These Things Happen

 

It was another cold, misty summer day in the coastal town of Lincoln City, Oregon.  I had recently turned twenty and I was feeling lost.  I was back in my small home town after dropping out of college.  My life was a mess.  I was trying to recover from a poorly done and ill-conceived double nephrectomy during the spring and my mom was struggling through kidney dialysis three days a week at clinic about an hour away and her condition was worsening.  I was working, but only minimal daytime hours.

I was lost.  Numb.  Listless.  Directionless.  So, what did I do?  I finished work and drove south to the lone record store in town.  Driftwood Mac.  Mike had been running the store for several years by that point, but I don’t think anyone knew how it survived.  I’m glad he persevered as long as he did.  It was a home of sorts.  Music and the records and CDs that contained that music were my comfort.  I loved the artwork, the smell, the feel, the sounds, and the information.  Mike was busy painting the walls of the shop.  He did this often, as well as rearranging the display racks.  The shop was rarely in the same position as the previous visit.  It never took long, before the old unchanging inventory would reveal itself.  Mike had a vast collection of 60s psychedelic band H.P. Lovecraft, as well as a strangely prolific stock of 80s American punk label SST’s discography, as well as imports from the arty UK label 4AD Records.  That’s what was so strange about his inventory is that it catered to a very small niche of music fans.  One might think that he would’ve stocked the current top 40 style artists and would’ve plastered his walls and displays with ephemera dedicated to the hit makers.  However he managed to survive, he did, and I am thankful. 

 

On that particular day, he slipped a CD into my hand, as I perused his strong supply of Dinosaur Jr. colored vinyl.  The CD was a record label compilation.  It had a very simple design.  White with an aqua flavored green font and picture.  It was named Glass Arcade and the record label was Sarah Records.  He had done this to me before.  He had given me a Flying Nun Records compilation named In Love with These Times that blew my mind!  Even at that point, a couple of years later, I was still learning new to me artists by referencing that CD.  I don’t remember if I purchased this recommendation, or if he gave it to me.  He simply told me that I would like it.  By the time I returned to my childhood room, the mist had become so thick and heavy outside that everything was soaked and it was difficult to see.  I put this unassuming CD into my player and shuffled stuff around my room, opened the window blinds and the window allowing the cool damp air into my bedroom.  The dimming light of the evening was shrouded by heavy clouds, yet a crack of sunlight emitted a haunting golden glow from the west horizon.   I laid back onto my bed and let the sound of The Field Mice’s “Holland Street” envelop me.

 

Glass Arcade included no dates, only a couple of murky green photographs, and the band names of song titles for the sixteen songs.  I did not know of any of these artists, or songs, but damn the first few songs not only felt like they fit perfectly together, but also fit the gloomy weather.  This was my definition of rainy day music.  This music was reflective, thoughtful, and quietly inventive.  I absolutely loved it!  

What was this?  This music was a timeless collection of songs from an alternate universe, where introspection is valued and introverts are the most important target audience.  I listened intently as every song played, and then began the disc again and then again.  I immediately began planning mixtapes to make that included a lot of these songs paired with similar things I had discovered in the few years leading up to this moment.  Some of those early Creation Records bands, some of the 4AD artists like the Cocteau Twins, and my favorite songs by The Go-Betweens.  I felt inspired by this mysterious music.

 

It would be a couple years before I learned that the occasional Sarah Records release that I would purchase were actually new and that this music was currently being made.  I hadn’t been sure if these were artifacts from another period of time.  I felt like I had been pretty knowledgeable about music, yet this entire Sarah thing had alluded me.

I’m currently reading These Things Happen: The Sarah Records Story by author Jane Duffus (https://www.janeduffus.com/sarah-records).  I’ve had the book for about a year and a half, but am just now getting to it, and I am reading its finely detailed account of the label and the co-conspirators involved incredibly slowly.  It’s a well written book and completely thorough, immersive and enjoyable (for Sarah Records fans especially).  I am savoring it.  Not only am I a huge fan of the label and most of the artists who recorded for them, but I am a huge fan of the inspiration that this fandom provided me. 

