In Search Of The Sound

In Search
Of
The
Sound

(Confessions of a Record Collector)

Charles E. Thieroff

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2010

Introduction

Collecting records has been one of the most satisfying hobbies / businesses that one could ever hope to be involved in. Record collecting has provided me with countless hours of solitude. As I stoop over and dig through box after box of old musty 78's, 45's or LP's my world becomes very small. The cares of the day became very distant and quiet as I dug deeper into the pile seeking out a gem.

Sometimes I would just sit out in my detached garage amongst literally thousands of records for hours and detach from the world. No boss, no wife, no kids, just me and some tunes, a sanctuary, my space.

Music is truly the sound that soothes the savage beast inside, at least for me.

This hobby sans business has also blessed me with some of the greatest friendships a man could ask for. It also has allowed me to meet some real characters too. As you shall see I have traveled far and wide in search of the sound and this is a collection of my experiences.
Dedication

This travelogue is dedicated to my late friend and road warrior:

William A. Grove
May 30, 1964
March 24, 1998

Chapter 1

It all started for me back in the late winter of 1963. I was thirteen years old, entering puberty, full of raging hormones and rebellion. I was an angry kid; my life was pretty difficult back then. I am one of nine children born of an alcoholic father who died at the age of 43. I wound up through a series of events in the Milton Hershey School in Hershey, Pennsylvania about 210 miles from the city of Pittsburgh where I was born. Being away from home for the very first time and being subjected to a regimented life was quite an adjustment from living at home. My life went from city kid street urchin to cow milking, farm boy in a heartbeat, and talk about culture shock.

I have three older sisters who were teenagers in the late 1950's. I was exposed to do-wop and rhythm and blues back then via their listening habits. We used to walk home from school back then and my sisters were always hurrying to get home so that they could put the radio on and listen to Craig "Porky" Chedwick* (born February 4, 1918), the original "Daddio of the Raddio", the "Platta Pushin' Papa" on WAMO 860 on the dial. Wamo is pretty much gone but Porky is still hanging in there at the age of ninety two as I write this. Porky still manages to make a few personal appearances each year.

That music meant little to me growing up. I learned to appreciate much more later on in my life with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight. I do remember seeing Elvis on Ed Sullivan as a small child and that was certainly different. I remember the excitement that my sisters were full of prior to his first appearance on that Sunday night in September 1956. Their reaction to me as a young boy was puzzling to say the least. At the mere mention of his name they went wild and when Elvis finally appeared they screamed and jumped around the old black and white Dumont television in our living room. Little did I realize a little over six years later that I would have the same reaction to a group of four young men from England.

The hype preceding the Beatles arrival in the United States was unparalleled. From the time shortly after the assassination of President John F. Kennedy until their arrival at JFK International Airport in New York on February 7, 1964 that is all that I cared about. I had heard "I Want To Hold Your Hand" about a thousand times a day on the radio or so it seemed during that time. I went to the Milton Hershey School Hobby Shop the same day I heard "She Loves You" on the radio to buy a copy. That 45 was the one that hit me right in the face as a thirteen year old boy. The sound just knocked me out. This new sound was certainly different than the Paul Ankas', Fabian's and Neil Sedakas that permeated the airwaves back then. Two days later I purchased my first LP, "Introducing The Beatles" Vee Jay LP SR1062. Of course it was a stereo jacket with a mono pressing record inside. I could have cared less at the time about Vee Jay's deceptive sales practices, I just wanted the LP. I remember playing that 45 and the LP on an old RCA portable record player with its horrible quality speakers and a tone arm that probably weighed three pounds. I literally wore those two records out on that old player. I also think I might have read all the ink off the liner notes on the back cover of that LP.

It started out with one record. I have owned, looked at or handled at least a million recordings during the last forty five years. I collected modestly early on purchasing music that I liked. It wasn't until years later that it exploded into this addiction. And so the journey begins.

*Craig "Porky" Chedwick was the first white Disc Jockey to present a racially diverse audience in a major eastern American city a steady diet of what were, called "race records." This was three years before Alan Freed the so called father of "Rock & Roll" supposedly coined that term. Porky Chedwick's original play list was composed of old gospel and rhythm & blues 78's that had been lying around local record stores unsold and un-played allegedly covered in dust. The records had been sitting so long unmolested that Porky had to blow the accumulated dust off before he could play them. Porky referred to these records as his "dusty discs" , the first reference to what later became the "oldies" format.

Adventures with Beckham

Beckham was an interesting guy. A recovering junkie of the heroin persuasion, Beckham was a just a bit rough around the edges to say the least. I met Beckham at a local Twelve Step Meeting that I was attending for my own problems with alcoholism. I had known him for a few months and was just an acquaintance at that time. Beckham had a penchant for being a bit brash and a bit of a braggart at times. Not the type of personal characteristics that one would call endearing. That doesn't mean he was a bad guy just a bit annoying with his braggadocio's attitude. I happened to be standing nearby and overheard a conversation about records. Beckham was bragging to a fellow who's identity I cannot remember, about how he was making money hustling old 45's and LP's. His conversation piqued my curiosity. At the time I was eking out living selling cars at a local Chevy dealership and the car business was in a bit of a slump. I was always on the lookout for the chance to make a couple of extra bucks and based on what Beckham was saying there was some dough to be made selling records. Up to this point I had never been to a record convention and don't recall ever hearing about them. Records to me at this point were just a casual hobby meant more for my personal listening pleasure than anything else. I had never thought about buying and selling records.

I assumed that what he was saying was true. He was yakking about how he was making a killing buying and selling records. My assumption was based on the fact that this was what he was doing for a living and nothing else. He was a union employee at one time and had been hurt on the job and could or would no longer have a legitimate job in the most common defined standards. This is not a judgment on Beckham it is simply an observation of his antics.
I asked Beckham a few questions about how he was doing this deal.
Beckham was smooth; the son of a bitch should have had his own info-mercial on late night TV. The conversation had all of trappings of "Zero Down" make "Millions" shtick that you see on late night cable channels. The more he got my attention the more he talked. War stories just rolled off his lips like a sailor in port after six straight months out at sea.

As a recovered alcoholic I learned that there is a vast difference between people of my affliction and recovering addicts. In my experience and observations junkies tend to be more narcissistic in their attitudes and actions than the average drunk is. Beckham also was a recovering alcoholic and with that I could identify more readily. I do not make these comments to seem judgmental but my experience over the last thirty years has taught me that junkies seem to have a harder time getting and staying straight. It seems to me that they not only fall in love with the drug but they also fall in love with the hustle. I believe that the hustling becomes the replacement drug of choice. After my involvement in my personal search for the sound I too have come to recognize the powerful attraction of the hunt and the hustle.

Beckham was an interesting guy. Trouble seemed to be his constant friend, he has struggled with recovery. I remember hearing from one of his acquaintances about how he had once taken his wife hostage in a drug fueled rage and the police had surrounded his house. He had held them at bay for a number of hours until he finally surrendered quietly without further incident. I have often felt empathy for anyone who has been so destroyed by chemical dependency and the others that they hurt in the process. I guess that was Beckham's fifteen minutes of fame or infamy many years ago. Beckham was also one of the most street wise guys I ever knew. He had a line for every player and a bluff for every players call. He was a master of misinformation and underhandedness when it came time to negotiate a deal with someone. He could be down right brutal in a negotiation. In my limited dealings with him I always walked away feeling like I needed to take a shower when we were done. I always felt like I had gotten screwed somehow and that I did not like at all.

The thing with Beckham was that he could have cared less about the music, he loved the hustle and the art of the deal is what motivated him. As a professional salesperson (in a different industry) I understand the narcosis of negotiating hard and closing a deal. For Beckham he had the best of both worlds buying and selling records, the product was legal and he could deal to his hearts content without any fear of legal repercussions. He just killed people by preying on their addiction to vinyl. Beckham could turn some incredible product and he was a master of hyperbole. He was cocky, brash and always carried an air about him that if you didn't pay up another buyer was just one phone call away. Beckham lived by the old drug culture credo "Don't get high on your own supply". Beckham was fearless when it came to finding records, he would dare go where angels feared to tread and find really rare records. The meanest, dirtiest most dangerous parts of town were his walkways. I believe that this fearlessness only fueled his street smarts and ego. He would tell stories how he was in this house up in Pittsburgh's' Hill District (a very dangerous place) doing a deal at midnight on a moonless night with guys who had guns and never bat an eye. I admired him for his balls and there were times I wished that I could pull something like that off. He knew what to look for, where to look for it and how to buy it cheap. His biggest shortcoming was that most people who dealt with him felt the same way as I after the deal was done. For him it wasn't necessarily about the money, it was all about his ego.

I don't mean to imply that Beckham was totally bad, just rude and crude. I have a great deal of empathy for individuals who lack the capacity to maintain sobriety. As the old saying goes "There but for the Grace of God go I". As of this writing I have been blessed with thirty one years of sobriety. As of today Beckham is doing ok. Although our paths have not crossed is a while, it is my understanding that he is clean and sober and has been for a couple of years now. That pleases me to no end.

With the knowledge acquired from Beckham started to search for records to buy and sell. At that time Beckham was my only outlet for my purchases. I had always purchased records for my own collection at one of the many new record retail outlets like Sam Goody's or National Record Mart etc. I had no experience with used record stores and had never sold my own record collection up to this point.
Getting up early in the morning on weekends and attending garage sales, flea markets and junk stores looking in earnest to buy things that I could sell to Beckham and make a few dollars. Perhaps it was beginners luck or maybe it was just plain hustling but I started finding a lot of cool LP's right out of the gate. I would take it to Beckham only to have him complain that it was a second or third press or that the condition wasn't up to his standards. Everything I presented to him he picked apart and paid me very little and left me with the junk. He was right in a lot of cases about what he said about the condition etc. but in a lot of cases he was just not being upfront.

His cherry picking and his arrogance really started to get under my skin. I knew that I was finding some good stuff and it all wasn't as bad as he stated. Beckham was also pretty tight lipped about what he knew about records and keeping me in the dark for as long as could was certainly to his advantage. I understood that I was paying for my education and I didn't mind that so much. It was the fact that I felt I was paying tuition to go to Harvard when in reality I was getting a Community College degree based on his teachings or lack thereof.
I wasn't making the money that he said that I could and I was starting to accumulate a huge supply of "bad" records. I managed to do some research and bought a copy of Jerry Osborne's Record Albums 1948-1972 (second edition) Price Guide at a local bookstore and dug in from there.

When I confronted Beckham about what the price guide stated as far as values were concerned Beckham had an answer in a millisecond. "If all these books were correct I'd be a millionaire" he stated. "Everything in those books is priced somewhere between $4.00 and $15.00, just try selling that shit for a buck and you'll find out" he said filled with bluster. In my naiveté I believed him, after all he seemed to know what he was talking about or at the very least he convinced me he did. I'm not crying mind you; I am trying to make you aware of the realities of my early buying and selling career. Dumb old me I was paying a buck a copy for my finds and getting a buck a copy for what Beckham cherry picked. Any good accountant will tell you that isn't profitable.

It finally came to a head during a trip over to a large flea market near the Canton - Akron area of Ohio. I drove my van, used my gas and probably was hustled into buying lunch too by Beckham. It was Memorial Day weekend when we set out in the early morning for the farmlands of Ohio, me, Beckham and dreams of finding the mother lode. We arrived early at the flea market and scoured the hundreds of tables looking for gold. We came up with very little in the way of records and were pretty dejected as we set out for home. As we traveled the back roads of Ohio that afternoon I noticed a hand made sign on tacked on to a telephone pole. The sign said that there was a garage sale ½ a mile down the side road. The sign stated that there were toys, comic books and records for sale. I suggest to Beckham that we stop and he stated "At this time of the day you won't find shit, let's just go home". Beckham had little in the way of patience. He would look at a couple of LP's in a box and walk away to the next one. I on the other hand am much more laid back and willing to go through every LP to make sure I didn't miss one. I have found amazing things in a box that is 99% Polkas or German beer drinking song LP's. One that comes to mind is the Fantastic Dee Jays on the Stone Label out of Pittsburgh. I literally found it stuffed in an orange crate full of Polka LP's at about noon at a flea market.

I don't know if I was aggravated because I did all the driving and didn't find many records at the flea market or just plain being ornery that day but I decided much to his protestations to turn around and go down that side road. Beckham kept bitching as we drove down the road telling me what a stupid ass I was, how I was wasting my time and his. I believe Beckham was never comfortable in his own skin. He certainly had a bad case of being restless, irritable and discontent. Not that I can't be the same way at times. I have learned over the year that a little bit of gratitude in one's life goes along way. Gratitude seems to help those burrs that seem to get under everyone's saddle at times seem smaller and they don't seem to bother me as much.

Sure enough this little scratch of a town held a major score just waiting to be discovered. I pulled over to the side of the road, put the transmission in park and started up the driveway, Beckham still bitching with each stride as we walked. We entered the garage to see a fellow sitting on an aluminum chair drinking a beer. The guy appeared to be to have spent about three months too long sitting at the local donut shop filling his pie hole. He was one big man this guy was, he was big. I would be willing to bet that he was pushing 400 pounds if he were a hundred. Beckham immediately broke all of the rules he had taught me and dived into the piles of 45 rpm's that were sitting on the table. He had always instructed me to act disinterested or nonchalant when I saw a stack of records lest I give away my hole cards. This was part of the art of the deal and Beckham had blown it completely. I knew immediately by his actions and the sweat that was breaking on his brow that we were into something good.
(to be continued)

The big guys name was Bill and I could tell that he could read Beckham like a kiddie book. Beckham was sweating profusely as he dug through the piles of 45's, his hands literally shaking. After (at that time) about fifteen years of selling cars I also could figure Beckham out. He was usually pretty calm about a deal and this was the first time I ever saw him lose control. Typically Beckham would look at the first twenty or thirty records in a pile and claim that he knew whether the stack was a junk pile or a goldmine. I have never been able to master that part of collecting and I like to take my time and just keep digging in.

