Record Kid  

1958. Highland Park, Illinois. I was in the fifth grade, pedaling my Schwinn home from school. I could see the fins of the Cadillac sticking out of our driveway from a block away, and I immediately began thinking about which two 45 RPM records I would buy at Lishon’s Record Shop. 

The fins of the Cadillac meant that my grandmother Cecille had come up from Chicago to visit her daughter and her grandchildren. When grandma came to see us, two good things happened. First, she always brought corned beef, pastrami and, not that any of us kids would eat it... tongue. She also brought lox, bagels and cream cheese, pickled herring and gefilte fish. An orgy of delicious Jewish deli food that kept us going for a week. 

But the best part of my grandmother’s visit was that she always gave my brothers and my sister and I two dollars each. At the time, 45s cost $0.89 apiece, so to me, that meant two 45s with a few cents left over for penny candy. 

Naturally, I couldn’t just walk in and say, “Hi grandma, can I have my two dollars now?” I had to at least put on the appearance of being happy to see her and act interested in what she had to say. Then, after what seemed like an endless amount of time had passed, grandmother Cecille would reach into her purse, pull out her wallet, and at long last, give each of us our two dollars. She always pulled the bills off one at a time, pinching them just tight enough to make sure two bills didn’t stick together as she wriggled them apart. With a flourish, she snapped each bill off and handed them to us one by one. Within minutes, I was back on my bike pedaling to Lishon’s to buy two new 45s. 

Because my grandparents drove a Cadillac, I automatically assumed they were super rich. In reality, they were comfortable, but not wealthy. My grandfather, who was called Pop, was an accountant in Chicago, and I think for appearances sake, he drove a Cadillac to impress his clients and assure them that he wouldn’t lose all their money. He bought a new one every two years. 

My grandparents lived on the seventeenth floor of a nice, older apartment building in Chicago, overlooking Lake Michigan. Their apartment, at least when we were there, was kid-proofed, as evidenced by the clear plastic covering on the couch and most of the chairs. My brothers and I would quickly become bored, so we often amused ourselves by going down the hall to the back stairwell and dropping whatever objects we could find. Most of the time, it was some item of food or an object that was likely to smash when it hit the ground seventeen floors below. Usually, the items didn’t make it all the way down. Typically, they went seven or eight floors before hitting a railing and shattering or, in the case of food, splattering. It’s amazing that we never got caught. 

According to Mom, I had been fascinated by records since I was a toddler... not just the music, but the records themselves. At the time, my parents had a Magnavox hi-fi console, encased in blonde wood, that I was not allowed to touch. I was, however, allowed to sit there and watch the long- playing records as they spun on the turntable at a leisurely thirty-three-and-a- third revolutions per minute. I didn’t quite understand how sound came out of these discs, but I was enthralled by watching the tone arm move steadily toward the center as the records played, eventually heading into the runoff groove that seemed to disappear under the label. In fact, for a time, I thought the grooves themselves actually moved, went under the label and somehow ended back at the start of the record. It was mind-boggling. Ultimately, Dad explained that it was an optical illusion, and that the grooves didn’t really move, even though it looked like they did. 

For my own record playing, I had one of those little RCA 45 players that were exceedingly popular in the 1950s. They had a thick spindle to accommodate the large center hole in the record. You could stack seven or eight records on the spindle and they would drop onto the turntable automatically, although usually by the time two or three records had dropped, the record that was playing would slip and warble. Normally, I played records one at a time to avoid this problem, and also because I tended to listen to each record over and over again.  

The tone arm, such as it was, was a primitive slightly curved piece of metal that had nothing close to proper stylus pressure. As a result, many of my records skipped, even though there was nothing really wrong with them. To address this situation, I taped a nickel to the top of the tone arm just above the stylus. This corrected the skipping problem, albeit with one minor technicality... the tone arm was now so heavy, it acted like a chisel as it plowed through the grooves. This created a white residue from the records being chewed up, but I didn’t care as long as they didn’t skip. Besides, the additional surface noise added to the mystique of the record itself. 

