A shame about the period racial stereotyping though.
Hat tip to Cartoon Brew.
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This still young love affair with vinyl LPs has worked to introduce me to many musicians I had previously neglected.
Ornette Coleman. I can only shake my head in wonder.
Today is his 79th birthday. Tune in to WKCR as they celebrate with a day full of Coleman's beautiful sounds.
That first morning, I woke and immediately began to worry. How would I know what to wear? What if there were train delays? What if there had been some horrible catastrophe requiring that I stay away from Manhattan?
I was having an anxiety attack. It'll be okay, it'll be okay, it'll be okay. It had been some time since I'd had to talk to myself like this. Finally, I climbed out of bed and walked into the living room where my fears were confirmed. The television was gone for good and in its place stood my new Polycrystal equipment rack—a generous gift from my…
I have a column in today’s Slate, delving more deeply into the Monk at Town Hall concert that I’ve covered in this blog—and the whole concept, and risk, of jazz tributes.
My new Rega P3-24 sits atop a Polycrystal equipment rack given to me by Jonathan Scull. Radiohead's Kid A never sounded so good.
I had made room for vinyl LPs on my small bookshelf. It worked out alright, except that the shelf only went ten inches deep, leaving a good two inches of my poor, homeless LPs hanging off into open space. I could not continue to subject them to this sort of abuse. They would need a proper home, and soon.
I had made room for LPs on my tall bookshelf, carefully placing vinyl records along the cheap chipboard until the shelf bowed in the center and threatened to collapse. I didn't like this very much at all. I spent days away from home fearing that the shelf would give way. I'd come home from a long day in the office to find The Byrds and Henry Fiol, Herbie Hancock and Sam Beam, all in a jumbled mess of vinyl and plastic and wood and carpet. Yet, more LPs would soon arrive.
When my LP collection grew larger than space allowed for them on the couch, I started stacking records up against my short stools. A stack of a dozen or so LPs soon became a stack of three or four dozen LPs; soon became impossible to move and stretched from the left side of one stool all the way to the right side of the opposite stool. I had the Pulaski Skyway of vinyl LPs arcing through my small apartment.
Just to be clear: I never felt imprisoned, or controlled, by my television. We had enjoyed a harmless, casual relationship. My television never told me what to do, never told me who to associate with; my television never judged me, never questioned my motives; my television gave me my space when I needed it. It had been a good television, for the most part. Sure, sometimes it could be obtuse or aloof with its poor reception; sometimes it seemed like it didn't want me to watch the Mets game on Saturday afternoons. But, all in all, I liked television. I still do. It's just that I…