Music is a universal language: The famous author (right) and the author, who prefers a pen name, at his old shop. photo/courtesy Rogers Parker
A Dubious Lot
Music is an enormous spiritual storehouse, and for some, records are the key to all of it. Records add a physical dimension. In pursuit of records, if you let them bring you to where they are, there’s no telling where you might find yourself, or who you might meet on the quest.
For the gentle reader, a modest example is presented here.
With some trepidation, I had bought a little grouping of ’50s jazz records that leaned a little toward that “easy listening” sound popular in those days — soft tones, most notes with fuzzy edges. The style was an antidote to the frenetic bebop scene that preceded it, and a favorite of the tame, mellow, cocktail crowd. They were all hard-to-find records and in top condition, but the scene for that stuff had mostly faded.
Mostly, that is, except for an ardent Japanese audience that was helping to keep it alive. A few solid war horse titles that were guaranteed sellers helped justify buying them all, but I did so mostly just to round out my jazz section. The several boxes of the lot remained on the floor in front of my counter, undisturbed, for days.
On day five or six, a trim, well-dressed, middle-aged Japanese gentleman walked in, looking like a prospective customer. Communicating only as would two strangers in a strange land, our exchange was friendly, pleasant, and heavily punctuated with smiling and nodding. He had a companion who started us off with cordial introductions on a first-name basis and, when needed, occasionally stepped in as a translator.
Our man was introduced as a big jazz collector. As he proceeded to reel off a few things he was looking for, I knew some of those titles were in the boxes right in front of him.
I turned him loose on that stuff and it was fun for both of us, as he very intently started a pile with what he was finding. Watching the way he worked through all of it, I could tell he was a practiced hand.
Pile completed, at our man’s request, his companion took a photo of us together at my counter, with records piled all around us, he holding up one of his purchases.
It was a perfect and a memorable encounter. After decades in the business, it was refreshing for me to realize his assistant’s description of our man as a a serious collector was sincere, as this “collector” claim is one I usually take with a grain of salt. Many are more interested in “market value” and bragging rights than anything else. In extreme cases, I’ve refused their money, denied them a purchase and sent them packing.
With my visitor that day, I could sense his heart was truly in it.
Our encounter was also auspicious. From this slightly dubious lot, only the stars could have foretold a sale so quickly — and to the first one to see it!
I didn’t inquire to get his contact info (which was a little unlike me), but I thought the chances of landing another lot like that again anytime soon were so slim that it wasn’t worth appearing to be overanxious. Or, maybe, disrespectful.
But one wiser than I once said, “One never knows, do one?”
About a year went by and the fond memory of that day was still with me when, out of the blue, I came into another lot, of similar size, of that same lounge-y stuff!
Where’s my nice Japanese man?!
This second lot came from a house call one evening, after closing. I went. I saw. I bought the stuff and dropped it off at the store. All before calling it a day.
I met the next day with enthusiasm. It was beautiful. I decided to ride my bike to work. I rolled up in front of the store, unlocked the door, and put my bike in the back room. Note that this took about 90 seconds. When I emerged from the back room, my man — the same Japanese guy! — was standing in front of the counter, smiling and nodding! I hadn’t seen him outside. I didn’t hear him come in. It was as though he had materialized from thin air!
This time he was traveling alone. I chose a shortcut to get things started by just pulling records out of these new boxes, flashing a few for him as I went along, and not saying anything. He didn’t say anything, either, but I had his attention immediately.
I took a stab at explaining that I’d gotten the stuff only the day before, and as his eyes started getting bigger and I could tell he was beginning to understand, a big smile suddenly broke, and he said, “Ah! Very lucky!” The entire scenario made my day.
This time I made sure to get his contact info: Haruki Murakami. His e-mail address was the title of a classic American jazz tune in the form of one word, with “.jp” at the end.
Big smiles, handshakes and hearty gratitude accompanied his departure. My impression remained that this was a genuinely nice guy and a knowledgeable and serious jazz collector; serious in his love of the music and passionate for that sound from the original artifact.
The scrap of paper on which he’d written his contact info sat on the counter for a few days, just where he’d left it, until one of my “regulars” saw it and asked, “Wow, do you know Haruki Murakami?!”
Completely flummoxed by such an obtuse question, I answered his question with a question: “Why? Do you?”
Of course, he did, as do many millions of the famous novelist’s readers worldwide. All was revealed and we had a laugh. I later mentioned this to a friend, a fellow traveler who’s had a record store in Boston for decades, and he knew the guy, too; perhaps only vaguely as a writer, but as with me, as a nice Japanese guy looking for original pressings of slightly stodgy jazz titles.
When I learned about some of his work incorporating magical realism, it occurred to me that the manner of his appearance in my store on his second visit might have been consistent with something that would come from his own hand.
He later wrote a travelogue (not published in English), in part recounting some of his record-search experiences here in the U.S. It includes the photo of the two of us, taken by his assistant.
This was revealed to me when a fan of his, seeking out the record store in Maine where the photo was taken, found me, in my element. We were both excited by the connection and we had a fun chat.
She had read the book in her native Chinese, and after her visit, kindly sent me a note with her loose translation of his description of the encounter documented by the photo:
When I was living in Boston, I drove to Portland quite often, one purpose was to visit a furniture carpenter, the other purpose was to buy old Jazz LPs in a second hand record store. The owner is a stubborn rigorous “LP Fundamentalist”, that’s what I agree with. Today, again, we were talking and I bought lots of records unconsciously. Cannonball Adderley‘s “Somethin’ Else” first edition, in perfect condition, just like new… Don’t understand? Don’t listen to LPs anymore? Ok, that’s too bad.
More of Murakami-san’s fans have made that trek since then, and on occasion, more still do.