I was really into Chuck Berry... in fact School Day was the first 45 I ever bought. Chuck Berry’s records always had good “B” sides, such as Around & Around on the flip side of Johnny B. Goode. Talk about getting your $0.89 worth! I also liked Buddy Holly & The Crickets and had several of their records. Of course, being a kid, I had records by one-hit wonders and oddball groups like Dicky Doo & The Don’ts, The Playmates, and the Impalas. I had Purple People Eater by Sheb Wooley, Dinner with Drac by John Zacherle, Get a Job by the Silhouettes, and Yakety Yak by the Coasters. I was also big on The Everly Brothers, Little Richard, Ricky Nelson and Fats Domino. I had Jailhouse Rock and a few other Elvis singles, but I was much more into Buddy Holly. 

In addition to the music contained within the grooves of my wondrous 45s, I was also very much fascinated by the labels themselves. Sometimes, I would buy a record that I only marginally liked because it was put out by a record company with an exceptionally cool label. 

I was especially taken with the ABC-Paramount label, which was black with “ABC-Paramount” at the top curvature of the label in alternating yellow, red and blue letters. There was also a multicolored infinity symbol with a white soundwave running through it. Danny & The Juniors’ At the Hop was on ABC- Paramount, as were Paul Anka’s early records. Another one of my favorites, Short Shorts by the Royal Teens, was also on ABC. 

Sun Records had a very basic label, yellow with “S-U-N” spelled out in large block letters, musical notes circling the outer part of the label, and a drawing of a rooster greeting the dawn. Sun was where Elvis made his first few records, but the Sun artist I really liked was Jerry Lee Lewis. I had Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On, Great Balls of Fire and High School Confidential. I couldn’t get enough of Great Balls of Fire, which was an economical one minute and fifty-seven seconds of blistering, suggestive rock and roll, true magic captured in the grooves of this one little gem of a 45 with not one wasted second. I played Great Balls of Fire over and over again until its surface was white. 

Chess Records, where Chuck Berry recorded, had a blue label with “Chess” on the left side spelled out vertically in large, silvery letters. There was a line next to the letters that turned and curved around the bottom part of the label and looked ultra neato as the record spun around on my 45 player. 

Conversely, I thought some labels, such as Decca and Mercury, were unappealing and boring. I was disappointed when a song I liked was on one of those labels, although that didn’t stop me from buying a record if I really liked it. 

As I pedaled to Lishon’s Record Shop, I developed a “Plan A” and “Plan B” as to which 45s I would buy. Plan A was the two records I wanted really badly, and Plan B was a fallback in case Lishon’s was out of one or both of my first choices. Fortunately, Lishon’s was pretty well stocked, so I almost always got at least one of my “Plan A” choices. 

Mr. Lishon was a gray-haired gentleman who always wore a tweed coat and a tie. Even though he knew I was a record junkie, he was never too thrilled to see me come in. That may have been because even though I already knew which records I wanted, I always asked to see at least five or six 45s so I could check out the labels. Or, perhaps it was just that I was a snotty little kid and a pain in the ass. Each time he pulled out a record so I could see the label, he became increasingly more exasperated with me. When I concluded that he was just about ready to blow, I stopped asking to see various records and settled on the ones I would actually buy. This would mollify Mr. Lishon, who quickly rang up my records, bagged them and shooed me out of the store. 

Also, before I taped a nickel to the tone arm of my 45 player and solved my skipping problem, I assumed every record that skipped was defective and took it back to Lishon’s to exchange for another copy. This did not endear me to Mr. Lishon, who insisted that there was nothing wrong with the record, and to prove it, he slapped it on a turntable and played it all the way through. Never once did a record skip on his turntable. To his credit, he always gave me another copy, but not without first chastising me that something was wrong with my record player. He was not incorrect, hence the nickel on the tone arm. 

