“My earliest vinyl memory is pulling the three volume Johnny Cash and the Tennessee Two Original Golden Hits set from the back of my Grandparent’s wooden console. One cover was white, one black and one blue, each with a different picture of Cash. Too young to read, I asked my Grandpa who it was, and he said, “That’s the man in black.” A year or so later, he passed and the records went into a box in my Grandmother’s basement.”
“I’m not a purist when it comes to formats or a collector by nature, but I do appreciate vinyl as an aesthetic, sonic and literary medium. At different times in life, each element made a profound impact on me. In the beginning, it was that picture of Johnny Cash.
A half dozen years later, punk records turned my early aesthetic intrigue into a sonic pursuit. The Midwest post-punk scene was in full tilt with all of its sub-genres and I started catching rides up to Atomic Records on E Locust St. They had it all, including copies of Milk, a music zine that along with the Shepherd Express largely sparked my early interest in music journalism. I bought a lot of records in those days, but I specifically remember grabbing a copy of the Hot Water Music “Alachua” 7” with the die-cut logo sleeve and Fugazi’s Red Medicine at Atomic.
After high school, I ended up in Montana on a hiatus from college. I spent the better part of a year waist deep in the river trying to fly fish and elbow deep in the bargain bins at Rockin Rudy’s on Higgins St. I was looking for Mississippi Sheiks, Blind Willie McTell, Earl Scruggs, Mance Lipscomb—the stuff that either hadn’t made a direct jump to CD or you could find for way less in a used record bin.