Pulling Focus

How Record Stores – and that red turntable light – Saved Me

By Fred T. Miller

The morning bell rang. We rushed to the door to line up. It was winter in Minnesota and we were eager to get out of the cold. Crushed together on the concrete steps of St. Raphael’s Catholic Grade School, we were anxious to get inside. I was shivering, itching to get in when a fellow fifth grader started pushing me from behind. 

The first push I took as an accident. Then he pushed me again. There were no negotiations. 

I turned and punched him square in the face. 

Blood gushed from his nose. Everyone looked on in horror. There was a lot of blood. Apparently, I broke his nose. Blood covered the front of his winter coat. I was promptly escorted to the principal’s office. Again.

Yes, I was a childhood bully. 

Granted, I was usually a friendly and sometimes even jovial one. When confrontations arose, I took one of two measures – I’d either try to joke my way out of it, or I would just haul off on the offender. I got into a lot of fights in my first five years of grade school. Physical, punching-as-hard-as-I-could fights. Having a short fuse didn’t help matters.

The principal, Sr. Anne Celine, an elderly stoic nun, wasn’t very happy with me. She stared at me from across her large desk. Her face was emotionless. 

My violent behavior had become a semi-regular thing at school. Even to the point where older guys would challenge me on the playground. Guys two years older than me wanted to fight me for no reason. They were big. But I have two older brothers so they didn’t really scare me. I didn’t ask for these confrontations, they seemed to manifest out of nowhere. I also never backed down. On the playground you didn’t really have a choice. At least, that’s how I saw it at the time.

Back in the principal’s office, her beady eyes glaring at me from under her habit, the frail nun asked me in a quiet voice, “Why do you do these things? Why can’t you be more like your older brothers?” 

I didn’t care for the question. But I didn’t have an answer. My actions surprised me as much as anyone. 

Even as far back as a five-year-old, when I threw a knife at my older brother who was teasing me, violence was simply my natural response. I didn’t know why. It just was. Another time when I was nine or ten, my older cousin was teasing me in our front yard. I walked into the garage, pulled out a rake – the kind meant to dig up the earth, not the leaf-raking kind – and attacked him with it. 

Luckily, neither one of those assaults rendered any real physical harm. But something inside me knew this wasn’t normal. It was a lot to try to sort through in my prepubescent brain. And except for the occasional trip to the principal’s office, no adult ever really talked to me about it. At least, not that I can remember.

Two things played pivotal roles in ending my semi-barbaric ways. The first was in the summer between fifth and sixth grade. We moved to another town – Robbinsdale. And to another school – Sacred Heart Catholic Grade School.

I was mildly shocked when everyone – even the nuns – at my new school was so nice. Well, almost everyone. 

In my first week, I could tell the guys were sizing me up. And on the second or third day, when we were funneling through the gate of the fenced-in parking lot where we had recess, a rough-looking kid, Jeff Erdman, approached me with a scowl on his face and a temperament to match. I immediately felt the threat. Like a lion or a grizzly bear roaming into new territory, I readied myself for the confrontation. He pushed his way through the group until we were face-to-face. 

“Here we go,” I thought to myself. But I didn’t want this to be the way I started at my new school. I just wanted to be a normal, nice kid and the change of schools gave me that opportunity. I didn’t want to blow that. 

Then he shoved me. People started to circle around us. Man, I wanted to hit him. I was about five inches taller than him and knew that gave me a distinct advantage. I could feel the eyes of my new classmates upon me. 

I made a fist. Visions of that St. Raphael’s kid’s bloody nose flashed before me – and the shocked look of my classmates. I didn’t want to be looked at like that ever again. I didn’t want to be a bully. I never did. 

I stepped forward, and grabbed the front of his shirt aggressively. I could tell he was surprised  and even shaken. We just met that week. I said, “Don’t push me,” and I gave him a shove to separate us. There was silence. We stared each other down. Seconds later, the teacher supervising recess came over and said it was time to head in. 

Mercifully, that was the first and only confrontation I would have at that school. And one of the last times I’d raise my fist at another person for the rest of my life. 

************

It is now glaringly obvious where my violence came from. But it took me years to figure that out – on my own – and later through therapy. I’m just glad that, except for that kid’s purported broken nose, I didn’t do any major damage to anyone or myself. 