Around this time, Pop bought me a transistor radio for my birthday. They had just come out and the one Pop got me was the size of a brick and weighed about the same. The great thing, though, was the tiny headphone jack where I could plug in an earpiece and cut off the speaker. This meant I could listen to the radio at night when I was supposed to be sleeping. I’m sure Mom and Dad suspected that I was listening to the radio in bed, but they never officially told me not to. In fact, there were several times when Dad came into my room and turned it off after I had fallen asleep. 

Normally, I listened to WLS, the big top forty station in Chicago that played all the current hits. But one night, I was scanning across the dial and hit upon a booming, growling voice singing, “Oh, don’t you hear me cry,” followed by an unearthly, “Ah-ooooh-ooh.” I had stumbled across an R&B station and the song was Smokestack Lightning by Howlin’ Wolf. I had never heard anything like it and was immediately captivated. The whole record sounded primitive and spooky as if the song was coming from deep in the woods on a dark and cloudy night. The guitar, bass and drums chugged along like an old freight train, accented by little twinkly fills on a piano. And then there was Howlin’ Wolf, his magnificent, thunderous voice jumping out over the instruments as he mournfully and pleadingly cried out the words to the song. Even in my little earpiece, he sounded powerful and earthshaking. When he played harmonica between the verses, it was almost spiritual. Every time I heard Smokestack Lightning, I was transported to an esoteric, adult world I knew nothing about and would not know anything about for a long time. It was exciting, if not a bit frightening. 

I couldn’t get enough of Smokestack Lightning. Every night, I tuned in to the R&B station hoping it would come on. Eventually, if I didn’t fall asleep first, I would hear it, and it was always well worth the wait. 

The next time Grandmother Cecille visited and gave me two dollars, I pedaled up to Lishon’s to buy Smokestack Lightning. When I asked Mr. Lishon for the record, he gave me a bemused look. “We don’t carry those types of records,” he told me. 

“What do you mean by those types of records?” I asked, having no idea what he was talking about. 

“Blues records,” he said. “The only people that buy them are Negroes.” 

“Well, I’d buy ’em,” I said. Mr. Lishon just shrugged.

Since there were very few, if any, Negroes in Highland Park, I got his drift. 

As I got a little older, I became fascinated by LPs. When I went into Lishon’s, I always spent some time looking longingly at various albums before going up to the counter and subjecting Mr. Lishon to my looking-at-the-label obsession. I couldn’t buy albums because I couldn’t afford them, and even if I could, I didn’t have a turntable to play them on. 

Around this time, I became aware of the Kingston Trio, a phenomenally popular folk group. I had Tom Dooley as a 45, but I had never heard a Kingston Trio album all the way through. This changed when my parents sent me to Camp Hayo-Went-Ha for a month. Camp Hayo-Went-Ha was on Torch Lake in the upper part of the lower part of Michigan, and very picturesque, but a little too much like boot camp for me. Aside from playing baseball games after dinner, I was not really too into what the camp had to offer, and I thought many of my cabin-mates were assholes. I counted the days until I could go home, and when you’re a kid, a month is an incredibly long time. 

Most of the counselors at Camp Hayo-Went-Ha were college students working during the summer. At the time, the Kingston Trio was exceedingly popular among college kids, and in the counselor’s lodge, which was off-limits to campers, the Kingston Trio was played constantly on a phonograph by the front door. Whenever I had a chance, I stood outside the door and listened to the Kingston Trio. Eventually, one of the counselors took pity on me and allowed me to come inside and stand next to the phonograph when the Kingston Trio was playing. 

At the time, The Kingston Trio at Large was the Trio’s latest album and was on the turntable constantly. I had heard MTA, which was the first song on side one and available as a single, but the rest of the album was virgin territory for me. I loved the way each song segued into the next one with a few seconds of silence in between. The album had twelve songs, six per side, and they were all great. I thought the Kingston Trio was about the coolest thing on earth, and naturally, watching the Capitol label spin around on the turntable was an added treat. The world of LP records was opening to me, and suddenly, my meager 45 player seemed insufficient and obsolete. I became obsessed with somehow obtaining a phonograph that could play LPs as well as 45s. 

