If you happen to see him on the street, please take a moment and drop a coin of pity in the amateur musicologist’s cap. You know who he is, maybe met him at a party where he spun his groovy platters. You might remember one of his college radio playlists, like the one that consisted entirely of thirty minute gong solos. Or perhaps you were there for his room-clearing “Get Your Gamelan” mix.
He’s always on the lookout for novelty, whether it’s vinyl treasure locked away behind glass cabinets in obscure record stores, or it’s water-warped cassette tapes in the bargain bin at the local Shop ‘n Save. You might think that his standards are rather weak, that he’s not at all picky. You might even agree with his father, and say that the boy’s not really interested in music, that he just wants to be different. But you’d only say that if you weren’t listening. You don’t hear the patterns that he hears, the beauty in the discordant caterwauls (from his favorite recording of Greek funeral music).
So what if everyone runs out the room when he says, “Listen to this.” He’s not here to impress you; he’s here to document the dying sounds of our sacred heritage, as well as the fading tunes of our profane species. He’s here to save the world – or, at least, the world that sings, however dissonantly. Play for him something by, say, Springsteen or even Ghostland Observatory, something that’s well-known, that you’re likely to hear in a coffee shop, or blasted from a car stereo, and he’ll say, “Yes, that’s nice, but you can hear that everywhere. It’s nice, but it’s nothing special. Now, you want to hear something really fucking great? Let me play for you this compilation of Indonesian polka. It’s two hours long, but I can guarantee that you’ve never heard anything like it. It’ll blow your freaking mind.” Unfortunately, the room is usually empty before the needle drops.
Lately, though, his hobby has taken on a manic quality, and it’s begun to alienate him from his friends, co-workers, casual acquaintances, random people on the street, and even his wife. No one knows exactly when it started, but it became really noticeable around the time that he lost his Folkways LP of a capella yodeling. “Adam, what have you done,” she screamed after coming home to a house upturned. Papers were everywhere, shelves were collapsed on the ground, pillows were emptied of feathers. And the whole scene was set to the ear-shattering volume of bagpipes. “It’ll be okay,” he said in a calm yet elevated tone, “I’ll find it, don’t worry.” “No, sweetheart, listen,” she tried to match his calmness, but found it futile with the Scottish Highlands in her head, and so shouted even louder, “Will you turn that shit down.” Luckily for both of them, the record came to a stop of its own volition.
“Sweetie, come her, we have to talk.”
“You see, I think the thing is that I must have hidden it in case of a burglary. It’s a very rare LP, and who doesn’t love a good yodel…”
“Adam, sit.”
“Yes, what is it dear?” He was chastened by her firmness. Clearly, she had something serious in mind. But what could take precedence over music?
“I love you dearly, Adam, but this thing, this obsession of yours, it’s starting to wear me down. I mean, in the beginning it was cute and quirky. The way you’d get all excited when you found a new collection of dulcimer music. Or the time we flew all the way to Hawaii just to pick up that rare album of volcano songs.”
“Ah, yes, the ‘Black Sands Opera.’ I think I still have that copy in storage.”
“And we didn’t even stay the night.”
“Well, there was the Cleveland Record Convention the next day.”
“And now I see that I should have put my foot down then. Or at least been more firm when you hocked my wedding dress to buy that box of Allan Sherman archival tapes.”
“It was Alan Lomax. But I got the dress back, didn’t I? I mean, when I saw how much it meant to you…” He looked genuinely ashamed, though perhaps he was feeling the effects of the wound she’d left that night in his shoulder.
“Adam, dear, I can’t stand it any longer. If I hear another klezmer coming on, I think I might become homicidal. Listen, I’ve been thinking about this for awhile, and I think—I mean, I feel I have to get away.”
“What are you saying, Sarah? I don’t understand. You’re just upset. Why don’t I put on some soothing Tibetan chants, and then we’ll…”
“No, Adam, no more chanting, or yodeling, or finger pickin’, or gonging, or scratchy warbling. It’s not cute anymore. And it’s not fun. There’s more to life than music, Adam.” She reached up and embraced him, kissing him on each ear. “And when you’re ready, maybe we can talk about those other things, and maybe for once you can listen to me, without bagpipes or dulcimers or bent fiddles. Goodbye, my love.”
She was gone the next day. Whether any of what she said got through to him, he nonetheless failed to find comfort in any of his 78s. Not even the discovery of his lost yodeling LP could cheer him up – though, the fact that he found it warped in the back of his trunk might have had something to do with that. Today, he is a bachelor; he’s lost—perhaps temporarily, but it’s hard to say—his listening companion. So if you see him sitting disconsolate on a park bench, take pity on him. Pull his headphones aside and tell him in a gentle voice, “There’s more to life than music, you know….but not much more.”