Tag Archives: Philadelphia

That Warren Zevon Song

Photo by Easy Ed

After getting the call about my uncle’s death, I took a moment to cry a little and instinctively went through my music library looking for a song. The one that Warren Zevon wrote.

Early in the morning my sister and I drove south for about 90 minutes, picking up I-95 in New Jersey and eventually turning west. We pulled off the freeway and onto the surface streets of the Philadelphia neighborhood once touted as the Greater Northeast by the builders and realtors. Tract housing and endless shopping centers, built in the late ’50s into the early ’60s and sold mostly to first-born Americans. Fifty years later and the area is an example of urban zoning that went off the rails, with more dollar stores, used car lots, and fast food chains than one can imagine. For the most part the homes have fared pretty well as new families have moved in and the old ones either moved out or died off. Mom sold our house a couple of years after dad died in 1988, and then she moved up to New York and waited 29 years to join him.

We slowly rolled past the old house and took a good look, talked a bit about some of the neighbors, and shared a few memories. In 10 minutes we pulled into the old Jewish cemetery with thousands of headstones that stretch endlessly across the gently rolling acreage. It spans generations, with many born in the 1800s and others who’ve died within the past few days. Outside of a few laborers speaking Spanish in the distance, it was quiet and still. Many of our relatives are found in the small square plot of land that has two columns at the top of the path and a sign that announces it belongs to The Love Brothers. We have surmised that it was some sort of fraternal organization back in the ’20s that pooled its money to buy the space that accommodates maybe two hundred souls, give or take.

After unspeaking our silent greetings to the folks, we strolled the rows and visited our grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. There are no flowers or decorations in this cemetery, though we’ve paid for what they call perpetual care, but I think all that means is they put the memorial stones back in position and pick up the beer bottles and condoms after kids and vandals come to visit at night.

This was an unscheduled visit. Our mother’s brother died the day before at his home in Princeton, just two weeks until he would have turned 91, and we were going to take one last look at him before his cremation. We chose to couple that mission with this one, as it’s a trip that we don’t often take. The memories and love for our family resides in our hearts and minds, not in the stones chiseled with their names and dates of arrival and departure. At least that how it works for me.

Two hours later we met our cousins at the funeral home and my uncle was laying on a gurney, covered with a blanket. Since he would be cremated within the hour, there was no need for a fancy casket or the wax and cosmetics that are used at most viewings. He was a generous man with a big heart, and a very funny man as well. More bawdy jokes have passed through his lips to my ears than from anyone else I’ve ever known. He’s the last of a generation, the ones who bought into and lived the American Dream. School, military, job, families, houses, vacations, retirement. Shit … those days are fading for most of us.

One of my cousins read the obituary aloud to the dozen of us in the small room, and then we just casually talked about him and my aunt. In a few days some of us from New York will go back down to witness the burying of the ashes and have lunch with the cousins, and that’ll be it. After getting the call about his death, I took a moment to cry a little and instinctively went through my music library looking for a song. This is it, and if anybody wants to play it for me when I pass, I’d be much obliged.

 

This was originally published as an Easy Ed’s Broadside column on the website of No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music.

Many of my past columns, articles, and essays can be accessed here at my own site, therealeasyed.com. I also aggregate news and videos on both Flipboard and Facebook as The Real Easy Ed: Americana and Roots Music Daily. My Twitter handle is @therealeasyed and my email address is easyed@therealeasyed.com

Record Store Memories Revisited

rstoreIt’s the night before my column’s deadline, and instead of thinking about music and coming up with some snappy subject matter, I’m sitting in front of the television watching CNN for what’s become the daily Trump outrage. Today he called out the press after they caught him in another bucket of lies. There were more details about the fraud case for his make-believe “university,” he insulted Native Americans, a US Senator, women, and Mexican-Americans. So in other words, it was a pretty slow news day. Yawn.

The last time I got sidetracked by life and told my editor I had nothing for her, she yelled “No!” and suggested that at the very least I could always go back into my archives, find something of inspiration, and maybe rework it. So that’s where I went hunting, back to over seven years ago, when the hot topic on this site was the (still raging) argument of digital versus physical albums.

Since vinyl was still in the dead zone and streaming wasn’t yet happening, it was really a case of people defending the dreadful-sounding compact discs versus compressed downloads. I was one of a few who loved the ease of stuffing the equivalent of two thousand albums inside a little box that could fit into my shirt pocket, but I was also in mourning over the loss of not only record stores, but what became both a lifestyle and how I earned my living.

I grew up in Philadelphia, which was considered a “music town” due to its many musicians, clubs, radio stations, studios, record labels, and stores. My older sister and I watched American Bandstand every day after school, since it was broadcast live from 46th and Market Street. When I turned 12, I was caught up in the first wave of the British Invasion.

Living far out in the suburbs, I’d shop at places like Sears, Korvettes, and Woolworths after school. Every weekend, I traveled downtown and hit Jerry’s on Market (“All Albums $2.99”), Sam Goody’s, and Record Mart on Chestnut. And, between the adult bookstores and peep shows near 13th and Arch Streets, there was a store that sold “mystery bags,” which held five promo singles for a buck. I still have a few hundred of them stashed in the closet.

My strongest memory of those stores was standing happily, shoulder-to-shoulder, with other kids, flipping albums, and being enchanted by the artwork as the music blasted from huge speakers. I always came home carrying bags of new records, many of which I’d never heard of — I had been tipped over by the covers and liner notes. When I look back, these were the happiest times for a kid like me.

I literally stumbled into a career the last day of college — the job description was “go to record stores.” My new boss gave me the keys to a 1972 VW Beetle, a list of about five hundred stores from DC to New York, three-ring binders of catalogs, and boxes of promos, and he sent me off to sell.

I started with King James and Bruce Webb’s in the city, moved out to Bryn Mawr near the Main Point, to visit Plastic Fantastic, and Keller’s House of Music in Upper Darby. Al’s Record Spot and Levin’s Furniture in Kensington. Mel’s in South Philly. There was Speedy’s and Phantasmagoria in Allentown, the Renaissance in Bethlehem, Spruce Records in Scranton, and Central Music in Williamsport. There was Waxie Maxie, Kemp Mill, Discount Records, and Music Den. There was Eynon Drug Store, Gallery of Sound, and H. Royer Smith’s classical shop, where I scored Skip Spence’s Oar album, which they’d had sitting in the basement.

In the early 1980s, I got to run a store in Santa Monica that specialized in rare vinyl and I thought it was a dream job. But after a couple years, I went back out on the road.  I got to visit hundreds and hundreds of record stores all over the country. It was not a bad life at all, but one that ended nine years ago with the recession. And despite some record shops that still are holding tight, the whole thing is pretty much becoming just a memory. A couple weeks ago, I walked by Other Music in lower Manhattan as they were getting ready to turn out the lights for good. Last week came news that a Chicago store that’s been around for 50 years simply gave all of their inventory away for free.

For those stores that still have a heartbeat, I hope you can hang on as long as you can.

Last week over 39,000,000 songs were streamed in America. No flipping.

This post was originally published as an Easy Ed’s Broadside on the No Depression website.