It was a raw September afternoon in York as Covid-19 restrictions began to ease. Scouting for a warm coffee shop my attention was drawn to a familiar face in the Shambles Market. And there she was, in the front of a jam packed cardboard box of vinyl records calling to me across the years, her impossibly big brown eyes pinning me momentarily to the spot.
But first, a short history lesson.
As a proud baby boomer born in the early fifties, my music buying activity began with “singles” (45rpm), followed in my late teens with “long playing” vinyl (33rpm) records. With the advances in technology over the next thirty years, I “progressed”, like many of my contemporaries, to cassette tapes, courtesy of the then revolutionary Sony Walkman, and then compact discs (CDs).
The bulk of my vinyl collection (did we refer to it as “vinyl” then?) was voraciously snaffled up by predatory dealers lurking at boot fairs on Sunday mornings. Selling a box full of classic sixties and seventies albums was as much a thrill for me (in retrospect, a short-sighted one) as it was to the wily buyer.
A single box, containing an eclectic range of rock, folk and classical titles, remained, consigned to a succession of lofts as we moved home three times. The only purchases I made for the next twenty years were CDs, and the turntable gathered dust before being discarded altogether.
I had succumbed to the prevailing mantra that CDs offered a cleaner, more precise and, therefore, satisfying, sound. Even the vinyl comeback in the early years of the new millennium failed to convince me to abandon this approach.
The reason was primarily a matter of cost. I was not in a position to pay £30 for a new 180g pressing of an album I had bought fifty years previously for thirty shillings (£1.50!). And then there was the outlay that would be required on a new turntable to consider.
But as vinyl collection became increasingly fashionable again, I found myself pawing through boxes in the growing number of independent record shops and market stalls, joining in the arcane and, to some tastes, boring, conversations among boomers like myself that accompanied the pursuit.
But the likelihood of my leaving with an LP under my arm remained a slim one.
Until our eyes met as dusk descended over the Shambles Market.
I think it’s time I revealed the identity of the person whose eyes so transfixed me and drove me to a fateful decision.
None other than Linda Ronstadt, not only the most beautiful, but also the most versatile (country rock, Hispanic ballads, American standards, opera, the list goes on) singer of her generation. I was unable to resist buying her eponymous album (readers lacking a soul might suggest that I would have been better just cutting up the outer sleeve and framing it).
It still took a lengthy sermon from the guy manning the stall in the market to cement my conversion. Jackson Browne’s For Everyman and Van Morrison’s Hard Nose the Highway , each at an affordable price, sealed the deal. Within a week I had introduced them to a new, attractive yet moderately priced turntable.
And then the fun started……with a twist.
Cost continued to be a major factor in my purchasing strategy. But there was an even more important criterion – I would not, with occasional exceptions, buy an album that post dated the time I had previously stopped collecting vinyl.
To date, I have bought a little over a hundred albums in the four years since my Yorkshire epiphany, some “new” but the majority second hand from independent stores, fairs and market stalls, online retailers and charity shops, ranging in price from £1.99 to £35, most in the lower price range. I have rejected others if they looked as if they were damaged. Very few have disappointed.
I have striven to resist becoming a vinyl bore but there is no question in my mind that it has a warmth and spirit that is largely absent from the more clinical, “perfect” alternatives. Some surface noise only adds to the enhanced atmosphere.
And I have overcome my propensity to whinge whenever I have to get up every twenty minutes to turn the disc over!
It was midday and the stores on Haight Street were drowsily coming to life under a warming sun. A gaggle of skateboarders, ageing “heads”, dogs and guitars waited at the lights at Stanyan to cross over to Hippie Hill for an afternoon of music, marijuana and merriment.
We had just enjoyed a sumptuous lunch of chicken pesto, Greek chicken wraps and hummus plate at the Blue Front Café, (sadly, one of the many eateries that has subsequently closed), and were entering a brightly coloured establishment which had historically divested us of our holiday dollars more than any other over the previous two decades.
As we planted ourselves in the rear of the store to look for any new tie-dye shirts from Liquid Blue, the silence was broken by a chirpy Californian female voice.
“Hey, you guys, let me explain the layout in here for you. At this end you will find the Grateful Dead t-shirts, organised by size, while over here are my own designs…….”
It was clear that the woman was going to continue with this well-rehearsed speech for some time, and, of course, she was only trying to be helpful. But I have an aversion to being what I perceive as “stalked” in stores by staff when all I want to do is look for myself and ask questions if I have a need.
