Tattered Byrds
written by: Richard Korst
On a crisp Sunday morning in May, I arose with a sense of anticipation and promise. I showered, charged my phone, printed my list, and headed out to the local union hall. Upon entering, I was immediately overwhelmed by a strong, pungent odor; whose fragrance, if sold by Bath and Body Works would be aptly labeled; “Stale Smoke and Musty Paper.”
The inattentive woman standing behind the entranceway card-table indifferently greeted me; “Welcome to the show,” she said, taking my three-dollar entry fee like a freak show carny, and pointed in the general direction of a small bowl filled with smashed Reese’s Cups and lime Jolly Ranchers, while passively encouraging me; “Help yourself.”
I grunted inaudibly, thanked her, and mumbled; “Maybe on the way out.”
This formality completed, my attention turned towards the hall itself, assessed the maze of tables; each burdened, bowed and jammed with the same boxes, maintained by the same vendors, besieged by the same group of scavengers engaged in this bi-monthly ritual.
I was part of a horde, an organism, searching for the Holy Grail; the elusive record album once owned, treasured, destroyed by scratches, mold, and time. Shoulder to shoulder, long fingers flitted through each box, creating a fluttering, wing-like sound. They remained hushed, focused, repulsed by the sheer volume of Frampton and Herb Alpert albums, fantasized about finding a mint David Bowie “Diamond Dogs” copy, and wondered whether a suitable Crosby Stills & Nash album could be secured for $4 instead of the listed $5 price.
How must Gordon Lightfoot or Maria Muldaur feel; their life’s work passed over, an annoyance to those seeking more valuable artifacts? Would Harry Chapin, Boz Scaggs or Neil Diamond sympathize with castaways on the Island of Misfit Toys, silently wishing to be appreciated, to be played?
Box upon box contained cardboard likenesses of Sinatra; ol’ blue eyes staring listlessly at passing suitors. Willie Nelson’s blue eyes still cried in the rain, imploring a second look. The “King;” Elvis appeared “Shook Up.” His fifty-seven recorded albums relegated to the twofer bins, the Vegas lights no longer flashing. Even the Beatles suffered as rumors of their album shortages, like Mark Twain’s demise, were greatly exaggerated; each seller maintaining their own private, overlooked stock.
The vendors were an odd lot. “Hippies” and “bangers” from the sixties and seventies sporting stringy, cheaply dyed locks honoring Robert Plant or Slash, stood resolutely behind their tables regaling stories of concerts attended and conversations held with the likes of Jerry Garcia, Gene Simmons, or Mick Jagger.
Others were “first timers;” quietly perched behind their meager boxes of tattered Byrds, Mama’s and Papa’s, Dave Clark Five and Kink’s records, speculating on the riches they would amass, only to leave late in the afternoon with their same inventory in tow. Collectively, the vendors rarely talked with the sorry lot searching their bins. A combination of self-aggrandization and the fact they possessed too many albums, filed in no particular order, induced shrugs, rather than direction when questions arose.
The buyers were a different breed; roughly 5% were younger women, exposing expensive, ornamental Japanese tattoos abutting crudely amateurish prison art, weighed down by multiple piercings, adorned with garish eye shadow only Cleopatra could appreciate. They sought heavy metal or punk, rarely spoke, and sparingly smiled.
The other 95%, men, hunched over boxes in Smegal-like fashion, searched for their “Precious,” attired in faded concert t-shirts. They were mostly balding, pasty skinned and paunchy with a singular and steadfast quest. They secured many treasures, tucked away in cheap complimentary bags, scurried like water-bugs from table to table and were saddened by the event’s eventual closing.
I was a different breed. My crusade was loftier, of a higher order; I hunted jazz albums and this accorded me a sense of arrogance and entitlement. I started to my left, worked my way to each vendor displaying a box titled Jazz or less fruitful bins titled Jazz, Blues, Funk, and Soul. I pored through the meager selection, trying my best to avoid eye rolling when sifting through boxes containing only Harry Belafonte, Dean Martin, or Jackie Gleason albums.
Periodically I would stumble across a Hank Mobley or Donald Byrd Blue Note selection, show my prowess by questioning whether it was a 1979 or ’83 pressing, and receive the vendor’s common response; “Do you want it or not?” Greatly offended, my answer that day, was not.
I’ll admit I’m a snob, but occasionally my perusing would pique the interest of other like-minded buyers. While inspecting a Horace Silver album, a bespectacled, beat-generation looking man offered a brief affirmation; “Great album, I have the ’68 pressing.” I nodded. “Do you play an instrument?” he asked nonchalantly. “You should join our group that meets on Saturdays to jam.”
I hadn’t played since college and, couldn’t produce a note today, with a gun to my head. It didn’t really matter, I didn’t respond; I had already melted into the crowd, avoiding any semblance of association.
I left the venue a couple of hours later, empty handed, and disgruntled by the passing of unproductive time. Upon departing, I pilfered a chalky, flattened peanut butter cup, fused to a lime candy, fulfilling my earlier promise.
When I got home my wife greeted me, unaware of my failure or disillusionment; “How did it go?” she asked.
Without eye contact, I paraphrased from “Young Frankenstein;” “No matter what I say, no matter how I plead or scream, do not let me attend the next show.”
Two months later, like a relapsed smoker, I woke up early. My wife remained asleep, forsaking her sole responsibility. I showered, printed my lists, charged my phone, and headed out for the hall ready to take my place standing glumly, shoulder to shoulder with my fellow addicts. The boxes and their contents remained the same, their locations shifted slightly. Einstein’s theory of insanity, not relativity reinforced, once more.
“Welcome to the show” she muttered as I handed her my crumpled bills and entered the hall.
- Tattered Byrds - November 20, 2024