Growing up with a God-fearing, church-going father who had a quick temper who routinely took his anger out in loud, physically violent ways, you don’t have to be a psychologist to know exactly where my uncontrolled rage came from. I can still see his face contorting, turning red and his eyes bulging every time he got mad at me – which was a lot. It left a mark on that five-year-old’s spirit. 

What was just as bad as the actual violence, was the threat of violence. My dad was a master at holding that threat over my head. I guess it was his way of keeping me in line. I get it, when you have six children, you have to find ways to keep them in line. But it’s a pretty shitty way to keep a five-year-old, or seven-year old, or ten-year-old in line if you ask me. And lazy. Luckily, kids can be pretty resilient.

The point of this essay is not to disparage my father. I’d like to think he did the best he could under his circumstances. His father was even worse than him, from what I hear. My dad had to step in when his father went after his mother. I’m sure that wasn’t fun. Still, I’m five. Yes, I spilled my milk, get over it. Take a breath. Unfortunately, despite my mother’s best efforts, I never felt at home under his roof – ever. I loathed any time he came home, doing my best to avoid him as much as I could. I was 30 when he passed away from skin cancer, and truth be told, my psyche was relieved when he left this earth. Still is. 

I write this to explore how his lack of self-control affected me and the mechanisms I found to cope with it. I was lucky, I found fairly constructive ways to deal with his bullshit. A sibling did not. And she has been paying the price ever since. 

Which brings me to the second facet that helped get me through my bully period – music. 

About the time we moved to Robbinsdale, I started to take more of an interest in music and the myriad of positive effects it presented. It offered me consolation I could not find anywhere else, not even in the pews at church. I didn’t have the inclination to take up playing an instrument, though I wished I had. But merely listening to music offered a balm to soothe my wounds. 

Not long after we moved to Robbinsdale I shared a bedroom with my two older brothers. My oldest brother Greg – who is five years older than me – worked at a paint store and McDonald’s in his teens and saved up to buy a pretty nice stereo system. Of course, that meant he had control over what we listened to. Fortunately, he and my brother Paul, had pretty good taste in music. It was in that chilly basement bedroom where I came to know and love the music of Bob Dylan, Neil Young, The Band, The Beatles, and Bruce Springsteen to name a few.

A lot of music was played in that bedroom. Greg would even play music after we turned off the lights and went to bed – I loved that. Watching the red light of the turntable illuminating the silver slats on the side of the platter that spun the record round and round was a mesmerizing night-lite. Instead of counting sheep, I’d stare at the two needles of the audio meters on the receiver as they danced back and forth with the beat of the music. Hearing Neil Young’s “Decade” album night after night never got old. 

Listening to those records provided me solace, a brief respite. And at a time when I needed it most. 

I think the only time I ever got annoyed was when Greg would put on The Beatles White Album and “Revolution 9” would come on at the end of the record. Hearing John Lennon repeat “number nine, number nine, number nine,” ad nauseam as you’re trying to fall asleep was a little irritating. Greg even admitted as much. But you couldn’t really skip songs once that needle hit the vinyl and you were in bed, so we dealt with it.

As the little brother, I had explicit directions to “Never touch the stereo!” But when they were gone, I just couldn’t help myself. I’d carefully put the needle on records of theirs that I loved and get lost in the music. It was glorious. I played The Cars first album so much that my brother Paul made me buy it from him, as it was his. I was happy to oblige. It’s still one of my all-time favorite records. And 46 years later, I still own that very record.

Having semi-secret access to a nice stereo gave me the urge to start my own record collection. Sure, my brothers had some great albums, but I wanted some of my own. Finding funds to buy records at age 12 proved to be challenging. I took up a paper route. I shoveled driveways. And I even baby-sat the three-year-old down the street. 

Rather than go straight to the spendy $4.99 LPs, the first two records I bought were singles – the 45s of Supertramp’s “Logical Song” and Bad Company’s “Bad Company.” Got them at Target for 99 cents each. Buying those little records was a rush. I couldn’t wait to buy more. It’s still a thrill I cherish to this day. 