I dug into the LP's as Beckham wailed away at the 45's. 45's had held little interest for me at that time or they at least held a lower priority for me. I was content to dig through the few hundred LP's that Bill had sitting on the end of the table next to the 45's. Bill apparently had some sales skills and watched Beckham intently. In our conversation it turns out that Bill was originally from the Pittsburgh area and had moved to Ohio about twenty years before. Bill also claimed that he had been dee jay years ago, a story that I heard on most of my record collecting trips. It was nothing new to hear that claim. As I stated earlier I sold Chevrolet's for a long time and it was not uncommon to approach a customer on the showroom floor looking over a new model Corvette. For openers I would casually say "great car don't you think"? Invariably they would agree that it was and reply that the new model wasn't as nice as their first Corvette. "Really", I would reply. "What was your first Corvette" I would ask fully knowing their reply. I could lip sync the words that were about to roll off of their tongues "Sixty-three Split Window Coupe". Although there were only a little over ten thousand of these great car manufactured by Chevrolet that one and only year, I personally met what seemed like twenty five thousand people who had owned one of them during my twenty plus years of selling Chevrolet's.

Bill and Beckham started to negotiate a deal on the 45's and it was pretty intense. I do not believe that Bill realized what he really had in terms of value for the 45's but he realized that he had a big fish on the line in Beckham and wasn't about to just give them away. Beckham had blown his cover. This was the middle of the afternoon and nobody had even sniffed those 45's or LP's or they would not have still been there and Beckham the master of the deal, just blew it. Bill hit him with a really high number and the negotiation was on. As they haggled back and forth I just kept plowing away at the stack of LP's.

As I was going through the LP's I started to pull out a few very nice Prestige and Blue Note LP's for my own collection. Nothing major mind you but the vinyl was pristine and I was sure that I would enjoy playing later on that evening. Apparently they had pretty much concluded their negotiations or they were at least close. Beckham noticed what I had pulled out of the stack and reached over and picked up the six or seven Blue Note and Prestige label LP's and asked Bill to throw them in as part of the deal. Bill agreed to do so. I was a bit pissed to say the least but I kept quiet in front of Bill lest I blow the deal for both of us.

Beckham asked me to step outside and have a private conversation. Beckham asked me how much cash I had on me. "Probably four hundred dollars, why"? I replied. Beckham explained that Bill was hitting him pretty hard on the deal as far as price was concerned and that he might need to borrow a few hundred bucks for a couple of days to close the deal. Beckham also informed me that Bill also had a lot more 45's and LP's that weren't at his house and that he would probably have to come back next week to buy those. Against my better judgment I agreed to lend Beckham the money for a couple of days just to keep the peace and not lose my mentor. At that time Beckham was my only real connection in the business. I justified my decision as a necessary evil. This deal also started to open my nose a bit about just what and whom I really was dealing with. I vowed to myself to seek out other avenues of information to see if I was really getting the straight deal or if I was getting screwed by Beckham as I was starting to feel. Perhaps I am a bit naive, perhaps a bit of too nice of a guy but something wasn't sitting well inside me from a gut level perspective.

The ride home was pretty uneventful. I just drove and simmered the whole way. The deal with Beckham taking those LP's was really eating away at me. I asked him about them and Beckham just said they were part of his deal and not mine and that I was still learning from him. On top of that, Beckham never offered to cut me in on a piece of the action even though I found the deal or offered me the LP's that he had taken. Not that I was entitled to anything mind you but it certainly been a decent gesture to make the offer if even in a small way. Beckham didn't roll like that apparently.

The following week Beckham called and asked me if I would be interested in taking a trip to Grand Rapids, MI to look at a collection of 60,000 records. He explained that he had gotten a lead on this collection and wanted to know if I wanted to ride up with him. I was always game for an adventure and replied "Hell yes". We left the following Friday in my Chevy pickup and drove about eight hours to get to Grand Rapids or as it is better known today by the locals as Crack Rapids. In all honesty I must admit that Beckham did fill up the truck with gas, pay for the hotel and dinner too. I reminded Beckham about the money that he had borrowed and he simply said "I sold a lot of records this week I'm just waiting for the money to come in". "I should have it for you early next week at the latest".

We arrived in Grand Rapids about 10:00 PM. Our trip had been delayed by two major construction projects on the way and a really nasty tanker truck / car accident that pushed our arrival back a few hours. We were looking for an address off of 28th Street which is apparently the main drag in Grand Rapids. We kept going up and down looking for the house number we had been given with no luck. You must understand that this was pre navigation systems and pre cell phones eras. OK, cell phones did exist but they were very expensive at least for me anyhow. It was a warm summer night and we had made a number of passes up and down the street when someone finally yelled out a window "Are you guys from Pittsburgh"? I yelled back "Yeah, are you Charlie"? "No, but he lives up here". "Pull over and come on up" the voice in the window yelled down. I pulled the black Silverado into a parking place next to the building. Beckham and I got out and walked across the street to the dimly lit hallway entrance that appeared to lead where the voice was coming from. This apartment was located above a bar. The bar appeared to be nothing special just a local corner tavern where locals would hang out with friends just to have a beer and shoot the breeze.
As we proceeded to walk up the steps we were greeted by a rather effeminate Asian man who was descending the steps. "Are you Charlie"? I asked. "No, he's upstairs waiting for you" he replied in a very girlish soft voice as he passed us. We climbed the narrow steps and entered the already open door into the apartment. Every where you looked there were records. The records were literally piled from ceiling to floor. I had never seen so many records outside of a record store before in my life. My first though was "How in the hell does someone live like this". I mean there were shelves all along each wall filled with LP's, stacks of LP's on top of every imaginable inch of horizontal space in what appeared to be the kitchen. There was barely enough room to scoot through to get to any other room in the apartment. I could see in the connecting room there were shelves built in the center of the room as well as the walls. I was stunned to say the least. A raspy and labored voice in another room called to us. We entered the room from where the voice had come and I was shocked by what lay before me. There was this smallish man lying on the bed clad in a t-shirt, his thin arms protruding out like the arms of the stick figures I drew as a young boy when I played the hangman game. He looked emaciated and very frail as though he were dying. Charlie had long gray hair and a beard that somewhat reminded me of the bass singer from the Oak Ridge Boys. The only time I can ever recall seeing someone in this condition was in the photographs I had seen as a young adolescent. The photographs I am speaking of are the ones of prisoners from Andersonville during the Civil War. The poor bastard lying before me was just skin and bones and appeared to be dying. My first thought was that he had cancer; my second was that perhaps he had a new disease that had just started to rear its ugly head, HIV or AIDS. It turned out as I was to find out later that Charlie had cancer and was terminal. He called us over to his bedside and said in a soft raspy voice that he was glad to meet us as he reached out his bony hand to shake mine and Beckham's. He invited us to feel free to look around and check out the records. I explained that it had been a long ride and that I would surely appreciate directions to the bathroom so that I could relieve myself, it had been a long trip. Charlie gave me directions and I scooted down an aisle to the bathroom. I turned on the light and the whole damn bathroom was filled with records. I mean even the tub was full of records. Oh, I felt that this was going to be a great trip.
(To be continued)

I have to be honest about this. I couldn't help myself, as I was relieving myself I picked an album up off one of the stacks. Picture this; I am standing in a bathroom in an apartment over a bar in Grand Rapids, Michigan, my wanker in one hand and an LP in the other. That may be way too much information or perhaps it makes an unpleasant visual but now you know that I got it bad. I finished my business, put the LP back on the stack, zipped up, washed my hands and walked back to Charlie's bedroom. Charlie was showing Beckham the three near mint copies of the Four Lovers LP's that he had acquired over the years. For those of you too young to remember the Four Lovers was a pop vocal group that had one Frankie Valli as their lead singer at the tender age of just twenty one. I personally have only come across two copies of this LP in my life and they were both in pretty hammered condition. In the short time that we spent with Charlie that night he produced some other real gems, there was no doubt about it Charlie had the goods. Charlie told us that he was tired and needed to rest and suggested that we come back the next day. We inquired about what time would work for him and Charlie informed us that he was a late sleeper and that 1:00 PM would work for him. Beckham looked at me and I looked at him. The same thought was written on each of our faces "Aw shit this isn't going to work too well. Beckham wanted to be back in Pittsburgh on Saturday night and I needed to be back to because of family duties on Sunday. We tried to negotiate an earlier time but Charlie just would not have it any other way. Beckham and I were both early risers so we asked Charlie if there might be a flea market that we could knock around in the morning to burn up some time and maybe find something of interest there. Charlie informed us that there was a large flea market right out on 28th Street about three miles west of where we were. We went to the hotel that night where we had reserved a room earlier in the week. The hotel was about 2 miles east of where we were. We hit the hotel, requested a wake up call for 5:00AM and hit the sheets for the evening.

We arose that morning grabbed a cup of coffee on the run, jumped into the black Silverado and took off for the big flea market. When we got there we decided to split up so that we could cover more territory. I struggled to find any LP's of interest and found just a few in the early morning light. It wasn't thirty minutes later when I saw Beckham over at a lady's stand. I walked over and asked what was up. Beckham informed me that this nice lady at the tables had a large collection of records and that we were going over to her house shortly to check them out. Beckham certainly had a nose for tunes. I mean it appeared to me that he could smell a stack of records for two, make that three miles away. Here we were 400 miles from home at 6:00 Am and already he found us a deal to check out.

In the course of the conversation with Babs' we found out that she was actually Charlie's sister in law. She had been married to Charlie's older brother who had passed away from cancer five years before. We walked down into the basement of her modest ranch home on the East Side of Grand Rapids and it was déjà vu. The basement looked like Charlie's apartment with LP's stacked everywhere. The records were stacked up ceiling to floor, right up against the fluorescent light fixtures located in the suspended ceiling. How crazy was this? Of course they were dusty and moldy too, just what my allergies needed a good turbo charging. I love digging through stacks of old LP's but do I pay a price afterward. I usually wind up with a sinus headache and a pretty good cough after a good days work. My doctor advised me to wear a respirator when I did this to help alleviate the breathing issues. Can you imagine what a geek I would look like wearing a respirator in somebody's home digging through a stack of records? The visual of that is probably far better than the last one I mentioned.

The stacks of records were all in danger of collapsing like a stack of dominoes. I always had a deep rooted fear that I would be crushed to death by either a stack of LP's in some old dirty basement or in a collision in a van going to or from a record convention. I could see myself squished up against the windshield and dashboard of my van crushed by tons of LP's traveling at seventy miles per hour as I collide with another vehicle. No way for a good man to go down. Trying to work through this mess was difficult. Each time I pulled an LP or two off of the top of the pile thirty or forty others it seemed wanted to follow at the same time. There was no room to stack anything at all and it was frustrating me. The LP's at Babs' place were actually packed tighter than at Charlie's apartment. I grabbed as many pieces that I could (and there weren't that many) use in the few hours that we were there, paid a buck apiece and we were off to Charlie's apartment for our 1:00 PM appointment.

Beckham talked with Charlie in the other room as I amused myself looking at LP's on the shelves. There were lots of great things to be found in this collection, I was amazed at the quantity of cool things in the collection and I was in awe at the number of rare and scarce pieces that I came across. In eavesdropping in on the conversation in the other room, it seems that Charlie had some odd ideas about what we were really there for. It was Charlie's understanding that we were there to buy the whole damn collection for $35,000.00. It was Beckham's understanding that we could pick and choose what we wanted. Things started to deteriorate quickly. I believe that Charlie wanted to sell the whole collection in one fell swoop so that he could use the money to take care of his final arrangements. Needless to say Charlie wouldn't allow us to pick and choose. I still believe to this day that Beckham in his glibness believed that he could hustle this guy into cherry picking the whole collection. Charlie's encounter with Beckham wasn't his first rodeo and he certainly didn't fall for Beckham's bullshit. We left for home in what would be a very long quiet drive empty handed. I knew Beckham well enough by now that he believed with all of his heart and soul that he could bullshit his way through anything. In fact I started to understand that he actually loved the challenge of it.

This whole trip turned out to be a disaster. It was about eighteen hours of driving round trip; wasted time and wasted money all because Beckham acted like an ass. Beckham knew what the deal was long before we left Pittsburgh, he just believed that he could change the parameters. He also knew that I would have never agreed to make such a trip under the terms and expectations that Charlie had concerning the deal. I did not have $35,000.00 to spend on records nor did I have half of that even if Beckham wanted to split the deal. Beckham actually hated to drive and basically wanted someone to chauffeur his ass up to Michigan. Oh man was I a dumb ass early on. As I said I was paying for my education.

Just as a side note, a few months later I read in either Goldmine magazine or Discoveries magazine in the "letters to the editor" section a note from Babs' thanking everybody who had come to Charlie's apartment after his recent passing and bought a lot of the records for $1.00 apiece. She was so happy that everyone had come and pretty much cleaned out the whole apartment of records.

