2007-07-04
birth of the cool
Back in Vermont, my dad used to blast his dusty old records in the basement. He taught me how to play the drums (my hands gripping the sticks, his fingers clenched over mine). I used to thumb through his psychedelic album covers, checking out those lipsticked men with glittery eyelashes. "Are they girls or boys?" I would ask.
Dad bought me a new record player. Except it's not new. It belonged to an elementary school, according to the crabby handwriting, magic markered in the corner. ("Marsh. 304. Classroom A.)
I unsnapped the hinges, flipped the lid, and scanned the directions inside the cover.
When I plugged it into the wall, it spun to life with a jittery hiss.
Dad let me borrow his mountain of groovy jazz records. I dig the title: "Birth of The Cool."
Mixed in the stack was his Hobbit soundtrack. I used to spend a lot of time staring at the evil-looking trees, sort of tracing them in my mind.
The music swelled into my room, taking up space. It didn't sound like a CD: flattened and machinelike. It floated with the texture of a human voice. I closed my eyes and watched the patterns dance on the back of my eyelids.
I'll never hear the same way again.
f-i-n at 12:46 p.m.