In February of 1978 I recall going to Bylery’s Grocery Store with my mother and seeing a display of about 20 records at the end of an aisle. I was smitten. While she shopped, I perused every one of them. I held Van Halen’s first album in my hands. I didn’t know anything about this new band at the time, but the cover stirred my imagination. It was black with individual photos of the four members of the band, each in their own quadrant, adorned in dramatic lighting, cool clothes, and who were striking provocative poses. I wondered who listened to such music – it seemed dark. Just based on the cover, I didn’t think it would be a band I’d be interested in. Little did I know…

Fast forward a few months. My 7th grade basketball coach happened to also be my 20-year-old cousin, Tony Dooher. When you play basketball for a small Catholic school, they don’t have money to provide buses, so either the parents or the coaches would drive us to the games. I usually went with Tony.

I can recall his excitement over the new Van Halen album. As I got into the back of his beat up sports car he looked back at me, held up a tape and said, “Wait until you hear this,” as he shoved the tape into the deck. The car may have been a little beat up, but the stereo rocked. He fast-forwarded the tape to the instrumental song “Eruption” and turned up the volume. Eddie Van Halen’s virtuosity on guitar was clear from the first few notes. The song led into their remake of the Kinks’ classic, “You Really Got Me.” I had never heard anything like it. It was the most transcendent experience of my life up to that point. 

I was hooked. 

We played the first half of the tape on our way to the game. The high-energy music was a perfect remedy to charge us up before the game. After our victory over Epiphany, I was excited to get back in Tony’s car and listen to the rest of the album. Every song was incredible. I simply had to own this record. 

The next day I told my mom of my plan to ride my bike to the nearest record store, The Wax Museum in Robbinsdale, about a mile away from our house. “You’re going to buy one of those five-dollar records?” she asked, sounding a bit concerned that I may not want to make such an investment. I pleaded my case, received reluctant approval, and hopped on my bike. 

The Wax Museum was tucked behind Broadway Pizza in the Robin Shopping Center. It wasn’t a huge store, but had everything a young man wanting to start a record collection could ask for. 

Upon entering, my senses immediately spiked. Music was playing over wall-mounted speakers, surrounding you no matter where you were in the store. Incense permeated the room. A woody scent with a touch of cinnamon tickled my nose and found its way to my tongue. A new experience for me. It set a tone.

Posters adorned all three walls and even the large floor to ceiling windows that made up the entire outside wall. Promotional posters of albums just released occupied the prime spots, enticing potential buyers. 

Classic posters that had been there for a while – as sort of a hall of fame exhibit – dominated the walls. Led Zeppelin, Molly Hatchet, The Eagles, and some band called Pink Floyd, who I had never heard of. Some posters weren’t music related – abstract bright and colorful blacklight posters were on display in the back corner where they had framed posters mounted on a swiveling display where one could flip through dozens of movie posters, band posters, blacklight posters, and posters of anonymous young ladies in skimpy bikinis. 

It was a 12-year-old boy’s Mecca.

The checkout counter was about 15 feet away from the entrance and just to the left as you walked in. It was perched higher than the rest of the store, I suppose to help keep an eye on things. The counter had a glass display housing many different interesting items – post cards, cheaply made pins and buttons with band names on them, cigarette lighters, and pipes. Lots of pipes. Some made from glass with a large bulb at the end with a stem sticking out. In my naiveté I assumed they were for tobacco use. Pot was such a foreign concept to me at the time – probably why I had yet to hear of Pink Floyd. 

And, of course, there were records. Rows and rows of records. Most new, some used. Categorized by genres and in alphabetical order, which I found very convenient. It didn’t take long for me to find what I was looking for. As a matter of fact, the Van Halen album was exhibited in a special display kiosk that was promoting the newest – and presumably – most awesome records out at the time. I swooped in and snatched a copy right away. My copy. I tingled as I held onto it. “My first record,” I thought. It was more memorable than buying my first car.

A man with a coiffure of long curly black hair and a black bushy mustache rang me up at the counter and seemed to nod in approval at my purchase. I would end up discussing music with this man for several years to come. His name escapes me, but he was a guru to most of us who frequented his store. I can still see him hunched over a bin of records, his long hair hiding most of his face. He was a local icon.

Record in hand, I couldn’t wait to get home to play it. I crossed my fingers that my brother wouldn’t be home when I got back. 

