save me from myself

Yesterday, after a very pleasant lunch of sushi in Decatur, I thought it might be a good idea to drop by Decatur CD. They're local, I hear really good things about them, but I never seem to get by there while they're open. As we walked in, I said (ominously) to fairyhead "I'm not looking for anything, I just want to look. Besides, they're a cd store; it's not like they're called Decatur Vinyl, so I should be safe."

Well, there was a very prominently displayed, carefully selected bin of absolutely lovely shiny new virgin vinyl. It was so full, I had trouble flipping through them, so the ever helpful enabler fairy stepped in. It should have been a warning sign that we were standing less than three feet from the owner and his two assistants the entire time we were there, and yet they didn't once ask if we needed help; I suppose it was obvious we knew what we were doing, and maybe the spell would be broken if we were interrupted. So, after only a little encouragement, we left with:

The MC 5: Kick Out the Jams
T Rex: Electric Warrior
Brandi Carlile: The Story
The Dropkick Murphys: The Meanest of Times
White Stripes: Icky Thump

The first three were mine (I almost got a Stooges record, but held it in check), two of which are Rhino Vinyl, all three of which are 150 to 180 gram vinyl. fairyhead pretty easily talked me into getting the last two for her. As we were paying and leaving, the owner came over and said they were putting in another record rack, so they can expand their "carefully selected" section of records, and so it would be easier to flip through. Now I've got two local establishments to support my vinyl habit.

On to the music. It's no secret that I love my stereo more than I have ever loved any other inanimate object, but vinyl brings that to a new and special place. From the very first bass note on "Get It On" my scalp was tingling and I had goose bumps over half my body. People may mock, but Marc Bolan was the shit.

The MC 5 have always held a fond place in my heart, for without them giving free practice space and cheese sandwiches to Iggy Pop, there never would have been The Stooges, and without The Stooges there never would have been punk rock, but they're a force of nature in and of themselves. I firmly believe that between The MC 5 and Sly and the Family Stones they perfectly encapsulate all that is good and pure at that moment in time in which funk and rock were wildly ravaging one another. It's abandon, revolution and a hell of a good time all at once.

I think Mr. Sam Phillips (AKA T Bone Burnett) is one of the preeminent analog producers in the world, and a true master of his craft. "The Story" shows that he knows his niche, and knows it well. Brandi Carlile has a sweet, soulful honky tonk voice with steel under the sunshine, and a bit of ragged hoarseness where the seams are frayed from trying to contain it all. The title track has some of the best contemporary moments I've heard of a voice being pushed just past it's limit, but damn the torpedoes, the song's more important. It overwhelms me every time I hear it, and vinyl only makes that more immediate. If Sam Phillips didn't already have one corner of my heart, Brandi Carlile would be kicking off her boots and making herself at home. (As it is, she's hanging around the back steps.)

I haven't given the other records a listen yet; I'll let the enabler fairy be the first to crack that shrink wrap.

Fuck, I'm going to have to rework my music area. I can totally see I'm going to be spending a lot more time there.