Member-only story
78
rpm, that is
When I was eleven years old, my dad decided it was time for me to become musically sophisticated. He knew that he himself wasn’t, and that none of my ancestors or other relatives were, but that I should be. I had been playing the piano for six years already (typical music-lesson stuff), and had heard recordings of things like bands playing Sousa Marches and Theatre-Pipe-Organ renditions of popular songs, but while those kinds of things were a bit above the average level of music appreciation, they weren’t quite as high-falutin’ as he thought I should be. (Why he felt it was necessary for me to ‘rise above my background,’ I have no idea!)
So he went to the only music store in town (Montrose, Colorado), where he had bought me a small beginner’s accordion a few months previously, and he asked the owner there if he had any recordings of classical music.
The guy grinned and said, “Yes, I have four 78rpm albums of classical music on hand. All brand new and in perfect condition, except one disc that is cracked. They’re outside the back door, waiting to be picked up by the garbage truck. That stuff doesn’t sell.” He didn’t add: ‘worth shit,’ but his face said it.
“Can I have them?” my dad asked.
“A dollar per album, and you have to take all four. All or nothing. And two of them are the same identical thing, so you’ll have…
