Vinyl Treasures #4 [transmission from... Tyler S]



I'd be callous to imply that the TDC transmissions page ever had direction by saying that its lost it, but I'd also be callous to imply every thing I've written in the past six months has been right-on and enrapturing of all of our readers. Like everyone else, I write about what I know and hold dear, though I aim to entertain and to a slightly lesser extent, please. One of the greatest responses any post I've written has received came from Vinyl Treasures #1: The Magic of Jesse Johnson. Those of you who've been with me for a while now know that Bobby Vandell, the drummer who I lampooned in that article, emailed me and a great interview came out of it.

The ironic thing about that article was the fact that Jesse Johnson is undeniably a relic of a time/fashion long gone, but he's not necessarily obscure. Millions of people know who The Time were, and his guitar playing was central to the band's place in history.

For some reason I'm scavenging to figure out, found-sound is becoming one of my favorite preoccupations. I've always been into the art of archiving. The only thing that's been suppressing my interest (other than the general impossibility of following in Alan Lomax's or Harry Smith's footsteps) is the lack of all the free time and transport I need to really root out the good stuff like certain people do. Plus, as neat as it can be to dig out audio cassettes of Russian kids singing Sesame Street songs, I'm not going to act like there's no better way to spend your free evenings. Talking to girls, maybe. One better use of time. The way I see it, though, the quest for found-sound is a win-win situation. You get to participate in something that's irredeemably dorky yet still fascinating in a voyeuristic way. You also may be reminded of how good you have it when you discover something so hilariously bad that it mortifies you to acknowledge that someone actually made this.

One decent record I found a few months ago was an original waxing of Arlene Semple playing at an elementary school called Grove St. in what seemed like the mid-1970's. I have not been able to find any information on this women whatsoever. See? This is vaguely interesting already.

One blog I found, thanks to a guy named Chris from New Orleans who was kind to email me for a reason which I'll touch upon momentarily (and you'll be thanking me for it), displays a level of dedication to the obscurest of the obscure that I can only aspire to:



An artist based in Chicago writes frequently about various found-sound articles he and his friends have dug up in thrift stores and similar places. I definitely recommend checking it out, no matter how interested you are in this found-sound crap I've been babbling about for the last 2 vertical feet of your computer monitor. A few of my personal favorites from their blog:

• Richard Simmons sings! "Don't Tell Me!" - Remember that spiel I wrote about Simmons' 1982 album Reach? Well, the guy from New Orleans wrote me and told me about the Cake and Polka blog, and directed me to this mp3 which can only be described as "mind-blowing." I wish I'd had this as a companion piece: LISTEN HERE.
• "No Drugs! No Way!" - a condescending anti-drug song that makes me want to hit the pipe. Devastatin' Dave's "Zip Zap Rap" operated in this vein as well, but at least that was moderately enjoyable. LISTEN HERE.
• The Egyptian Lover - "Girls". This really doesn't need an explanation. LISTEN HERE.

Here's my contribution to the pantheon for this week. As I mentioned, my record player isn't hooked up to my PC, so I could make any of the songs into MP3s, but you've probably heard most of these conveniently royalty-free ditties anyway. What matters here is context.

Clearly, Suburban Propane thought they were some hot shit. Evidently, propane was a pretty big deal in the late 1950's, when I imagine this piece of cross-promotion was released. (There was no date visible anywhere in the notes). Clearly, they believed that a good barbecuer is one who can do it to the sounds of an unnamed orchestra playing that classic American standard "In the Mood." My scanner patchworks greyscale backgrounds so here's what the label says.

"LP," whether is stands for Long-Playing Record or LP gas (Liquefied Petroleum gas; also known as bottle gas), is the symbol of a product that brings pleasure to young and old alike.

Yes, gramps, and your bottle gas brings pleasure to young in much different ways that it does for old, if you catch my drift. (If you don't, I was implying that kids be huffin' on that shit). This whole thing has got that 'swell,' post-war air of unease to it and I don't understand how the fascination over one relates to the other. "Hey Ma! We can light the grill by hooking it up to a bottle! AND we can fit up to 25 minutes of music onto one side of a record! Those commies are never gonna take us alive!"

That's about all I have to say. I've brought this up as a bit during my stand-up a few times. It's gotten laughs, but I think its had its season in the sun. We all know now that nothing says a delicious sirloin steak like "Auld Lang Syne." This post was awesome and not nerdy at all.