Mine and Beckham's day were numbered and would come to a close shortly. I was working my butt off and receiving little in return. Beckham was treating me like his prison bitch and I didn't like that at all. He was tight lipped about what he knew and who he knew, not unlike a drug dealer who never discloses his connections. Years later I would see the movie "Blow" with Johnny Depp playing "Boston George". The scene where a deal goes bad with a Colombian crew of dealers and Boston George gets shot and he finally blurts out to his partner Diego Delgado (Jordi Molla) "Derek Foreal" (Paul Reubens). Derek Foreal was Boston Georges California connection. It was then I realized how this whole thing really worked with Beckham. It was that junkie's street law or rules that came into play. Never reveal your source, if you do your partner will eliminate you from the mix. I had not seen such a graphic display of this scenario before but I was about to pull the same act years before I ever saw this movie.
(To be continued)

The Akron Connection

My wife (now ex-wife) called me at my office to inform me that she had received a call from an ad that I had placed in a local paper. My Ex hated records, hated record conventions, hated the people that I hung out with, hated everything to do with it except the money that I made doing it. She once complained that I loved those damn records more than I loved her. She was right, I remember having a rather heated exchange one night about all the time I was spending away from home, looking for records, selling records, playing records etc. I was in a bit of an nasty mood when she threw that "You love those goddamn records more that me" routine and I snapped. "You know honey that just might be true". "Unlike you they always show me a good time and never give me any shit". No wonder she divorced me, I deserved it. My Ex said "This is probably the lady that you want to talk to". "The lady said that she was standing in her late aunts music room and had a lot of records for sale". I got the number and called her right away. He name was Ellen, she was in town to take care of her late aunts' affairs and she was less than three miles from my office. I hung up the phone and drove over to her aunt's house almost immediately.

I met Ellen in the driveway of her late aunt's home as she was placing things from the house out for pickup. In my discussion with Ellen she told me that her late aunt had been a professor of music at a southern university in Virginia. Ellen ushered me into the music room and lo and behold there were about 1500 lp's on the shelves in the room. Most of the collection was classical music but there were enough jazz LP's to really pique my interest. I started looking through the LP's and they were absolutely pristine. Most of the LP's were promo copies and appeared to have never had a needle laid on them. I did my best to hide my interest and casually asked Ellen what she was looking to get out of them. "Make me an offer so that I don't have to carry them out to the curb" she replied. I took everything for me not to scream out loud. I knew at this point that the records meant little or nothing to Ellen and that they could be bought for next to nothing. Ellen then stated that the people who appraised the estate for tax purposes valued the collection for about fifty bucks. Oh my, am I dreaming or what? My opening offer was $75.00, a safe bet for me. The appraisal of $50.00 and my offer was a bit higher than that so at least I didn't low ball her too much. I believed that she would hit me with a much higher counter offer and she did. "How about $100.00" she countered. With my best poker face I said "what the hell, it's only $25.00 more, let's do it". Now, please bear in mind I knew little about classical LP's at the time and even today it is a small part of what I will purchase. Classical music has the slowest turnover rate of any music I sell. I cannot talk confidently with most buyers of this music because I know so little about it. I do know that there are some LP's that do sell and do sell well but it is a very small percentage of the market.

"Pull your little car down the driveway so that we can load them up" Ellen stated. Perhaps you can imagine what 1500 LP's look like loaded into a Toyota Corolla. For those of you who cannot imagine, do the term sardines provide a clear visual? That's what it was like with me and all 1500 of my beauties. All that was missing was the fishy smell. The Toyota looked like a mobile version of Charlies' apartment in Grand Rapids. I had packed the trunk first, then the back seat including the foot wells up to the roof, the front passenger seat from the foot wells up to the bottom of the passenger window. I even had a few LP's on my lap too.
The poor little Toyota looked like a low rider with me and all of those heavy, thick vinyl records going down PA Route 19, headed home. My big concern was the Toyota's ability to stop with this heavy load in it. Western PA is mountainous and there are plenty of steep grades and curvy roads to navigate. The one hill that I had to travel had a portion that was a 13% grade. That is really a steep grade. The Toyota carried the load in typical Toyota fashion without incident and without failure.

I received a call from Beckham that evening. There's that uncanny ability oh his to smell out a deal raising its' ugly head again. He asked me what I was up to and what I had found. I told him absolutely nothing about this find. I was bound a determined to test the waters outside of Beckham's reach. The conversation was pretty occluded on my part, I was keeping very quiet about my find.

I had recently picked up a copy of Goldmine at a Borders Book Store and read an ad in the classified section placed by a guy out of Akron, Ohio area. Because most of the load was classical music I decided to give him a call. I will refer to this guy as the "Accountant" for purposes of anonymity. That is what this fellow did for a living at one time. He later moved down south, went back to school, got his law degree and became a prosecutor for the D.A.'s office where he lives. He is also a classically trained professional musician. I dropped the dime and made the call. I explained to him what I had found and explained that I was looking for a long term relationship with someone who would pay fair money for the items that I had for sale with the understanding that there was to be room for him to make money too. I also told him that I was new to the business and just wanted to be treated fairly in my dealings. He agreed and we started to go through the classical LP's. He asked me questions about the LP's that he was interested in and shared information freely with me. That was certainly different than Beckham's approach. I liked the "Accountant" right from the start. He quoted me prices for the items he was interested in and advised me that condition was absolutely paramount when buying these records. He also reserved the right to reject any LP based on play grading them. The "Accountant " from Ohio offered me $600.00 for one of the LP's that I had recently picked up, again with the right to play grade the LP. This was the same LP that Beckham would have probably offered me $2.00 for. The "Accountant was mostly interested in London label "Blue backs", Mercury Living Presence and RCA Living Stereo LP's. That was his specialty. Based on my gut feeling with the "Accountant" on the phone I decided to take a shot and mailed the LP's that he had expressed interest in the next day. Finally I felt that I was going to get a good return on my investment of my time and efforts. Three days alter I received a phone call from the "Accountant" informing me that he would be returning one of the LP's valued at $30.00 because it has a pressing defect that caused a swooshing sound in track three on the b-side along with a check for the others. He also expressed his complete satisfaction with all of the other LP's. The accountant turned out to be a very good gut to deal with.

I never mentioned a word to Beckham about the deal or my transaction with the "Accountant". Perhaps I was starting to wise up a bit. This collection was the same kind and quality (not the quantity) that I had been finding and had been getting beaten up on. I don't mind anybody making a buck. In fact I want other dealers to make money too, everybody's got to wet their beak and that is ok with me. I just didn't like getting killed by Beckham on a regular basis. I know that the "Accountant was probably doubling his money and that was fine. He had taken the time to learn about this stuff, developed his own clientele and worked his ass off doing it.

Two weeks later the "Accountant" called to see what was up, if I had come across anything else that he might be interested in. I told him that my inventory had been growing and was getting pretty good. I told him about a couple of nice jazz collections that I had come across also. He asked me if I had ever done a record convention before and I replied that I had not. He invited me to come up to the Cleveland Rock & Roll Expo located at the U.A.W. Hall on Chevrolet Boulevard in Parma Heights, Ohio. He told me had two tables and that I could have a half of one if I wanted it at no charge. I went to the show and was absolutely amazed. The old Cleveland show rocked, I grossed $3000.00 in sales with the jazz stuff that I brought. It was an amazing day to say the least. Jazz LP's were just flying out of my stash. I was probably selling to too cheap but what the hell it was substantially more that Beckham ever paid. I was drunk with excitement and cash. I naively thought that all of my future shows would be like this. Man, was I ever in for a surprise.

Two weeks later the "Accountant" called just to check in, chat and see what was up. I thanked him for inviting me to the record convention in Cleveland again. I advised him that I hadn't found anything that might be of interest to him in classical LP's. We chatted for a while and the "Accountant" told me that he was planning to do another show and was looking for a deal on a 45 RPM collection. I advised the "Accountant" that I knew where there might be a deal that was pretty close to his home if he were interested. It was the same deal that Beckham and I had looked at about a month before. I wasn't sure if Beckham had ever gone back for the remaining 45's that the do-nut man had said he had. I doubted that Beckham ever did get back with Bill about the remaining records; Beckham always left some loose ends in a deal. I gave the "Accountant" the phone number and told him to call. The "Accountant" didn't know Beckham at this time but their paths would cross in the future. I explained to the "Accountant" what had transpired at Bills' garage that summer afternoon and how displeased I was with Beckham. I'm sure the accountant had run into someone like Beckham along the way in collecting records, it seems there are plenty of them out there.

A couple of days later I got one hell of a phone call from Beckham. It seems that the "Accountant" had called good old Bill over in Shitville, Ohio and went to look at the 45's. I was right; Beckham had never followed up on the remaining part of the collection. Apparently the "Accountant" made Bill aware that he had gotten his number from me. I didn't have a problem with that; I did it knowing full well it might get back to Beckham. The "Accountant" and Bill couldn't get together on the deal so he passed. Bill then called Beckham and tried to use the "Accountant's" visit as leverage to motivate Beckham into buying the balance of the 45's that he promised to come back and look at.

Beckham called and was one pissed off cowboy. He started ripping me a new ass when I cut him off at the knees. I told him in a calm voice how pissed I was at him for taking advantage of me. I also told him I wanted the money that he owed me for a month and had failed to pay back. I was now on a roll and my emotions were out of control. I screamed into the phone that if he didn't give me my $300.00 I was going to come over and kick $300.00 worth of his tall skinny ass. I was absolutely livid with this prick Beckham. You talk about balls? I was so livid at this moment he could have handed me the $300.00 and I think I still would have kicked his ass. The bastard was not only robbing me blind on our deals by taking advantage of my inexperience and good nature but he had the balls to call me up and bitch about how I was screwing him. Needless to say our relationship pretty much ended that day, my future contact with Beckham was limited. I don't mind anybody making a buck but stealing from me and then rubbing my nose it in it was more than I could bear. I don't like confrontation but I rarely shrink away from it either when I believe I have been wronged. Sometimes you have to crawl in bed with a snake to do business; the object is to remember you're in bed with a snake.

This turned out to be a very good thing indeed. I needed to expand my horizons and now that Beckham and I had parted ways I was motivated to do so. The experience of meeting the "Accountant", doing my first show up in Cleveland had helped me to break away from Beckham. I was willing to learn as much as I could about the business on my own. Sometimes we are fortunate when we are new in any business and we are blessed with a true mentor that will help show us the way. Sometimes it's the other way around and it can be frustrating and painful.

Wild Bill

What can I say about Wild Bill? I had taken a commercial truck out to show a potential customer who had expressed an interest in purchasing one. I was a bit early for my appointment; actually I was a lot early. I hated being in the office and every chance I had to get out and visit a customer I did. I was driving down the main street of this town when I saw a sign on a little white clapboard house that said "Wild Bill's House of Records". I pulled over, got out of the truck and walked into his record store. There was this little skinny dude standing there when I walked in. He wore a mullet, had glasses and seemed a bit stand offish. That is not unusual for a lot of record collectors to behave this way. I noticed an older man sitting in the anteroom doing something at a desk. I started to look around in the LP bins for a nugget or two. Finally I started to talk with Wild Bill about what he collected. Wild Bill was in his late twenties at that time and I surmised that his tastes were far different than mine. It turns out that Wild Bill was a Madonna freak. Later on Wild Bill once intimated to me that he was willing to pay $10,000.00 for a pair of Madonna's panties provided they had been worn by her on stage. We certainly were at opposite ends of the perspective when it came to our musical tastes. Wild Bill also collected Prince, Kiss, The Stones and a lot of seventies and eighties rock bands. It turned out to be a pretty good combination for both of us. Bill knew a lot about what I did not and I knew a lot about what he didn't know. That meant that we probably wouldn't compete against each other as far as collecting was concerned and that we could share information freely. This really put us on solid ground and would lead to a great friendship.

I probably had more fun on the road with Wild Bill than anybody in my life. When we went out on the road it was never work for either of us. We used to load 150 LP cases in the big Ford van that he owned, drive five hundred miles, work our asses off and never bitch or complain. After we did our first show together we would get in the van, look at each other and start laughing because we knew it was going to be a blast!!! I was about 14 years older than Wild Bill and he was like a bad little brother to me. He was always getting tangled up in something and getting wound up. I was the calming voice for him in his life. Wild bill and his father were never really close. His dad was a high school teacher and he always had something negative to say to Wild Bill. You know the stupid stuff like "He would never amount to anything or if only he was a good as his younger brother etc. Hurtful things to say the least and they had an effect on Wild Bill's self worth at times.

Wild Bill had suffered from juvenile Diabetes from age five or six and was insulin dependent. Physically small Wild Bill never slacked off and did whatever it took to get the job done. He matched me box for box when we loaded or unloaded the van. He also worked at a local supermarket in the produce department so he was used to the heavy lifting. Wild Bill also loved the ladies. He was constantly playing grab-ass with all of the female clerks in the store. His mother and grandmother owned a chain of dance schools and made lots of money, but you would never know it. As I stated earlier his father was a school teacher and had divorced his mom when Wild Bill was pretty young. Wild Bills' grandfather also helped him run the record store. Old Joe was the polka king of Washington County, PA. He had his own little following and sold polka 45's by the ton out of that little store. Joe was a great guy. He was very Italian and very old school, he was almost like the Godfather in my eyes. Joe had served in WWII in the Navy as an MP and was on board the U.S.S Missouri when Japan surrendered. He showed me a photo of him standing in the background as the Japanese surrendered. Joe had been a sales representative for the old Iron City Brewing Company, his grandmother was a dance instructor and had taught Bobby Vinton dance as an adolescent. Joe was great to work with; his wife was a far different story. To say she was difficult would be like saying that 40 caliber chest wound you just received was just a scratch. Wild Bill would buy a load of records and invariably Grandma would stick her nose through the door and start bitching about all of the new records. Her famous line was always "Why don't you sell what you have before you buy more" Wild Bill and I would just look at each other and crack up. Apparently she had no understanding of the addiction we had to vinyl.

(to be continuted)

In Search Of the Sound Chapter 8

Wild Bill could at times be the infant terrible with Joe his grandfather. I'm sure that his diabetes and blood sugar fluctuations had a lot to do with his behavior. That fact that he was full Italian on his mother's side and one half on his father's side probably added some fuel to the fire. Joe and his wife would have these really weird ways of talking to each other, they were usually swearing at the top of their voices all the while their hands were flying up in the air. Odd thing was they didn't seem to be angry with each other, that's just how they communicated.