So, I interrupted her rather abruptly – for which I have since apologised on many occasions – explaining that for nearly twenty years we had been rummaging through her colourful stock, and left laden with t-shirts, dresses, badges, stickers and other paraphernalia.
Rather than being deterred by my rude riposte, she squealed at the news, thanking us for our custom (not service – that is generally reserved for the military) and asking us where we were from, a perfectly reasonable icebreaker if one were really needed. I explained that we were from England, that I had revered the Dead since the late sixties and had visited the store many times before. This triggered a discussion about our mutual love for the music and the city.
I mentioned that we were heading for the Great American Music Hall that evening to see Dark Star Orchestra, the band formed in Chicago that had been replicating entire Dead shows since 1997. Alicia, as she was called, was thrilled to hear and said “we’re going too, do you wanna hang out?” By “we” she had included her partner, Jerry (no, not that one) who was, at the time, the long term owner of the store.
Despite the presumption (at least to British ears) in the question we instantly accepted the offer, and as we left with Casey Jones and Alice in Wonderland tees, arranged to meet in the line outside the venue at 6pm.
Disembarking the 47 Muni, rather uncharitably dubbed by my wife the “stinky bus”, at Van Ness and O’Farrell, we strode excitedly along the two blocks to join a mercifully short line at the venue. Dead concerts past were recalled as the air reeked of pot and a lone, long haired man patrolled the street with a barely legible, but at least grammatically correct, “I need a miracle” message scrawled on a scrap of cardboard with a Sharpie.
Alicia and Jerry joined us ten minutes later and we made our way to the upper floor where we had booked tables, allowing a prime position leaning on the railing that overlooked the stage below. We could not have had a better view as we christened our new tie-dye outfits. The ticket price had included a meal from a limited menu. With Californian and English choices on offer, we all opted for the latter – fish and chips (the American version of several small fish pieces rather than the single, larger British version).
This was the second time we had seen Dark Star Orchestra, the first having been at the House of Blues in Las Vegas on the eve of my sixtieth birthday two years earlier, when they had played a show from the early nineties which my wife had struggled to embrace, leading her to abandon the show midway through the second set halfway through a characteristically lengthy Eyes of the World jam in favour of the penny slot machines on the Mandalay Bay casino floor.
She had still not, at this stage, been fully converted to the Dead’s music, despite the fact that I had tried for thirty years to convince her of their greatness. She did, however, enjoy many of the earlier, shorter songs like Sugar Magnolia, Uncle John’s Band, Box of Rain and her favourite, Bertha.
I had been hoping that, being in San Francisco, they might play a Fillmore (West) concert on this evening, perhaps even from the run featured on the Live Dead album from 1969. And that, with some minor adaptations, is exactly what we got. I was beside myself, and my wife was happy too.
Mid way through the first set they announced that they were being joined by a special guest – Grateful Dead rhythm guitarist Bob Weir! He jammed with the band on St. Stephen and sang one of his signature cowboy songs, Me and My Uncle. The following year Bob similarly “gate crashed” Steve Earle’s set at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass in 2016. And more than a decade later, during which he had headlined Dead and Company, Wolf Brothers and countless other musical projects, and at the age of seventy eight, he shows little sign of putting himself out to pasture.
Sam Cutler, former manager of both the Dead and the Rolling Stones, spoke to the audience between sets when, naturally, I bought a t-shirt from the merchandise table, an item of clothing I reprised to lead guitarist Jeff Matson’s delight at the band’s concert at Shepherd’s Bush Empire in London in September 2022.
The concert continued past midnight. It had been a special evening, we had bonded with Alicia and Jerry, forging a friendship that continued to flourish and which led to us staying at their home with them in Petaluma on a number of occasions, attending concerts, Giants and 49ers games and meals together as well as them (separately) visiting the UK and all of us, including their two children, Aiden (Alicia’s by a previous marriage) and Ely (their own son) meeting up subsequently in Chicago.
As the Covid-19 pandemic caused a hiatus in our physical connection, we met up on Zoom on a weekly basis as they prepared to go for a morning cycle and we cooked our Sunday dinner! We even danced to favourite Dead songs when the conversation, as it did rarely, lagged.
The story of our relationship has subsequently taken several dramatic and unexpected turns, which I will address on another occasion.
Tony Quarrington 