I raced home, ran downstairs to the bedroom and was relieved none of my brothers were home. The stereo, at least temporarily, was mine. 

I took off the cellophane that enveloped the record, carefully pulled out the inner sleeve and brought it up to my nose to see what it smelled like. I’m not sure why I did this, I guess I wanted all of my senses to enjoy this treasure. It smelled great – shiny fresh paper covered in fragrant ink. 

I slid the record out of the sleeve, careful to hold it by the edges. I was trained to not to ever touch the vinyl, lest it mess with the sound. Greg even had a record cleaner – a wood block with a felt padding on one side that one used to clean the grooves. But be sure to go with the grain of the grooves or you might…okay, I wasn’t sure what might happen if you didn’t do this, but I took heed of my brother’s sacrosanct directions nonetheless. 

I put the album on the platter of the turntable – Side One, facing up – lifted the arm, activating the spinning of the record and turning on of the red turntable light. I dropped the needle down. A quick, light pop, followed by a hiss and some crackling sounds that lasted all of 1.5 seconds – a sound that still excites me – led into the thrilling car-horn sound effect that leads off the opening song of Van Halen’s first album and its first song – “Runnin’ With The Devil.” Amen, brother.

****************

My first visit to the Wax Museum was a transformative event in my life. Much like what a voracious reader might feel about the local library. This store became a place for me to get lost in this wonderful world of music. It quickly became my sanctuary. Along the way, I found others who were just as passionate. We would spend hours in there. We didn’t talk much, but there was a definite connection.

 I’d spend hours flicking through album after album, trying to find the next gem. I also loved thumbing through the rock magazines, purchasing any that featured my new favorite band on the cover. Just about every penny I made for the next several years went into purchasing music-related items – records, tickets to concerts, magazines, posters, pins, buttons – but no pipes. 

If I had an extra ten bucks sitting around, I’d pedal down to the record store to see what I could buy. Heck, even on days I didn’t have any cash, I’d go down there just to hang out and to listen to what the store guru was playing in hopes of discovering something new. I spent a lot of time in that store. Although I didn’t know it at the time, it wasn’t hard to figure out why I was spending more and more time there. 

Over the next three decades, my favorite hobby was spending time at record stores. If I was ever depressed or… not, I’d hop in my car and head out to a record store, hoping to find something that I just had to have or looking for deals in the used section. I loved talking to the people who worked at the stores, their knowledge of rock music seemed endless and most of ‘em loved sharing that knowledge. 

Once I had my driver’s license, I’d soon discover the plethora of great record stores in the Minneapolis area. Down In The Valley in Golden Valley became a favorite spot. That store was huge. And, of course, when CDs came out in the late ‘80s many stores needed the extra room to host both the vinyl and compact discs.

Places like Northern Lights on Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis, Oarfolkjokeopus (which famously helped launch the career of The Replacements), and The Electric Fetus, became my safe havens. 

With the advent of digital and online music, vinyl records and even CDs just weren’t in high demand any more. The once very lucrative record industry was in turmoil. Many record stores would be forced to close over the coming decades. 

Northern Lights closed in the 1990s, Oarfolk closed in March of 2001, and The Wax Museum was hit early and closed in 1989 – a sad day for many of us. Thankfully, Electric Fetus and Down in the Valley are still with us.

I often wondered whatever became of the guy with the long curly black hair and bushy mustache. He was always so cool to us – a tranquil, helpful guy who answered so many of our music questions. Then, a couple years ago I was in Uptown Minneapolis to see a movie at the Lagoon Theater. I saw Cheap-O Records across the street and decided to pay a visit. The store was massive. They had tons of great used records. I assumed the stance and started flipping through the albums. After a few minutes, a guy hunched over a stack of records, his hair hanging down, hiding his face asked if I needed any help. 

“You’re the Wax Museum dude!” I said excitedly. His hair was now all grey, but the resolute curly locks and bushy mustache were still securely in place. He looked exactly the same, save for the hair color. He smiled and nodded his head in his usual super-chill manner. “I bought my first record from you over 40 years ago.”

He perked up a touch. “Which record was that?” He asked in his soft-spoken, baritone voice.

“Van Halen 1,” I responded. 

“Pretty good first record,” he said with a slight smile. 

If he only knew.