As I intimated earlier Wild Bill was somewhat estranged from his father. Based on what he told me about his father was that he had gotten involved with another woman while he was still married to his mom. It was a family scandal that blew the whole family apart. Wild Bill's dad divorced his mother and married the "other woman". Wild Bill never much cared for his dad's new wife and never called her by name, he simply referred to her as "the broad with the big t*ts" that his dad was married to. It is my distinct impression that those words were not terms of endearment from Wild Bill. I am sure the divorce was tough on him, if I remember correctly he said he was about twelve when they split up. Wild Bill's dad was also pretty tough on him. Wild Bill had a younger brother named James. James was a college graduate from a fine university, had a great job, was married and doing well over in Philadelphia, PA. I met James a few times and he was a nice young man, always courteous and nice. Wild Bill's dad used to rag on him all of the time about not being as smart as or as good as his little brother. I often thought in my mind that Wild Bill was the Fredo Corleone to Jimmy's Michael Corleone in the Godfather movies. Wild Bill really resented his dad and I could understand why. Wild Bill was successful in his own way; he was just different than his dad expected him to be. I don't quite know how Wild Bill's dad defined success but it was far different than mine.

I am sure that his father only wanted the best for him. As a teacher I am sure that education of the book kind held heavy emphasis in his mind. Today I am faced with a similar set of circumstances with my youngest son. He is hell bent on doing it his way. Sometimes that hurts me. The choices he has made in his life are not the choices I would have made for him, but it is his life. That is a hard lesson for any parent to learn.

As our friendship grew it evolved into a father/ son type of relationship, Wild Bill felt he could confide in me things he could never talk to his real father about. I was about fourteen years older than him and bit more experienced in the ways of the world and I tried not to be judgmental. The time that we were able to spend on the road gave us plenty of time to talk and grow closer. I don't believe that Bill and I ever had a cross word, we just clicked. We respected each others' knowledge and experience. We were also able to speak freely and bluntly with each other on any subject with what was ever on our minds. In the too short few years that we were friends I grew to love him as a friend, a guy that I could count on. His courage of living in the face of adversity on a daily basis was admirable. Just the mere thought of having to inject oneself three times daily with insulin, the fear of blindness, of amputation, non-healing wounds, heart disease and all of the other related health problems that accompany this disease without ever complaining was amazing to me. It got to the point when we were on the road that we used to joke about in the van as Wild Bill searched his body for a place to do the injection in a restaurant parking lot in rural Ohio. Wild Bill pulled out his insulin kit and placed the syringe on the dashboard of the van as he swiped his upper arm with an alcohol pad. An elderly couple passed in front just as Wild Bill picked up the syringe. Bill just smiled at the old couple, raised his eyebrows a few times very quickly and stabbed the needle into his upper arm with great flair. He then began faking nodding off with the needle still dangling from his arm in full view of the old couple. What the elderly couple in the middle of rural white bread America must have thought. "Oh my God Harriet, them's is heroin junkies shooting up right here in the parking lot" was the horrified look that we got from the couple. Little did they know what was really going on in the van. I said to Wild Bill, "I guess the local gendarme will be showing up any minute now". "They will probably have us unload the damned van so they can search everything"
Wild Bill replied in his usual wicked manner "Screw 'em if they can't take a joke".

Wild Bill was only twenty four or twenty five when we met and he had severe problems with his vision, heart and cholesterol. He also suffered from chronic indigestion and gas. That usually made for some interesting times in an enclosed van. Between burping and farting (he was very proficient at both) it was to say the least a unique way of traveling. Imagine coming down I-75 Flint, Michigan in January, the outside ambient temperature is about four degrees Fahrenheit, add in a wind chill factor that takes it down to about thirty below, the heater turned up full blast and my friend sends a very potent, silent but deadly present your way. Windows down, much gagging and Wild Bill laughing his ass off at the chaos he has just created.

The number of mile we put on over the next five or six years would rival most over the road driver teams. Wild Bill was a man of excess. He loved life and was always looking to have fun when we were on the road. I believe the first trip we ever took together was to Buffalo, NY. I liked Buffalo and the guys who ran the show there at the local VFW in Kenmore, NY. The guys up there were just like the guys at home in Pittsburgh, blue collar, hard working and down to earth. There were also a lot of guys who would travel over from Canada to attend the show. They too were good friends and great customers. Always loved dealing with those guys.

Wild Bill had one little problem when he attended shows. It seemed to me that he always bought a heel of a lot more than he sold. I can see him now staggering under the weight of a huge stack of LP's coming back to our tables just grinning from ear to ear. Wild Bill loved buying more than selling; it is as plain as that. At each show we always had adjoining tables. Customers would always bitch to me about how Wild Bill would never deal on anything in his boxes. Wild Bill didn't care; he just loved hitting people on the head with his non negotiating style. Wild Bill understood the vinyl addiction pretty well and at times could be just plain merciless when it came to dealing on stuff. He wanted what he wanted and that was it, pretty simple I think. Wild Bill always had some great stuff in terms of rarity and condition and he could care less if he sold it. It was certainly different when he was buying though; he would squeeze a nickel until the buffalo shit. To say he was tight does a great disservice to the term, he was wickedly cheap.

Whenever I found something that Wild bill wanted he would invariably take it out of my box and literally hold onto it. Buying and selling vinyl is like playing Texas Hold "Em poker. If you have ever seen the movie "Rounders" starring Matt Damon and John Malkovich my favorite scene is when they are playing for the whole enchilada. Malkovich is trying to bluff and Damon notices that Malkovich twists open an Oreo cookie and licks the middle when he's trying to bluff revealing his "tick". It was the same way with Wild Bill; his tick was his holding onto the record as we negotiated. If he held it he was buying, every time without fail. He would physically cradle the LP ('s) in his arms until an agreement was reached. I used to bust his chops a bit now and then by taking them back while he waited on a customer. He would be panic stricken until he realized that I was just messing with him. Wild Bill would then just look at me, smile and refer to me with a lot of cuss words attached to my name. I never hit Wild Bill on the head on a deal. I made him pay but it was always less than what I could have sold it to someone else for, he always took care of me on my vinyl needs too.

(to be continued)

In Search Of the Sound Chapter 9

Wild Bill had never done an auction in Goldmine or Discoveries magazine. He asked me to help him in doing the first one. We assembled a list of LP's for auction at his store. As we were selecting the LP's for auction a couple of young guys stopped by the store and inquired if we bought albums. They were probably in their early twenties and each sported a spectacular mullet on their head. Washington County PA could be in the top ten nationwide for mullet hairdos. It's almost a given that if you are a male child in Washington County you will wear a mullet at one point in your life, that and the mandatory Lynyrd Skynyrd tattoo to go along with the mullet. It's a rite of passage.

We told him that we could be interested and asked what he had. He instructed his partner in crime to go out to the car and bring the boxes in. They had three boxes of sealed LP's from the sixties. They were all from the cutout bin and there was some pretty cool stuff in the boxes. I asked them where they had gotten the LP's and they disclosed that they had come from one of their grandfather's basement. It seemed that grandpa had once owned a five and dime store and this was leftover store stock. I handled the negotiations for Wild Bill. The kid seemed somewhat reluctant to sell the LP's. I came to the conclusion after talking with the kids for a few minutes that they just wanted to get some cash to buy some weed. I played up to them and started talking about my experiences many years ago with pot. As a young man of the sixties and seventies I had a whole lot of experience to share on the subject. As someone once said "If you remember the sixties, you probably weren't there". That was my experience anyhow. I believe we paid the kids $65.00 for the boxes of records. We pulled some of the LP's from the boxes we purchased and added them to the list. I took the list home and redid it in my computer, printed it out and sent it off to the magazine.

The response to the ad was pretty good. One item in particular was doing better than expected. The LP was by Barbara Eden of "I Dream of Jeannie" TV show fame. The LP wasn't any great shakes musically I am sure, but it wasn't a common LP either. The fact that it was sealed probably helped raise the action on it at auction. Wild Bill didn't own a computer yet and Ebay was still along way off so bids were taken either by phone or by mail. Wild Bill figured he would end the auction thirty days from the mailing date of the magazine (typically mailing dates and cover dates vary by about fourteen days on most magazines). It was thirty days from the mailing date so Wild Bill figured he would close the auction. He had received a phone bid of $65.00 from a guy in the Chicago area. The highest bid up to that point was $50.00. Wild Bill agreed to sell the LP for $65.00 to the guy from Chicago and close out the auction.

Around dinner time that evening Wild Bill called me and was very upset. He had received a call from a guy in concerning the Barbara Eden LP. Wild Bill informed him that he had sold the Barbara Eden LP and that the auction was closed. The phone caller claimed that since he had not stated in the ad that he would be closing the auction thirty days from the mailing date that he had a "legal obligation" to keep it open until thirty days from the cover date. This dude also claimed to be the attorney for Krause Publications Inc. the publisher of both Goldmine and Discoveries magazines. He then proceeded to tell Wild Bill that if he didn't agree to sell the LP to him that he would make sure that Wild Bill would never advertise in either magazine again and was considering other "legal actions" against him. Wild Bill was certainly in a panic when he called. I asked Wild Bill if he had gotten the guys phone number. He replied he had and gave it to me. I assured Bill that I would handle it and get back with him.

I looked at the area code and saw that it was from Massachusetts. Krause Publications was located in Wisconsin and that threw up a red flag to me. Although not unheard of I doubted that a company in Wisconsin was very likely to have an attorney in Massachusetts. Also taking into consideration the intimidating and threatening shakedown approach this individual used on Bill I doubted that he was for real. I developed a plan of action in my mind before I called this guy. First and foremost I called Krause Publications to inquire if this guy was on their legal staff or in anyway represented them. The young lady from Krause informed me that she had never heard of him and the only attorney on their staff was her brother-in-law. I also asked about the "thirty days" rule for auctions. She assured me that although it was common practice for most dealers to handle auctions that way it was well with the seller's rights to end the auction at whatever time they wished. She also informed me that things of this nature do unfortunately happen on a regular basis. "It's usually an individual collector or sometimes another dealer trying hustle a dealer out of a record" she stated.

With this information in hand I started to formulate a plan on how to handle this jerk. I came up with the idea of becoming the "Attorney Defacto" for Wild Bill's House of Records Inc." I had to use this term a number of times when I had to pursue people for lack of payment on vehicles they had leased and defaulted on. I was the "Attorney Defacto" on the documents I had to file in these cases that went to small claims court.

I dialed the number in Massachusetts. A woman answered the phone and I asked for the man whom we will call Donny for our purposes today. She replied that he was not home currently but would be back shortly. I inquired if he was an attorney. She simply replied "No, he's a bus driver".

I informed her that I my name was C. Edward Thieroff (sounds really official and intimidating doesn't it) and that I was the "Attorney Defacto" for Wild Bill's House of Records Inc. located in Canonsburg PA. and was representing my client in a dispute regarding her husband Donny. I advised her that her husband had contacted my client and had made a number of threatening statements that violated Pennsylvania law concerning restraint of trade,
I informed her nature of my call was to insure the legal rights of my client and to put her husband on notice that he had broken a number of laws of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania including but not limited to the following:

A. Impersonating an officer of the court
B. Restraint of fair trade
C. Attempted intimidation
D. Use of interstate phone lines to commit fraud

I could hear the woman cringe with each of those charges that I made up. She was on the verge of tears when I finished although that was not my intent. "Him and those fucking records" she said almost sobbing. "I'm going to kill that son of a bitch when he gets home". I advised her that killing her husband was not a good idea. I assured her that we took these charges very seriously and that I would do everything in my power to insure that my client was protected if these false claims did not cease and desist. I also made her aware that we would not seek further action against her husband if these calls stopped. She assured me they would.

I can only imagine what Donny's evening was like that night. I can envision him walking through the door and saying "Honey, I'm home" and catching a baseball bat in the face from his loving wife as she screams "YOU AND THOSE LOUSY FUCKING RECORDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I went down to see Bill and his grandfather later that evening and told them in great detail what had transpired during the phone call. We all laughed for about an hour thinking about that poor bastard up in Massachusetts getting whacked by his old lady all over a Barbara Eden LP. That's the thing about this addiction to vinyl, people will do the goofiest things over a stupid piece of vinyl. Granted Barbara Eden was a babe back in the day but for Chris sakes it's an album, certainly not worth losing your marriage over. It just goes to show you how powerful the lure of vinyl can be for some people, they will risk about anything to get their fix.

The Creep from NYC
Wild Bill had spotted a full page ad in the August edition of Goldmine Magazine for a record show coming up in November to be held in Niagara Falls, NY. We had already done the Buffalo show at the VFW in Kenmore, NY a couple of times and liked it quite well. Niagara Falls was only about 30 miles north of Buffalo and a short run for us of about four and half hours from Pittsburgh. We were already scheduled to do the mid September show in Buffalo so it was an option that we felt was worth exploring.

