Vendor classification is near the top of the list if things I do not wish to learn. Let's see ...Leo Kottke.... is he in folk music because he plays a 12-string? or is what he plays on the 12 string something not definable, is it jazz? I'm going to check next time I'm at Barnes and Noble to see how they pigeonhole him.
Rick, my friend, says he can't remember the name of the Pakistani musician who plays these incredible ragas. I said "So you put him where you will
remember where you put him." All my stuff like that is under "P" for Putamayo. Yeah, I know, that's filing by Production Company. So sue me. Or I put it him in a section I call World Music, the incredible Henri Dikongue right next to Orchestre National de Barbes, until I remember the names well enough to put in the alpha-beta stacks.
Now I want to start something:
It occurred to me last night as I was brushing my teeth that I was almost forty before I met a woman who cared about her music collection enough to have it in any kind of order. Let me backup.
Gather 'round children. I come from the days of the '45', sock-ups in the gym and pink carnations. (Yeah, yeah, Cue: American Pie, the song, not the movie.) In those days of yore, the guys I hung around with all wanted to be DJs. This was in the days and nights wherein the disc jockey would actually talk on the radio about the MUSIC they were playing and to do that they were just like the guy in the movie clip above: they knew the song on the 'B' side, they knew who was playing guitar on the record behind the singer, they knew the recording company's name, whether it was Reprise or that new one- Motown- and the producer's name, too.
I'm pretty sure that the contests between the guys at Emerson College's School of Broadcasting in 1965 to come up with the most obscure information about a particular record "Name the Ronettes and who played drums on "Be My Baby''. "(Phil Spector hit, btw), those games, I think, were the true beginnings of Trivial Pursuit.
The days of the talking DJ were incredibly brief, by 1968, all you heard was the weather conditions being read off the telex and the call letters at the top of the hour. meh. (Okay, there may have been local exceptions, but most of the musicoligist Bad Boys were gone.)(The bad boys today talk about farts. Mike and the Morning blah blah just did twenty minutes on beer farts. In 1967, if we had said the word 'farts' we would have been fired. I got three days off once for saying that a particular dance party had been a 'hell of good time'. Pleading that I meant to say 'heck' did no good. I digress.)
The music was still amazing and in our room at Language School in Monterey, we played our albums on the stereo and swapped cuts from Cream, Iron Butterfly and Big Brother. AND, (he finally gets to the important part.) everybody, it was all military males, kept their albums in order by name.
Santana right next to Steppenwolf.
Okay. I get out into the real world, that is, the world which has females in it. I go to their homes and apartments. --and there, on the floor or shoved on top of bookcases, are their records. (GAH!)
"How do you find anything?" I say flipping through a stack leaning up against a fireplace.
. (Fireplace!! Gah!)
"What do you mean? I just look for something I might like at the moment. See if you can find that brown album with that group, what's their name."
So it went throughout my late twenties and thirties:
males, albums in order, rest of life pretty pigsty-like;
females, mostly together except for the ones I kept marrying and not a clue about where a particular record might be.
"Look in either the blue milkcrate or over in the box of cassettes."
Okay. Now. Was it just me? Or is that how the world is? Like those two up there in the Diner clip. Males, for these purposes only, trying to control the order of the Universe. Females, not a clue about why such things could be important.
Joe(Chime in. I'm dying to know.)Nation