It was that punk rock thing.  The Do It Yourself thing that was cool.  Not the DIY corporate sloganeering that defined home makeover design media in the early 00s, but the make the shit you like – anyone can do it idea that Punk rock first brought about.  Don’t like what you hear on the radio, then make your own music.  The music of Sarah and the way the label tried to go about things by being fair to their artists and fans by trying to avoid the sexist greed and depravity of the rock-n-roll institution was not just noteworthy, but admirable.  Sarah, along with many small indie labels such as K, Slumberland, Pop Narcotic, SpinArt, Teen-Beat, Simple Machines, and Independent Project Records, helped me feel a part of a community.  I’ve never been a scenester.  I have always been reluctant to fall in with a particular insular music scene.  Yet with artists, labels, and mail order distributers all over the western world introducing me to terrific music, it felt like my world was expanding and that somehow I was part of it.  No, I wasn’t making music, but I was helping spread the word and supporting those who did.  It was rewarding and exciting!  I was corresponding with people all across the globe on a very personal level, instead of just memorizing their names from record sleeves as I listened to their music.  Nearly every day I was receiving 7” singles, demo tapes, letters, or postcards in the mail.  This was what inspired me to start writing and to (mistakenly) believe that my voice was valid.  Even though my world was growing through this indie music stuff, it also felt smaller.  Suddenly, I fely=t important.  Everything was not so daunting.  It helped me realize that there are lost souls everywhere and we can bond over our shared sensibilities.  It wasn’t long after Mike introduced me to the Glass Arcade compilation that the idea of This Wreckage was born.   Who would’ve thought I’d be still trying to make it interesting 34 years later?  

Whatever the case, reading about how immersive the Sarah devotees were back when the label was active (1987-1995), reminded me to go back and listen to my introduction and how it made me feel then.  It still inspires me as much as the music gives me those rainy day vibes.  Yes, there’s a lot of nostalgia there, as I miss the idealism and the innocence of my own youth.  It makes me wonder if it’s not just me losing that fire with age, or if we as a whole have.  I’m savoring the book because I do want those feelings back and listening to these old songs helps. 

 

The Other Side of the Fence

 

I’ll never forget, years ago, one time, my long-time friend Wil and I were in a café one morning, during a work break.  We were hanging out.  He had ordered a deli sandwich and I was too cheap to do so, so I just sat across the table and fidgeted.  He took a massive bite from the sandwich, and was kind of struggling to take it in.  After he gained control of it, but still had a mouth full, he asked “How do normal people eat these?”  Of course, we both laughed and have added it to our ongoing we are monsters chronicles (hint: he and I are the Monsters).  At any rate, I find myself asking that type of question a lot.  For example, I’ve always wondered how ‘normal’ people consume new music.  I have a seriously unhealthy need for new music.  There are people who take it much much further, but it doesn’t change the fact that I still think about these things.  When I hear a new song, I have to own it.  I do believe in trying to pay for the joy the artist(s) is/are providing me in a small gesture of support.  In addition to owning a copy of the song, I generally have to investigate further.  Is there earlier material?  An album? A hard to find split vinyl single? 

What has it got me?  I have CDs and records in boxes all over my apartment that I have lugged around for several moves, stubbed my toes on multiple times, and at one time, a serious credit card debt!  I want to know what a healthy relationship to music is!  When I was a poor college student living in downtown Seattle in 1992, I remember spending my last $10 on a ticket to see Bob Mould’s band Sugar in place of saving it for the groceries I needed for the next week or so.  Did the same thing a few weeks later when I spotted the unexpected UK CD single for The Sundays’ “Goodbye” in a record shop window.  I was so stoked that they had new music coming out that I couldn’t stop thinking about it until the shop opened the next day.  Luckily, it hasn’t got me jail time, though at the time, a smash and grab seemed a possibility.