We set up at the Buffalo show in mid September and had a pretty good time. Traffic at the show was great, sales were good and the purchases we made were great. All in all, it was a winner of a show for both of us. In the early afternoon during the Buffalo show a middle aged man approached my tables and started going through my boxes checking out my wares. He was rather short in stature, had a full beard and appeared to be in his later forties or perhaps his early fifties. I approached him and asked if there was something in particular that he was interested in and he replied rather nonchalantly "Not really". I introduced myself and stuck out my hand and asked him what his name was. "Richard" he replied politely as we shook hands. I let him know if there was anything he needed or was looking for to please ask me so that I could point him in the right direction. "There is one thing" he said "Do you ever buy records"? "Sure" I replied "what is it that you are looking to sell" Richard informed me that he had been a rep for Warner Brothers during the early to late seventies and had a lot of LP's at home that he was looking to get rid of. He told me that he only lived about ninety minutes south of Buffalo off of Route 17. I told Richard that I was interested and asked for his number so that I could get in touch with him. He handed me a business card and I thanked him. I watched Richard as he worked his way around the room talking to other dealers and handing out his business cards to many of them. To be perfectly honest I didn't think very much of the conversation at the time. I have been approached many times at shows by people with collections for sale and very few turned out to be of any value. Couple that with the Warner Brothers connection from the early seventies to late seventies and what do you have? A lot of Doobie Brothers LP's and countless other million sellers that they produced back then. That's not a knock on Warner Brothers it's just that they were very successful with their acts and that era's music had not really reached it zenith as far as collect ability goes. That time period was probably the best in the industry as far as successful acts and sales were concerned and WB was certainly at the forefront. Again the show went pretty well, we made a few bucks, lightened our load, had a few laughs and a good meal on the way home.

After we got home we decided to look a little deeper into the upcoming show in Niagara Falls. The table prices were pretty steep ($200.00 per table that included Friday night, Saturday and Sunday). The ad stated that typically they had 10,000 visitors over the three days. A decent record shows will draw 500 people a great record show would draw 1500 customers. The show was a combination sports memorabilia show and record show. The advertisement stated that this show was expected to be one of the biggest on the East Coast. We also talked to a couple of other dealers from Pittsburgh and they were planning on setting up at the show also. I felt a little better about it after talking to them.

I called the Creep From NYC and asked about the show and customer count. The Creep from NYC assured me that they had sent out 30,000 postcards from their mailing list along with radio and print ads for the upcoming show and based on their past shows this one would be no different. I reserved three tables for me and five for Wild Bill. That was a lot of cash to layout for just tables at a show, we also had fuel, lodging and meal expenses to consider, it certainly was an expensive proposition for us to consider. We made the commitment and rolled the dice.

The drive from Pittsburgh was uneventful. We arrived in Niagara Falls, NY early that November Friday afternoon. The show was being held at the University of Niagara Athletic Center. We walked in the arena through the loading dock to check it out. The venue was really pretty nice. There were a number of dealers already in the process of setting up their tables for the evening show. Most of the dealers that had already arrived were sports memorabilia dealers. I noticed there were signs that announced the Pee Wee Reese, Joe Morgan and some other retired ball players were going to be there to sign autographs on Saturday and Sunday . The fact that we were the first and only record dealers to arrive up to that point didn't sit well with me. Most record collectors could care about baseball cards and I am sure most baseball card collectors could care about records. That ill and foreboding feeling remained with me most of the weekend. We pulled the van inside the arena at the far end of the facility and unloaded our wares. A couple of other dealers from Pittsburgh pulled in and unloaded shortly after we arrived. We talked for a bit and a few of us decided to check into the hotel, clean up and grab an early dinner. We returned to the venue about 5:45 PM. The only other record dealers there were Wild Bill and I and a few dealers from the Pittsburgh area, another bad sign I thought. That evening the crowd was decent but there were only about ten to thirty people who showed up who had any interest in records.

This was a god damned baseball card show, not a record/sports memorabilia show as the Creep from NYC had promised. The few record collectors who attended the show (six in total) disclosed in conversations with them that the Creep from NYC had told them on the phone that there were going to be "plenty" of record dealers there from all over the U.S.A and that almost all of the tables set aside for the record dealers had been sold. I really felt bad for a number of people who had taken the bus over from Toronto, Canada to shop for records. This was really a bad deal for everybody but the Creep from NYC. I did a total of $136.00 in gross sales that evening, Wild Bill did $38.00. Needless to say, this was not a good night. We returned home to our hotel room really down in the dumps. We had spent a lot of money to do this show and it appeared that we were getting screwed. We arose early the next day, showered and set off for breakfast in the hotel. It had gotten pretty cold during the night and we stepped out into nine inches of freshly fallen snow. The arena was pretty cold when we arrived that morning. I noticed that about half of the overhead lighting was not working either. Bad lighting makes it very hard for a potential buyer to visually grade a record plus from a personal standpoint it's annoying to work in a dingy place all day. All day long neither the heat came on nor the lights. The only rise in temperature in the arena was my ass slowly burning. The turnout was dismal, even for the card dealers. I don't think I talked to more than three people all the way up until about 2:00 PM. The card dealers suffered too. I am willing to bet that only two hundred customers turned the turnstiles that Saturday. They weren't spending much money on baseball collectibles and even less on records. Pee Wee Reese and Joe Morgan showed up though and folks were paying $15.00 a crack to get their autograph and a photo with them. Wild Bill did about $16.00 in gross sales and my $25.00 didn't fare much better. Everybody was bitching about the turnout or lack of it. I told Wild Bill that I had had enough of this bullshit and wanted to pack up and go home. Wild Bill agreed, our fate was cast and we were going to lose our asses on this deal. That's the breaks sometimes. As my dear old friend Almo used to say "One day cowboy, next day cow shit". It was that kind of weekend.

I asked Bill for his cell phone because I still had the guys phone number in my wallet and wanted to see if there was a chance that we could pay Richard a visit just south of Buffalo. I dialed the phone number and sure enough Richard answered. I explained who I was and Richard said that he remembered talking to me at the show. I inquired if anyone had gotten in touch with him about his record collection. He replied with disappointment in his voice that no one had even called him let alone came down to look at them. I asked I we could come down and take a look at them. Richard asked when we would like to do that. I replied that tomorrow (Sunday) if that was ok. Richard informed me that he had to be heading to Syracuse that Sunday evening and did not know if it would work for him. I told Richard that we were actually in Niagara Falls, NY and could be there in a couple of hours in the morning. Richard said that would work for him and agreed to meet us at the only gas station in town the next morning about 9:00 AM. I was starting to feel a little bit better about this trip. Sometimes the occasion arises when you are in a losing situation that the only way you can work out of it is to buy your way out. That was my hope in arranging our trip to see Richard.

I went to the loading dock and asked the rent-a-cop politely if he would open the garage door and allow me to bring the van inside so that we could load out. The rent-a-cop politely told me that he had strict orders from the Creep from NYC to not allow anyone to take anything out of the arena without his direct orders. I asked the guard to get him for me so that I could talk to him personally. It would have been easy for me to tell the Creep from NYC that I had an emergency at home or that the hospital had called and that they had a matching liver waiting for me or some other bullshit story to weasel my way out. I am not that kind of a guy. I believe in being up front with somebody regardless of how uncomfortable that may be. The Creep from NYC came walking over like some kind of bad ass right away with a scowl on his face. At his side was a tall skinny geek who looked like Mr. Green Jeans from Captain Kangaroo. This guy was apparently the Creep's muscle I thought to myself. The Creep asked me what my problem was and I calmly explained that this show was not anything close to a record show but was in fact a baseball memorabilia show and that based on the low turnout Wild Bill and I simply and quietly wanted to pack up and go. I explained that there was really no reason for us to waste anymore of our time here just getting more pissed off. The Creep informed me with a lot of bravado that I had signed a "binding contract" to stay at the show until closing time on Sunday. I'm not one to get intimidated easily so I again asked him politely to have the guard open the door so that I could bring the van inside, pack up and leave quietly. The Creep replied "you can't leave you signed a contract" I did get a bit short and informed the Creep that he could "take that contract and shove it up his ass" for all I cared and that I was still leaving. I informed the Creep that as far as I was concerned the contract was null and void and that the show had been misrepresented and that I was considering pursuing legal action against him for me and Wild Bill to get our fees back. I then stated that if he just let us leave quietly and discreetly that there would be no need to fuss about all of this bullshit. All that Wild Bill and I wanted to do was to go home. Again the Creep started on this contract bullshit when all of a sudden Mr. Green Jeans piped up and said "Nobody leaves a show early". That was it, the breaking pint for me at least. I felt like I was being threatened and I did not like it. I was raised rough and I learned early on that if someone threatens you take it as fact and strike first. I glared at Mr. Green Jeans and said "Dude I'm from Pittsburgh and I have only been out of the home for two weeks this time". "You guys are going to open the fucking door and let us leave or I'm gonna lose it". "Just so you know, when I lose it I lose it big time, so if you don't want me to embarrass the both of you by kicking you asses from one end of this arena to the other in front of Pee Wee Reese and Joe Morgan you better open the fucking door"!!! Mr. Green Jeans started to say something and I cut him off at the knees "Don't even think about calling security you skinny fuck, I'll have your ass kicked before you can dial 911". I then turned to the Creep and said "Yo' fat boy, take one step and I will fuck you up big time". "In fact why don't you go outside and practice falling down for about fifteen minutes because you are going to need the practice once I get a hold of your fat ass". They both looked at me like I was nuts, precisely the reaction I wanted and they believed I meant what I said. I am not a tough guy and I certainly have had my ass whooped more than I have whooped ass. It was always my goal though that if you were going to kick my ass it would be a one time thing. Once you had me you probably didn't come back for seconds. I learned at an early age that words, verbal inflection, attitude and body language can cause a lot of doubt in an adversary. My ploy worked, they agreed peacefully to open the door and allow us to leave quietly.

That night Wild Bill and I along with a couple other record dealer's had dinner at the Niagara Fall, NY Hard Rock Café. After dinner we all walked across the Rainbow Bridge to Canada to do a little gambling at the new Fox Casino. It amazed me how much difference there was between the two cities; Niagara Fall On was rocking, Niagara Fall, NY was like a ghost town. There was a revitalization going on over on the NY side but it had a long way to go. Walking over the Rainbow Bridge to Canada was like the heading into a warm August night on the Canadian side and a cold and dreary January night on the NY side. Wild Bill and I had some fun with the nickel slots in the casino, I dropped about twenty five bucks US and Wild Bill won about seventy five dollars Canadian. I think I was the one who actually came out ahead in the long run.

Early Sunday morning we headed down to the Holiday Valley Ski area where Richard agreed to meet us. We made stellar time in our drive and arrived about an hour and a half later in the small town. We pulled into the gas station in the center of town where Richard said he would meet us. As we sat there drinking a coffee a rather small man in a tuke and a Carhart tan coat walked up to the van and knocked on the window. I turned and opened the window not knowing whom I was looking at. "Chuck" he said, "it's Richard". I Hardly recognized him. His beard was longer and he was dressed kind of country. At the show he had worn a sport jacket and his beard and mustache were well trimmed. The mirror sunglasses he was now wearing hid his eyes too. "Oh Hi Richard" I said "How you doing'? "OK" he replied "I live about six miles out of town so follow me" I wheeled the long wheel based Ford van out of the gas station and headed east behind my new best friend Richard. We went about six miles when Richard turned on his signal to indicate that he was making a right turn into what appeared to be a parking area about two hundred feet from a small old barn. The old weathered barn had been updated and had been turned into a single family dwelling. There was about a foot of snow that we had to traverse to get to the house. Richard put his lock in the key to the side door and hesitated unlocking the door. He started to rock back and forth a bit and then he removed the key from the door without unlocking it. "What's up" I asked. "There's something I have to tell you" Richard stammered. My first thought was that Richard was going to try to hustle me. Based on his appearance and demeanor I thought that he might be gay. I don't have a problem with that lifestyle it just isn't mine. "Whatever floats your boat just don't ask me to go sailing with you was my attitude. If he asked I certainly wasn't going to trade sexual favors for some records, it just wasn't my style. I was addicted to vinyl for sure but I hadn't hit that bottom yet. "I just don't know how to say this" he whispered. I thought for sure that the sex thing was about to become an issue. Well I thought, I've come this far so what the hell, "what is is Richard, just tell it like it is". "Well, well, well" he stammered "I live with a chicken". I heaved a large sigh of relief., looked at Wild Bill and smiled.

In Search Of The Sound Chapter 12
Richard the Chicken Dude

I just had to know and the only way to do that was to toss all of my fears to the side and ask. "Richard, what kind of a chicken do you live with"? I asked with out cracking up under the pressure. "It's a replacement chicken" Richard quietly replied. "Hmmm a replacement chicken" I thought to myself, does that mean it's like a scab chicken that crosses picket lines or what? "I'll show you" Richard said as he placed the key back into the door lock and turned it. He swung the door open and sure as hell there was a Golden Bantam inside the room perched on top of what appeared to be either an oxygen or helium cylinder tank. It took everything to keep my composure when I saw the chicken. I figured that I had better keep the conversation moving forward. "Richard what is the chicken's name"? I asked. "Cacciatore" he replied. With all of the restraint that I could muster and absolutely avoiding eye contact with Wild Bill lest I lose my mind and screw this thing up I asked quietly "Just what is a replacement chicken Richard"? "Well, I had another chicken before this one and he passed away". "They normally only live to be about two and a half years to three years old" Richard replied in a reverent tone. "Oh my" I said. "You certainly have my sincerest condolences on the loss of your other chicken, may I ask his name"? I queried. "Kiev" Richard replied in a hushed tone. At this point I am really struggling with the absurdity of the moment. I know that if I make eye contact with Wild Bill for a split second that I will blow this up big time. I can hear him in the background making little snarfing noises as I delve deeper into this deal. I must tell you Richard is a serious as a preacher on Sunday morning the whole time. I can tell by his body language and tone of voice that I must tread lightly and show respect lest he become offended. One does not mock another mans' chicken. The next question that I just had to ask required that I keep silent for what seemed eons as I tried to compose myself before asking. "Richard, if I might ask what does one do with a chicken"? I don't know how your mind works but let me tell you about how mine does. Here's is this rather strange man who is single, living in the middle of nowhere, wearing a tuque and living with a chicken. My thoughts went to the cold snowy nights in Western New York's Allegheny Mountain range, a single guy, a cute Golden Bantam, no internet at this time and possibly living too far away from town to have cable television. The possibilities are scary and endless. The whole time Wild Bill is standing across the room shaking apart with the laughter that he is so desperately trying to hold in as he listens to this weird conversation. I believe that Wild Bill is on the verge of collapsing into a heap in the middle of the floor. I look past Richard as he bends to lovingly pick Cacciatore up from the floor and see Wild Bill, he literally has tears running down his face and is holding his sides trying not to lose it. I am almost ashamed to tell you that I pulled this off with a straight face and with great conviction.

