working-class youth poured into the only record store in town to buy the latest KISS ("Animalize"), Def Leppard, Dio, Ratt, and -- brace yourselves -- Hank Williams Jr. cassettes. The hardcore girl brought her friends over during the last hour before closing -- all to sneer at the kids buying music they also liked, but wouldn't admit. I was saved partly by a work ethic I learned in newspapers and retail (I come from a long line of retail managers), and because the new manager liked me. She was the best boss I ever had. Sympathetic, fair, and friendly -- but also a music-retail pro. She was from Athens, Georgia, and knew REM and others in that scene personally. (The hardcore girl knew Black Flag -- she'd house them when they came to play the Milestone Club in the nearest Big City). The synth guy's replacement was a true music snob, but who knew his stuff. He played bass in an actually good local band. His favorite band was The Smiths. His band didn't sound like them, though. The new manager loved alternative stuff, and played a lot of female singer songwriters that preceded Fiona Apple. I'm writing this while listening to The Deftones' latest release on AOL Listening Party. I like most of it. Another I've heard I liked is "BeHeMe" by a group I'll think of later (something to do with gardening).
So that's what a guy in his early 50's is doing listening to music people half his age are listening to. He remembers when going to work was fun.
(By the way, I screwed up something in the earlier post. Vinyl went in bins, cassettes went in racks. CD's went in two to a bin -- three wide didn't quite fit.)
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*The default userpic was an LJ feature. First names of fellow employees have been removed from my original post. A four-letter word is also newly garbled. The "gardening" band was named Annuals.
LJ orig.: 11/03/06
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