I was probably born with some sort of specific addictive thing.  I find myself being especially drawn into things through others’ enthusiasm.  When I was a little kid, my friend Vinton, introduced me to comic books.  He had a serious love of these things, and has continued on as an adult – getting into the industry through his art!  Once he hooked me, I found myself going to the local bookstore (the Book End) every week on comic book delivery day to get my favorite titles.  It wasn’t until Marvel started doing crossover stories like Secret Wars, where one had to buy all the comics to get the full story, that I had to bow out due to the limitations of my allowance and patience.  However, I almost immediately filled the comic collecting void with record collecting once I got my first paying job at 14.

Don’t get me wrong, my love of/obsession for music has been a huge positive for my life.  I have had amazing adventures going to see live music that I likely wouldn’t have experienced otherwise, met lots of great and interesting people, or, in other words, despite the isolating nature of listening to music, my love and need for it has pulled me out of my shell.  Heck, I even have a social media friend from Australia (hi Alex!) who I met through MySpace due to our shared love of the Go-Betweens!  There’s also Chris, a pen pal of 30 years who contacted me initially because she and her husband saw my collection in my old bedroom when they toured my childhood family home when it was put up for sale.  Music has educated me, or led me to learn about things, given me incredible highs, and is tied with almost any memory I can conjure.  Still there’s a part of me that wants to give it up.  If I hear a new song that I like, I kind of wish I could be content to enjoy it when I might happen to encounter it again, or look it up on YouTube or Spotify and make a playlist.  I have been trying to ween myself of the need to be a completist.  Just because I love a new song by so and so, does not mean I have to own every album or every single they ever released!  Perhaps it’s that I have a need/desire to not have stuff.  I like having as few possessions as possible.  Things make me feel trapped, and yet I have all of things heavy boxes of records everywhere!  What the hell?!  When I start feeling especially unhealthy, I tend to start thinning things down as an end of life necessity, once I begin to realize how meaningless my prized Independent Project Records’ Archive Series limited edition 10” records would be for whoever is lucky enough to clean up after me.

I guess it’s who I am.  Just the other day, I was driving in to downtown Portland listening to a random mixed CD made up of new songs that I’ve procured from listening to several stellar shows on streaming station DKFM (decayfm.com) such as Krissy Vanderwoude’s Drowned in a Sea of Sound, Paul Lopez’s The Shoegaze Collective, and especially Amber Crain’s When the Sun Hits.  My mind drifted through several questions, one of which is why did I select these chosen few songs of the many amazing tracks they share?  What is it that draws me in?  Songs take their time cramming their way into my thick skull these days, plus I can honestly say that the vast majority of what I hear is familiar – stuff that reminds me of music already in my possession.  So what is it?  What is the appeal?  I don’t know!  I just know that when I hear certain things, and those things evolve over time, that I get so excited and inspired.  Depending on the mood of the song, my mind electrifies and wants to be creative, wants to analyze, wants to experience genuine emotions.  Perhaps that’s the key.  Music wakes my mind up from the day to day regression it seems to be going through with the daily grind.  I remember a couple of years ago the time Amber Crain played on her show Weathering’s “Changing Colors.”  Yes, I fed off of the super power chords, but it was the vocals, the words, the phrasing and the voice all combined to make me a bit overwhelmed with emotion.  The song yanked out all kinds of stored up feelings that have built up over time – the kind that are difficult to explain or even understand.  This happened again within the last few week’s with the song “Ceiling Lines” by the Real Sea, when Krissy played it on her show.  Yes, I love the music.  The dissonant guitars of the intro lay down a familiar and comfortable pathway for my ears, but Sharon Mok’s voice is all kinds of amazing!  Just hearing that song puts a giant lump in my throat.  I suppose that’s it.  New music makes me feel alive!  I guess the need to search for it comes from the need to feel.  Seems like I’m stuck with it.  Now if only I can give up this senseless need to ramble on endlessly about nothing.