Richard finally answered "I train them". Again my curiosity was piqued. My thoughts immediately went to Richard training chickens like the US Navy was training dolphins to handle clandestine maneuvers for the military. There goes Cacciatore wearing an explosive vest invading an enemy foxhole I imagined. I asked sheepishly "train them to do what"? "Let me show you" Richard replied. He pulled what appeared to be a small hand held clicker like we used to have when I was a kid and clicked it twice. Cacciatore the chicken immediately started to dance in a circle in the middle of the room. "Pretty cool, Richard" I said.

"Wait there's more" Richard said with the excitement rising in his voice as he hurried across the room to a desk. He pulled out a picture of a young girl playing a violin with a chicken standing on her head and showed it to me. "That's my niece and Kiev" he said proudly. "I trained Kiev to dance on my niece's head a she played the violin. We were supposed to be on David Letterman" he said with a great deal of disappointment in his voice. "Really" I asked. "Yeah but we got ripped off, some guy with a stupid dog took too long and we didn't get on' Richard said sadly. "Both my niece and Kiev were seriously disappointed by that, we had trained for months". "I understand your disappointment Richard" I said with empathy. The strangeness of Richard made me curious about him and I really wanted to change the subject anyhow. I also wanted to see if I could find some common ground with this strange little man.
A lot of people define themselves by what they do for a living; I wondered what Richard did for a living in this remote area so I decided to ask. "Richard, what do you do for a living"? I stood waiting for an answer that would make me lose my composure and blow this whole deal. "Well, in the wintertime I teach kids how to ski at the local resort and in the summertime I run a clown camp". Again my mind raced with the potential humor from his reply. "A clown camp, what's that if I may ask"? "I teach people how to become a clown, how to put on makeup, how to juggle how to make balloon animals and so forth" Richard replied proudly. "Here let me show you" Richard said excitedly. I spent the better part of the next hour filling balloons up from the large cylindrical tank with air before we even sniffed a record. Richard continuously advised me that "it's all in the proportion Chuck, great balloon animals are proportionate" Richard advised me in a very serious tone. How I kept from laughing I will never know. Before you even ask; No I did not get into the makeup or juggling portions of the training.

When we finally did get to go through the records it turned out to be a very good hit for us. We made Richard an offer for the items we were interested in and he countered with one that was a lot higher. I asked Richard if he could excuse Wild Bill and I so that we could talk about the offer in private. Wild Bill and I stepped out of the house into a bright sunlit day with the sun bouncing off the winter snow. I explained to Wild Bill what I believed our strategy should be, smoked a couple of cigarettes while we stood outside and talked. I almost forgot to tell you but Richard had informed me before we entered the house that Cacciatore was allergic to cigarette smoke and that I was not to smoke in his presence. We went back in and I explained to Richard that we really had taken a beating this weekend at the Creep from NYC's show and that we really wanted to buy the items we selected but needed him to be a bit more flexible on his asking price. I explained that we only had "X" number of dollars between us and that we needed about $100.00 to eat and fill the big Ford van up with gas to get home. I raised our offer slightly and shut my mouth. The big freeze was on. One of the things I learned early on in the car business was to make a counter offer and shut up. First one that speaks loses. Thirty seconds of silence is a long time and a full minute is an eternity. Finally Richard spoke after about forty five seconds. During that time I could see that physically he was getting more uncomfortable with each passing second until he literally started to twitch a bit. Richard was a nice man and I hated to do this to him but a negotiation is a negotiation, it's kind of like a mini war. "Is that the best you can do" he asked. "Absolutely" I replied. "OK, let's do it" Richard said in a deflated tone. I reached into my coat pocket and handed over the cash.

Wild Bill and I loaded our newly found goodies into the van. We thanked Richard again as I was backing out of the driveway onto the blacktop road. I beeped the horn twice and waved as we headed west towards town and home. As we drove down the road in silence I looked over at Wild Bill and he looked at me and we both started laughing our asses off hysterically. This encounter was not only entertaining but profitable. In addition to the great promo copy records we bought we also bought forty eight unused Devo concert tickets and two sets of very rare unused tickets for a Rick James concert at a theater in Buffalo, NY. The thing that made these tickets rare was the opening act that night. It was none other than his little purple-ness "Prince". This was Prince's first concert outside of his hometown of Minneapolis, MN and a very rare piece to say the least. The sale of these two sets of tickets not only paid for all of the items we purchased but also most of the losses we incurred doing the Creep from NYC's disaster of a show. The other items were icing on the cake. Each item we purchased was a promo and absolutely mint and never had a needle placed on them. The one thing I regret was not being able to get Richard to sell me the autographed flower pot hats that Devo had worn at the concert (we had purchased the forty eight unused tickets from) which had been held in Buffalo. I would really love to have had those stupid hats. It's great when you find a nice load of records like this it's even nicer when you meet a character like Richard.

For every Richard the Chicken Dude that you meet in this hobby there seems to be a proportionate number of jackasses. The Pope falls into the latter category. I had never run into the Pope even though he was from the Western Pennsylvania area. I had unfortunately run into his reputation long before our paths crossed. It seemed to me that when one starts doing shows outside of Pittsburgh and it's the first time that you set up at a show one attracts attention from other dealers. Probably because you are the new guy more than anything else and other dealers like to check out what you have brought along to the show. Sometimes it's benign enough, a dealer just wants to see what you have in inventory and other times they hope to score a nugget that you may not know about for cheap. It's all part of the game and I accept it. Early on in my travels dealers would come over to chat and check things out. Invariably they would ask where I was from. It seemed to me that when I told them I was from Pittsburgh they would make a mean face and say "The Pope". I wasn't really familiar with whom they were referring but it seemed to me that this guy wasn't very well liked. I heard the same thing from Allentown, PA all the way out to Chicago and all parts in between. It seems that the Pope had developed a nasty reputation for taking advantage of other dealers. As I was to find out the Pope could be a bit sinister at times and ruthless is a term that falls far short of the wickedness that he posses or that posses him, I am not quite sure.
I had asked Beckham about him and even Beckham had little good to say about him. My first encounter with the Pope came quite by surprise and totally uninvited. I had run my first advertisement in Goldmine for some LP's that I wanted to sell. I came home one evening and checked my answering machine for any bids or other phone calls. There was a message from a guy who as it turned out was the Pope. He told me how he was a Pittsburgh guy and how he had seen my ad in Goldmine and that he really didn't live very far away and that he would like to come up to my house and check out my 45's. This call concerned me deeply. I had not advertised any 45's for sale in Goldmine and I thought it a bit cheeky that someone I had never met felt that it was ok to practically invite himself into my home and go through my things. That call and the reaction that I received at shows in other cities whenever I mentioned that I was from Pittsburgh sent up at least a couple of flags anyhow. I thought to myself, "What balls this guy has". I have never met him and already I feel threatened. I decided to call the Pope and set the ground rules before he even got close. I dialed the number and the Pope answered. I told him who I was and that I was returning his phone call. I also told him that I thought it was a bit out of the box for him to assume that he could come over to my house and "check things out" as he stated in his voice mail. I informed him that I had no 45's for sale and based on his behavior even if I did he wasn't welcome.

Based on what other dealers told me the Pope had screwed a lot of people out of a lot of good records. The Pope had started collecting records back in the late fifties and had developed a supreme knowledge of great records. He was a college grad from a southern school in the Appalachian Mountains, he bled Orange. He also became a teacher and even took a job down in the remote areas of the Appalachians so that he could visit record stores in the area. He was very good at what he did. He would find a record and study the label. He would note where the label was from, who the producer and writers were as well as the artist. Keep in mind folks this is long before a price guide was even a gleam in anybody's eye. The Pope could have written volumes about music but he remains one of the most miserable people you could meet. He rarely if ever will share any information about any record. I know this because it took me years to get remotely close to him to the point where we even went on a few of my leads together. Based on what the Pope did share with me was his love of Rockabilly music. I came to find out from other dealers that knew him that he had one of if not the best rockabilly 45 collections in the world. He hunted long and hard for those records. He would travel to the town where the record was pressed, head to the local bar and have a beer all the time pumping the bartender and the patrons for information about the label, who owned it etcetera. The Pope made it his business to find out all that he could about the record from who played on it to how many were pressed. If the Pope really got lucky he would be able to look up the artist. He once told me that a lot of times the artists would talk to him but they would not talk about the music. It seems that a lot of those boys who recorded rockabilly had turned their back on their religion and started to sing the "Devil's Music". Their lives seemed to have fallen apart from all the drinking and debauchery that they had been involved in and the hard living ways "drove" them back to the Lord. That I do not have a problem with personally, for I know what it is like to have been lost and now found. The Pope was relentless though and he amassed a ton of rare records and a lot more rare knowledge.

I don't have a problem with guys who play it close to the vest when it comes to information but the Pope was one of the strangest guys that I ever encountered. I think it might have given him a sense of power that he knew something that nobody else did. I heard stories about how he could just get pissed off and not talk to anybody because you sold a record that he wanted and didn't get. I recently ran into an acquaintance that I had met years ago at the local flea market. Davie was a nice guy and bought all kinds of stuff including records. He always bought records in quantity although he really never sold anything. About six months ago he set up at a local show where my friend The Bootlegger and I stopped. I checked out some of his stuff and asked him how he was doing and Davie replied that it was ok but all that he had done was look in a price guide and slapped the price on each item based on that. For those of you in the know, price guides are exactly that a guide and not gospel. It was like my first show, throw it out there at a crazy price and let someone work me down. I think that may be how we all start out.

I ran into Davie again at a local shopping center and I asked him how the show went and he replied pretty well. Davie then relayed his story about The Pope. It seems that The Pope showed up and started bitching to Davie about how he thought that he would have called The Pope first before he came and set up at a show and would have allowed him to go through Davies' records before offering them to the public. Davie also told me how The Pope was really getting worked up and how he told him that he thought Davie was a "quarter" record guy and bitched about how Davie had priced everything. Davie was no dummy; he did the right thing for himself by not allowing The Pope access to his stash. Davie and I both laughed about the whole thing and just shook our heads.
(continued in Chapter 14)

I eventually got involved with The Pope to some degree. I figured I could handle just about anything when it came to people. There is an old adage that when one handles a snake one has to always remember that regardless of how the snake behaves it's still a snake and it will invariably bite you. With that bit of knowledge I decided to get involved with The Pope. We started to talk, hang out and even attended a couple of shows together. The Pope and I used to go junking together once in a while and I even took him on a couple of my leads that I had. We never had cross words about a thing for a good while. I was more interested in LP's than 45's and I would usually let him pick through the 45's as I scanned the albums. I enjoyed his company on the road trips. He was well educated and was a teacher by trade, he had even taught my youngest daughter at one time. I used to have him and The Mad Bulgarian (more about him later) over to my garage to bullshit, spin some records and even sell them a few. Based on our relationship I surmised that maybe people were wrong about The Pope. I did that knowing full well what I was dealing with and with reservations.
The Pope had never been married, lived alone and didn't seem to have any close friends. He was kind of a sad character in his own way, a very lonely guy. He never talked about being involved with a woman, dating etc., no guy stuff if you know what I mean. Once a guy showed me a copy of a handbill of a guy who if he wasn't The Pope he could have been his twin brother. The guy was dressed in a cowboy hat and a neckerchief and was named Montana Slim or some other assumed name. I asked The Pope about the handbill and he seemed to get a bit riled and said "I don't know anything about that". I often thought that he did though. The Pope at one time also had his own label and had produced and recorded a couple of country groups. I had come across a couple of those 45's and put a needle to them. They were well produced but didn't do anything for me musically.

Based on what I had heard about The Pope and some of my own experiences with him I often thought that he might have been beaten or abused as a kid. It was just the way he acted sometimes; The Pope could be down right cruel and mean. Although I am not a psychologist I thought that The Pope might be a sociopath or at least be socially challenged. The Pope could talk to people but never really allowed anyone to get real close. It was as though he was hiding an awful secret deep inside himself, a very big hurt that wouldn't go away. He could be cold and mean at the drop of a hat and really jerk somebody around just for the joy of it. There was one instance in particular where we went on a lead, the guy that was selling the records was being a bit difficult. The Hillbilly's (i.e. seller) behavior was one based on little knowledge of what he was selling and The Pope had little patience for anyone who was trying to work him from that position. I was crawling under a table looking at LP's directly across from The Pope and the Hillbilly. I could see The Pope tensing up like a steel spring as the Hillbilly went on and on about what he knew records were worth etc. I think it really galled The Pope knowing that other had been here before and had purchased a lot of great stuff well under their real value and now this Hillbilly was busting The Pope's balls. I thought that The Pope was going to have a major meltdown and explode on the Hillbilly. I intervened and asked the Hillbilly what he wanted for the stack of LP's that I had pulled before I continued looking any further. The diversion worked. The Hillbilly started to go through the stack of LP's and price them while The Pope was able to regroup and cool down. Later on the way home I asked The Pope if he was really mad at the Hillbilly. The Pope replied, "If there's one thing I can't stand is some dumb fucking hillbilly telling me what something is worth". "That stupid bastard doesn't know shit except what he read in some fucking price guide" "The guys before us got 99% of the good shit for next to nothing and this bastard is busting my balls". "I nailed him for a 45 though that is worth $1500.00 though and I only paid a buck for it, nyuk, nyuk ,nyuk". That was the way The Pope crowed about getting over on somebody, by making that Curley from the Three Stooges laugh.
Story has it that the Hillbilly had gotten a load of 45's for nothing from a cab driver who saw them being thrown out at a local radio station. The cabby just filled up his trunk with the 45's (most of which were promo's and Dee jay copies) and dropped them off. I was told later on by the Hillbilly that another guy from Pittsburgh had spent about $4000.00 with him and that he had already made about $12,000.00 on what he had sold.