Not too long after I was paroled from Camp Hayo-Went-Ha and came home, Dad and Mom decided that their Magnavox console hi-fi system was too big and dated-looking, and they bought a new hi-fi system with component parts. The Magnavox sat in the basement collecting dust, and when I asked if I could have it, they surprisingly said yes. 

With gusto, I dismantled the components, starting with the two 12-inch speakers. I pulled out the amplifier, and with an added sense of excitement, I removed the turntable, which at long last, would allow me to play LP records. I placed the components in an old two-shelf cabinet. Eventually, Dad helped me cut holes in a board so I could mount the speakers instead of merely leaning them up on one of the shelves. At last, my hi-fi setup was complete and I didn’t even need to tape a nickel to the tone arm. I was ready to move into the stratospheric world of LPs. 

Now, all I had to do was come up with the money to buy The Kingston Trio at Large. At that time, a mono LP cost $3.98, which was a lot for a kid with an allowance of fifty cents per week. Fortunately, before too much time had passed, my grandmother made one of her forays up to Highland Park, so I had half the money I needed. To get the rest, I cut the neighbor’s lawn, which netted me 75 cents. I collected empty pop bottles and returned them for two cents each, which eventually brought me to slightly over $3.00. Mom, who was undoubtedly sick of hearing me go on and on about The Kingston Trio at Large took pity on me and gave me a dollar, which put me over the top. 

As I pedaled up to Lishon’s, I could barely contain my excitement. This time, I wouldn’t merely be buying two 45s... I would be buying my first LP, The Kingston Trio at Large. 

Mr. Lishon, as always, was less than thrilled to see me. But instead of going to the counter and asking him to show me every 45 he had in stock, I bee-lined to the Kingston Trio bin in the LP area of the store, and there it was... my soon-to-be copy of The Kingston Trio at Large. 

I brought the record up to the counter and, with a touch of cockiness, I said, “I’ll take this.”  

Mr. Lishon was stunned to see me with an LP that I actually wanted to purchase instead of the usual singles. 

“I saved up for this,” I told him proudly. 

Before I would let him ring it up, I pulled the record out of its inner sleeve, and being extremely careful to hold the disc by its outer edge, I examined the grooves for scratches and checked to make sure the record wasn’t warped. It was pristine. I put the record back into its inner sleeve, replaced the inner sleeve inside the album jacket and laid it on the counter. Mr. Lishon looked at me for a moment to make sure my inspection was complete. 

“Okay?” he asked. 

“Okay,” I said. 

And with that, I bought my first LP record. 

Upon arriving home, I went straight to my room and with appropriate reverence, I gently placed The Kingston Trio at Large on my turntable and fired it up. I lifted the tone arm and carefully placed the needle in the lead-in groove. A few seconds later, the first strains of MTA flowed out of my two 12-inch speakers in full, rich hi-fi sound. It was a glorious moment. I listened to the album all the way through, repeating the songs I really liked, all the while looking at both sides of the record jacket. The front cover had a picture of The Kingston Trio sitting side by side with a couple guitars and a banjo hung up in the background. The jacket also had liner notes, which I read and re-read constantly. And of course, I watched the Capitol label as the disc spun around on my turntable. 

Eventually, I started acquiring other LPs, including Have Twangy Guitar, Will Travel by Duane Eddy, Here’s Little Richard, and the two Kingston Trio albums that preceded At Large. After that, I somehow came up with enough money to buy each new Kingston Trio album as soon as possible after it came out. I knew all the songs by heart and the order in which they were sequenced on each side. The Kingston Trio made me want to learn how to play the guitar. 