Shortly after that The Pope kind of backed off from me. I ran into him at the local flea one morning. I didn't know it was him at first, I just happened to see a couple of boxes of LP's and noticed a guy with the crack of his pale white ass hanging out of his jeans squatted down looking through some of them. I stooped down beside him and he turned and looked at me. "I cheerily said "good morning Pope". If looks could kill I would have been a dead man ten times over. The Pope didn't say a word he just kind of sneered at me with a look of disgust and got up and walked away. I don't know what I ever did to him nor do I care, its just part of The Pope's act I guess. He is friendly until he gets what he wants and then he turns back into an ass. I know other people he has treated this way and it has had little effect on me if any at all. Life is way to short to put up with jagoff's. The old adage I spoke about earlier was true and I am grateful that I remembered it during our time together.

I have had occasion to run into The Pope a few times since and we ignore each other. That is the way it is supposed to be. The Pope is one of those people that one will probably never figure out and who wants to waste the time anyhow. I have often wondered though about this peculiar man. He has no family, no real friends, no children and a ton of knowledge and record collection that is absolutely second to none. He is getting up in years and I have often wondered where it will all wind up. The knowledge that he refused to share will be lost, the records may wind up in the trash of no value to anyone, how tragic.

In 1998 Wild Bill and I were talking about opening a store in the town where I lived. Wild Bill and I had located a storefront on a side street right off of the main drag and next to the municipal parking lot. The landlord was an uncle of the owners of the Chevy dealership where i worked at the time. Elmer and his two brothers owned the Ford garage in town while his other three brothers owned the Chevy dealership. The Chevy dealership is the oldest in the world and was started in 1918 and is still owned and operated by the same family today. They were good people to work for. I made a good living while i was employed by them and still stop by every once in a while to shoot the breeze with the grandson (now owner). Elmer and his brothers started the Ford garage in 1930. The store was to be located in the storefront which had served as their parts department when the dealership was open. Elmer was a good guy and not a ball buster. He would let us do whatever we needed to do to make the place presentable. We agreed on a monthly rate and closed the deal. I contacted the local borough office to arrange for the local permits and licenses to occupy the space and to get things moving. Wild Bill had seen an advertisement in a local paper for fixtures and contacted the seller. We drove down to the retail space that was only about five miles from where I lived. The guy who was selling the fixtures was the landlord of the building and had legally foreclosed on the tenant for not paying his rent. It seems that the guy had opened the store and had been arrested about two months into the deal for selling drugs along with records, tapes and cd's. He was tried and sentenced to a few years at the big house for his illegal activities. The landlord came to the conclusion that his only recourse was to sell the fixtures. The landlord said we could have them all for $500.00. I reached into my pocket and counted of five c-notes and handed them over to him. I made arrangements to pick them up the following Sunday.

Wild Bill called me that Saturday morning at the Chevy dealership to tell me that he wasn't feeling well and that I might have to pick up and move the fixtures without him. "No problem I said I have a bunch of guys lined up to give me a hand". Wild Bills' health was always a concern for me; I always worried about what might happen when we were on the road. Wild Bill was never a slacker, he was always willing to jump right in and lend a hand.

I went down to visit Wild Bill that evening at his home. He was in good spirits as we talked excitedly about the new store. I noticed that he had a persistent cough and he was complaining a lot about how his stomach was bothering him. This was nothing new for Wild Bill, he was always complaining about his stomach but the cough was something entirely different. He asked me if I would mind walking up to the drugstore about a block or two away away and pick up some mint flavored Mylanta for him. Wild Bill always took a large bottle of Mylanta on the road with him. The jug always looked to be about a gallon size jug to me and he was always taking a pretty good slug of that stuff while we were cruising down the interstate. I left the house and stepped out into night into a cold March sleet and rain. I walked up to the drug store, found the Mylanta and headed back, it was March 21, 1998. I entered the house and gave Wild Bill the Mylanta. He opened the bottle, took a long pull on it and thanked me. He complained about how tired he was and that he wanted to go to bed. I bade him goodnight, told him I would call him tomorrow after we moved and installed the fixtures in the new store. On my way home I thought about how Wild Bill was worried about some upcoming laser surgery on his eyes that he had scheduled. Wild Bill hated doctors and hospitals with a passion. That hatred probably stemmed from all of the time he spent in them as a kid growing up with Juvenile Diabetes. Wild Bill once told me that the only good thing about being in the hospital was "I get to play grab ass with the nurses".

The crew met me at my house early the next morning. We jumped into the big box truck that I had borrowed from work and headed out. The whole process was pretty uneventful and went very smoothly. We off loaded the fixtures into the new storefront and I headed home the few blocks from where the store was. As I entered the house my wife told me to call Wild Bills' grandfather and that it was urgent. I called Joe immediately. "Chuck, I'm afraid we have some bad news for you" Joe said very quietly. "We had to rush Billy to the hospital this morning by ambulance Joe said almost crying , he had a bad heart attack". "Is he going to be OK" I asked. "Well he's stable right now at the local hospital but the doctors want to send him into the hospital in Pittsburgh so they can run some more tests as soon as he can be moved". "is he allowed visitors" I asked. "yeah, but for only a few minutes at at time" Joe replied. I told Joe that I would be down that afternoon to see Wild Bill. That miserable cough that Wild Bill had was actually caused by congestive heart failure. It seems that ones body will react to the fluid buildup by causing a cough in the sufferer.

The drive to the hospital seemed very, very long to me. The day was beautiful and unseasonably warm for March 22nd. As I drove all I could think about was how Wild Bill and Joe Were doing. Joe was up in years and always concerned about Wild Bills' health and welfare. If I could have ever picked a grandfather for myself Joe would have been it. Wild Bill had fewer concerns about his own well being, he was always eating the wrong foods and not resting enough.

I pulled into the parking lot of the small local hospital and walked the short distance to the main entrance. The nurse at the desk gave me directions to Wild Bills' room. As I walked down the white tiled hallway I could smell that peculiar smell that is relegated to hospitals. It is a combination of of antiseptic, Lysol and alcohol and you only get that troika of smells in a hospital. I entered the room . Wild Bill was lying on the bed with his eyes closed and the usual array of tubes, wires, hoses and needles attached to his thin body. He looked pale and very weak. He opened his eyes and looked at me and I said "How you doing, man"? Wild Bill smiled weakly and said "Not too fucking good I think". "What the hell happened" I asked. "I dunno, I got up this morning and could hardly breath so I called out to Joe". "Next thing I know they're throwing my skinny ass into an ambulance and here I am" he replied. "Did you get the fixtures in" he asked. "All in, all done" I answered "We are good to go".
"Great man, I can't wait to get down there and get things moving" Wild Bill said with an air of excitement in his weak voice. "What do they have on tap for you"? I asked. "They are supposed to take me to Allegheny General Hospital Tuesday morning to run some tests and do an angioplasty on my heart". "They will probably keep me a couple of days and then ship my ass home for a few days rest and I'll be as good as new" he said smiling. "Cool" I said. I spent the better part of the day visiting with Wild Bill, Joe, his mother and Louise his grandmother. I reassured Wild bill before I left that everything would be OK and reminded him that we had a lot of work to do so he had better quit screwing off and get back home. Wild Bill laughed and assured me that he would be up and running in a few days and not to worry. I spoke with Joe on Monday to check up on Bill and see how he was doing. Joe informed me that the angioplasty was scheduled for 9:00 AM Tuesday morning and that they were going to take Wild Bill in by ambulance at about 6:00 AM. Joe told me that he would call me the next morning around 10:30 AM to give me an update on how things went. I stopped by the hospital twice on Monday to see Wild Bill. He seemed stronger than the day before, his attitude was much more positive too and I found comfort and confidence in that.
(to be continued)

I was sitting at my desk at about 10:30 AM when the operator paged me for an incoming call. I said "This is Chuck how may I help you"? "Chuck, this is Joe, Billy didn't make it". "Joe. you mean they didn't take him to AGH this morning right"? I asked. "No Chuck, he didn't make it" Joe said softly sobbing into the phone. "Billy died this morning while they were getting him dressed to take him in to Pittsburgh" Joe said. "You mean he didn't make it AGH right Joe" I asked again in utter disbelief. "No Chuck, Billy went into cardiac arrest here at the hospital in Canonsburg". They tried to revive him but he just didn't make it" Joe said softly, his heart breaking. I broke down on the phone when the gravity and reality of what had happened settled in on me. My best friend and traveling companion companion was dead. Deader than shit man! This isn't supposed to happen at thirty-three, seventy-three maybe but certainly not thirty-three. How could this be, I mean he's just a kid man, he's just a kid. Kids aren't supposed to die man, kids aren't supposed to die!!!

The funeral was going to be tough. I wasn't concerned about the store. Fuck the store! I would trade it all just to have my friend back in a New York minute. I was concerned about Billy's family. Joe and Louise were well up in age and Bill spent most of his time with them. They adored this grandson of theirs. March 24th sucked. The viewing was scheduled to be held on Thursday and Friday with the burial to take place Saturday morning. Once Joe made me aware of the arrangements I went to the local floral shop and had them make up a special if somewhat non-traditional floral arrangement for Bill. I had a Kiss, Madonna and Rolling Stones LP tucked under my arm as I entered the shop. I explained to the lady at the counter that I would like to have these LP's integrated into the floral arrangement. I am sure that she thought it was a pretty odd request but she agreed to do as I wished. I mean most people have pictures of their kids or maybe grand kids somehow tied into the arrangement but how often does one walk into a floral shop and request that some dudes dressed in kabuki makeup spitting blood and fire be added into the mix. It was apropos though for Wild Bill, he would have loved it I am sure. These were some of Wild Bills' favorite artists. Wild Bill lived for the music and this final tribute to him was from my heart. Wild Bill's family loved the arrangement.

I spent the next couple of days at the funeral home talking with Wild Bills' family and friends. The comfort, love and support his friends provided to his family was amazing. We took Bill up on a hill on a warm sunny afternoon and laid him to rest. Wild Bill was baptized Catholic although he didn't practice much. I still have a prayer card for Wild Bill that I carried in my wallet for many years. It was a gentle reminder of the shortness and fragility of life and friendship we enjoyed together.
There was a lot of work to be done shortly after Wild Bill's passing. Bill and I had been scheduled to do a show in Buffalo the following weekend. I had to go it alone. Joe let me use Bill's van for the trip, I also took some of Wild Bill's merchandise with me to sell for Joe. It was an odd trip driving up to Buffalo alone. There were so many hours and so many memories that we had spent together on the road that flooded my mind as I drove to Buffalo. It was always me behind the wheel and Wild Bill riding shotgun swapping lies and laughing as the miles passed. This trip was certainly different. I missed my friend every hour that I drove. For the very first time it was work for me to do a show. There was no joy that weekend, only the drudgery of more work to be done

Prior to Wild Bills' passing we had decided to hold a record show in Mars, PA scheduled for early May 1998. It was the Red Planet Record Show. I had already invested a lot of money on radio advertisements ($2500.00), the banquet room at the Sheraton Four Points Inn ($1500.00) plus signage, mailings, phone calls etc. I was pretty much on my own on this one. I wasn't mad about it, it was just something that had to be done. Joe was kind enough to help me out by both manning the door for patrons and helping to cover some of the expenses. I was sure that I was going to lose my ass on this one.. The financial hit would have been tough to swallow, who likes to lose $4000.00 from his own pocket? Our show couldn't have turned out much worse. Not only was it the first rain free weekend in almost six weeks. It was a disaster for both me and the dealers. It wasn't from a lack of effort to make it a success. We had spent more than any other promoter in Pittsburgh to make it a hit and it still failed. Good weather and a Hindi wedding in the next banquet room combined to make a perfect storm. Let me paint the picture for you. It literally had rained the previous five weekends in a row that early spring and it even rained the day before (Saturday) the show. Who wasn't itching to get out and do some damn yard work anyway?. I mean that had to come first after church right? Couple that with the location which is about twenty fives north of downtown Pittsburgh and that damn Hindi wedding. If you were standing in line to come into the show you were probably fortunate enough to see a dark skinned man that was half naked, painted half bright red and half black running down the hallway about fifteen minutes before the show opened. He was being chased by a number of the wedding attendees who were also festively dressed and they were chanting and clanging cymbals and bells as they ran through the hall in bliss. They were also burning incense as they ran through the hall out into the parking lot, placing limes and lemons on the entryway and stepping on them and chanting. Pittsburgh is really a parochial town and anything that is even a bit out of the envelope is enough to strike terror into people. Pittsburgh has very few non blacks or whites. We have a small Indian population and have even smaller Asian and Latino residents so this was a bit striking. The wedding went on all day with many trips by the merry pranksters having fun all day running around the hotel. It was the first wedding that i had ever been close to that didn't paly "We've Only Just Begun" by the Carpenters, "Feelings" by Morris Albert or "Old Time Rock & Roll by Bob Seger. The whole scene of the half naked, dark skinned man painted red and black running up and down the hall literally scared some of the attendees.

The show was an unmitigated disaster. My dealers suffered, I suffered and the attendees suffered too. It was in a nutshell just awful. If I remember correctly we only had one hundred eighty seven customers through the door. We had sold eighty tables to dealers for setup and a lot of them just starved. Most didn't even cover their expenses that weekend. I was really depressed by the whole thing. I now what it is to travel five hundred miles, pay for gas, a hotel, tables only to go into the tank. It is not a very pleasant place to be.

The only good thing that happened during the show is that a new dealer that I had met in Columbus Ohio a couple of weeks before had asked me about coming to the show to set up. He inquired if I had any tables left and I said I had three remaining. He asked if I would reserve two for him and I agreed. I thought that even if he didn't come it wasn't going to kill me so i didn't even ask him for a deposit on the tables. Rockin' Ramone (as he refereed to himself) had handed me a flyer while we were in Columbus about a lot of records that he had for sale. He didn't have an itemized list only that he had about two thousand 45's for sale and about two thousand five hundred LP's for sale. I didn't think much of it and put the flyer in my cash box. Rockin' Ramone asked me if I might have a couple of LP's that he was looking for. The were both Del Shannon LP's (1,661 Seconds With Del Shannon on Liberty and Total Commitment also on Liberty), I had them both in stock. Rockin' Ramone asked if we could settle up after the show and i agreed. Rockin' Ramone was a nice guy and I was hoping that he would do well at my show.

Rockin' Ramone came over after the show and told me that he really hadn't done too well that day and asked if he could mail me a check for the tables. I told hi "no problem". I was so depressed by the passing of Wid Bill, the abandoning of opening the record store and now this disaster of a show that I really didn't care if he paid me or not. Ramone said to me" Why don't you come down and check out those records that I have for sale". I was a bit curious and I asked him where he had gotten all of these records. "My uncle died about twenty five years ago and left me his house and everything in it" Rockin' Ramone replied. "I have the 45's still sitting up on the shelf in those little books they used to put them in". The alarm went off in my head immediately. "Has anybody else looked at them" Iasked. "No, I invited a whole bunch of guys I met at the Columbus show to come and check them out and nobody has even called" Rockin' Ramone said. "Well I am off tomorrow and could come down if that would be OK" I said, "Sure, that would be great Rockin' Ramone replied.

I got his address and mad arrangements with my buddy Jeff to head out in the morning to Rockin' Ramones over in South Central Ohio. It was going to be about a two hour drive to the little town where Ramone lived. That would work pretty well because I had to be back in the 'Burgh by mid-afternoon to pick up my two kids from school. My wife was working on that day so I had little time to waste.

(to be continued, next up I get overwhelmed at Rockin' Ramone's)

Early Monday morning Jeff and I headed out to mid-Ohio to visit Rockin' Ramone and check out his stash of records. I had a good feeling about this trip. Nobody else at the Columbus show had called or stopped by to check out this collection and the fact that Rockin' Ramone said that they they belonged to an uncle who had passed away twenty five years earlier and that they "were all in those little books up on a shelf" certainly were strong indicators that this might be a virgin find. I used to find about ten to twelve good collections per year but that number certainly has dwindled over the years and I count my self among the lucky if I find one or two good collections per year these days. We are involved in a hobby that is on the wane I believe. I think that collectors are still as passionate but the number of collectors keeps shrinking each year not unlike the veterans of WWII and Korea are fading into the sunset.
It was about a three hour drive to Rockin' Ramone's place. His directions were superb and we had no trouble finding the house. He greeted us at the door and invited us inside the basement door. I walked into a dream that day. It was just as Rockin' Ramone had said. The walls of the small room were covered with built-in shelves about half way up the walls above the wainscoat. Each shelf contained those "little books" of records that Ramone had told me about. He told us to feel free to look around at what ever we wanted. "The LP's are in the next room" said Ramone. Jeff was more of a Heavy Metal LP guy and he decided that he check out the LP's. I pulled the first little book off the shelf and slid a 45 out of the sleeve. It was pristine in condition, the glossy vinyl reflected back a flawless playing surface that appeared to never have had a needle placed on it. It was an original pressing of "Blueberry Sweet" by the Chandeliers on Angel Tone Records. This is one killer do-wop song from the 50's. I had only seen one copy of this 45 before and it was just a taste of things to come. I went through another book and pulled out a black wax mint copy of ""Ooh Rockin' Daddy" by the Moonglows on the Chance Label. Just when you think it can't get any better let me tell you about the absolute mint copy of Sun # 209 by Elvis Presley. "That's Alright " backed with "Blue Moon Of Kentucky". My hands were literally shaking as I looked down in disbelief at what I had in my hands. I pulled three records and had about $3000.00 worth of rare records and had hardly scratched the surface. These were the heavyweights in the collection but it was loaded with a tone of really great 45's. Each one was pristine. I was amazed at the quantity and quality of this collection, it was as if they had been purchased and placed in the books the day they came out.

I pulled about seventy 45's in the short time that I was there and asked Rockin' Ramone what he wanted for the 45's that I had pulled. I had about two thousand dollars in cash in my wallet and I didn't think I was even in the ball park on these 45's. Rockin' Ramone went through the stack, looked at me and smiled and said "Would you trade me even up for the two Del Shannon LP's that I got of of you at the show yesterday"?. I almost fell on the floor. I had 70 really great records in that stack along with three really killer 45's. "Are you sure that you want to do that Ramone"? I asked. I knew the real value of the 45's and wasn't opposed to paying more for them than he was asking. "Naw" Rockin' Ramone replied "The sheet I gave you at the show said they were $2.00 each for the 45's and $3.00 each for the Lp's". "The LP's I got off of you are worth about the same, so i think we're even". My heart was coming out of my freaking chest!! "Besides I looked in those price guides and nobody pays crazy money for that shit" Ramone stated, "we're good as far as I'm concerned".

I had one question to ask Ramone, something I just had to know. "Where did all of this stuff come from" I asked. "I told you my uncle died about twenty five years ago and left it to me" Rockin' Ramone replied. "C'mon with me" Ramone said as he led me into the other room. There were three old listening booths sitting in the room that had originally been the main integral garage on the house. "Those were in my uncle's record store" Ramone said. "Record store" I asked. "Yeah he owned the record store here in town before he died" Ramone replied. What you see is what he had brought home when he got sick and closed it down" I had stepped into a time warp.

I asked Jeff about the LP's and he said that there wasn't anything there for him, no heavy metal anyway. I knew that the LP's had to be just as good and there were still a lot of 45's that i wanted to buy but time was short. I asked Rockin' Ramone if I could come back tomorrow. He replied that "if I didn't mind being alone in the house that would be fine". I agreed to come back in the early morning to finish up what I had started. On the way home Jeff asked if I had found anything good. I handed him the stack of 45's and just smiled. "The record gods have been really good to me today my boy, really good". The ride home was flawless. I had a sleepless night thinking about my upcoming trip. I arose early, called into the office and left a voice mail that I would not be back in that day and headed out again.

I arrived at Rockin' Ramones house, there was a note on the door saying that the basement door was open and to let myself in. "Buy a lot of records" was written at the bottom of the note. The day was much more relaxed for me. I could take my time and go back through the 45's and pick up some more gems as well as peruse the LP's. I spent almost $1000.00 that day with Rockin' Ramone and was as pleased as one could be. I nabbed some pristine LP's from the fifties and sixties that were uncommon to find. No real killer pieces, just clean near mint copies of stuff that cost me $3.00 apiece and a lot of 45'ss that I could turn quickly and make a very nice profit on. The heavy 45's that I had picked up the day before were already sold to a couple of dealers / collectors that had the where with all to pay for them. I had made a couple of calls when I arrived home the day before and they were sold. All I had to do was drop them off and pick up the money. As I was driving home I thought about an old friend of mine from the car business. He always had some great sayings and one of my favorites was "One day cowboy, the next day cowshit". Today was a cowboy day!!!
(To be continued, next up the Mad Bulgarian)

I used to hang out a a local flea market on weekends. Sometimes I would set up there and sell stuff other than records to make a few extra bucks. The place had been a little goldmine for me when it first opened. It was a typical flea market that started out small and grew over the years. As a new flea market it did not attract all of the record collectors like it would later on. I believe that we are all creatures of habit and we like to stay in our comfort zone. Back then there were a number of large flea markets in the area and this new market did attract many collectors at first, I pretty much had the whole place to myself. That being the case I didn't have the pressure of other collectors breathing down my neck and if anyone brought records to the flea most other people that knew me alerted me and I could check them out without being hassled. This is the flea market where I found a near mint stereo copy of "Introducing The Beatles" on Vee-Jay SR1062 for $10.00. I later sold this LP for four figures in Goldmine magazine to a collector in California. It was here that I was to meet one of the most memorable characters that I have ever crossed paths with. The Mad Bulgarian had the look of a mad professor on speed. He had a certain air of royalty about him as he walked, or should I say sauntered around the flea market. His wiry graying hair was usually a mess in the early morning light, his look reminded me of an old Arturo Toscannini LP that I used to see on a regular basis. His clothing was right out of a Steve Martin / Dan Akroyd "Two Wild and Crazy Guys" sketch from the early days of Saturday Night Live. The Mad Bulgarian was always trying to crack jokes and make snappy remarks. His humor was right on with the humor of Georg Festrunk (.Dan Aykroyd) and Yortuk Festrunk .(Steve Martin). He always told jokes or made wisecracks that only he seemed to understand. Perhaps something was lost in the translation because the Mad Bulgarian was the only one who seemed to get the joke. He used to laugh loudly at what he said and I would stand there in disbelief and wonder what the hell he was talking about.
The Mad Bulgarian was afflicted with "Vinylitis" about as bad as a human being could be. I sincerely believe that he would have sold his mother for an original mint copy of Dale Hawkins "Suzy Q" LP. The Mad Bulgarian had to flee his homeland because it seems that his father was a spy for the CIA. His father had been some kind of government official and was discovered by the "State Security" (DS). It seems that their family was ruthlessly pursued by the DS all over the world. The Mad Bulgarian had lived in the middle east, Japan, Australia and finally landed in the USA. He attended a large Midwest Catholic University where he received an degree in architecture. He became well respected and later went on to become a nationally certified architect. When it comes to collecting records though he is just plain nuts. All good sense seems to leave him and the demons of compulsion take over his body and mind. I have watched him literally run through the flea market asking anyone setting up in his heavily accented voice "Do you haf any rekkords"? The Mad Bulgarian has to be first, I mean he just has to be the first one diving into a pile of records. I watched in humor as he would approach a black person at the flea market and ask "Do you haff any soul rekkords"?. I believe that it is bigoted to assume that black people only listen to or collect soul or R&B records. I'm sure that blacks also enjoy a wide spectrum of music from Classical to jazz to R&b and Rock. Although I do believe that few blacks really listen to or dig Polkas. The thing that cracked me up about this act was that here is a college educated man from a foreign country who goes up to black people and assumes that they would only have soul records. I asked the Mad Bulgarian if he thought that this approach might be a bit racist. He replied in hi heavy Bulgarian accent "Where else you gonna get da' soul rekkords except from da' soul people who invented it"? Logic that's even a little too bent for my own twisted mind.

I once had an R&B 45 record on the King label, the name of which escapes me at the moment. None the less I had picked it up at the local flea market and was carrying it around. The Mad Bulgarian saw it in my hand and asked to look at it. I passed it over to him and immediately he wanted to buy it. It wasn't that rare of a 45 but it was nice and it was also a promo and i decided to keep it. He hounded me for the next three months about the damn 45 and it really started to bug me. I happened to be at work one day and had a box of 45's with me that I didn't want to leave in the car lest they warp from the heat. I had nothing going on so i pulled a couple of the 45's out of the box and that King promo was one of them. The other 45 was the Billy Guy 45 "Whip It On Me Baby" on the Double "L" lbael. That particular label was notorious for labels falling off and sure enough this one had started to come off. This record is very common in Pittsburgh and had no real value to a collector. It was Friday afternoon when this happened and my evil little mind started to work overtime. I was planning on going to the flea early the next morning as was my habit. I knew that the Mad Bulgarian would be there and that he would invariably bug me about the King promo 45. I took the King promo into the office and scanned both side of it on the copier and walked back to my office. I got a pair of scissors out of my desk and carefully cut out both labels. I pulled the Billy Guy 45 out of the box and peeled both labels all the way off and glued the King promo labels that I had just manufactured to the blank 45. I then took some cigarette ashes from the ashtray on my desk and rubbed them on the label to age it a bit. It still wasn't quite right as far as the look so I sat there, lit up a Marlboro and held it close to the label and allowed the smoke from the lit end of the cigarette stain the label a very nice light brown. I had the look i wanted, the label looked really great. The next morning I was at the flea market loaded for bear. I had the 45 under my light windbreaker just waiting to run into the Mad Bulgarian. Sure enough he came up to me and asked me about the damned King promo. I said "you mean this one" as I flashed it in the early morning light. "Ya dat's da' one" he replied. "You want it, go and get it" I yelled laughing as I tossed the fake 45 across the parking lot. The Mad Bulgarian was like a dog playing fetch, off he ran screaming all the way "Why did you do that"? I watched the 45 hit the ground a break into about four large pieces and a lot of smaller ones. The Mad Bulgarian bent over and picked up the mangled 45 and walked back to where I was standing. He was all out of breath as he stood there with the mangled 45 drooping over this hand. "You know i wanted that rekkord" he yelled at me. He had not noticed the ruse that i had performed on him with the bogus copy of the King promo. I reached back in my jacket and said "You mean this one"?. He looked at the 45 in his hand a realized that it was bogus and that I had nailed him beautifully. He started to laugh as I handed the real 45 over to him with my compliments.

King Promo book value ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- $30.00

Actual cost of the 45------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- $.25

Watching the Mad Bulgarian run across the parking lot in hot pursuit ---------------------- PRICELESS

Told you all I had an evil mind !!!!

(To be continued)