A year or so later, Dad and Mom separated acrimoniously and ultimately got divorced. It was a nasty time and the two sides of the family suddenly found themselves on the outs with each other. Ultimately, my mother decided to move the family to California. She had always wanted to move to California and this was a good time to do so, although I believe the underpinning of the idea was to get us kids as far away from Dad as possible. If Mom could have driven to Hawaii, we would have grown up there. 

We settled in Palo Alto, which at the time was a comfortable small town adjacent to Stanford University. Many of the adults in Palo Alto were somehow affiliated with Stanford and the town had an undercurrent of intellect and bohemianism. It was lush and safe... a great place to be a kid and grow up. 

At first, I really missed my friends from Highland Park and found myself lonely much of the time. I still wanted to play guitar and this was now the perfect time. Mom felt I should take lessons once we were more settled, but I didn’t want to wait. I knew I could teach myself if I could only acquire a guitar... anything to learn on. Eventually, one of the older girls on the street got tired of hearing me moan about how much I needed a guitar. She told me she had a guitar with a crack that she would sell me for five dollars. It was a cheap guitar, but it had a body, neck and strings, and the crack wasn’t all that bad. I was ecstatic! 

Just as I had done before I bought The Kingston Trio at Large LP, I scrounged up the money to buy the guitar. I got a chord book and a Kingston Trio songbook, and I was on my way. 

My guitar became my new best friend, and I couldn’t wait to become proficient. It took me very little time to learn the chords and be able to shift between them seamlessly. I already knew the Kingston Trio songs, so once I had the chords down, I could actually play them. When I wasn’t eating, sleeping or doing homework, I played my guitar obsessively. When other more experienced guitar players gave me tips on how to do things like fingerpicking, bending notes and hammering on, I soaked up the info like a sponge. I got really good really quickly. I was what I wanted to be... a musician. I decided right then that I wanted to make a record. I wanted to see my name on the label and hear my song come out of the speaker. Just the thought of it gave me chills.

Not too many years later, I got my first chance to record in a professional studio. I had been writing my own songs by then, and through the friend of a friend, I was introduced to someone who believed in me and had the wherewithal to take me into the studio to make a demo. The studio he picked was located in the basement of Columbus Tower, an iconic old building in the North Beach area of San Francisco. Coincidentally, the studio was owned by the Kingston Trio. When I walked in, I was dazzled by just being there. While the engineer was setting up all the mics and recording equipment, I sat on a high stool and took it all in. All the 45s I bought as a kid, all the LPs I bought as I got older, started off in a place just like this. I just couldn’t believe I was there. 

A couple years after I got out of the army, I went back to Chicago to visit Dad, and we took a drive up to Highland Park. I hadn’t been there since we moved to California, and I was curious to see what it looked like. 

We parked at the Highland Park train station, which had been completely remodeled from the days when Jeff Kramsky and I played there and put pennies on the tracks for the trains to crush. Larson’s Variety Store across the street, where I once bought candy and baseball cards, was still there, although kindly old Mr. Larson had died. Leo’s Delicatessen, which had corned beef sandwiches for $0.50, looked the same as it always had, although the price of the sandwiches had gone up considerably. The pharmacy on the corner also looked pretty much the same. 

Dad and I turned the corner and walked down Central Avenue and finally reached the one place I really wanted to see, assuming it was still there. 

Amazingly, it was. 

Lishon’s Record Shop. We walked inside, and there he was... looking older, but still wearing a tweed coat and a tie, and still looking as grumpy as ever. 

“Mr. Lishon,” I said as I approached the counter. “Do you remember me?” 

Mr. Lishon looked at me quizzically, having no idea who I was. 

“I’ll give you a hint,” I told him. “Can you please show me every 45 you have in stock so I can check out the labels.” 

“Ohhh, yes,” he said. “You used to come in and buy 45s and Kingston Trio albums. I remember you now.” 

“How could you ever forget?” I said, kiddingly. 

Then, for the first time ever, in all the many times I had been in the store, I saw Mr. Lishon smile.