After moving over two years ago from a residence I’d lived in for 12 years, I am finally organizing my CDs.
This has meant lining an already lengthy hallway end to end with alphabetical stacks for each letter and a larger than expected pile of compilations, tributes, interviews, and other miscellany like an unlistenable Charles Manson CD I’d forgotten about. I couldn’t file him in music, even if he’d fall between Manfred Mann and Marilyn Manson, so he sits in a stack of his own.
I recruited my (almost) 20-year-old nephew Tyler for this task and he’s been a persistent, if poky, assistant. In that louder-than-necessary voice the deaf and those wearing earphones use, he offers a running commentary that demands explanation.
“Why do you have three copies of one CD?”
Because one is remastered, one has bonus tracks, one is the original.
“You have a lot of Fabulous Thunderbirds and Doug Sahm.”
Damn right.
“Are these Indians?”
They’re Mardi Gras Indians. Your dad and I grew up seeing them in New Orleans.
“Do you have any Lou Reed? I like Lou Reed.”
Silence.
“Who is Rudy Ray Moore?”
Put that away, my boy. You listen to Avenged Sevenfold. You’re not ready for Dolemite.
But CDs are something Tyler understands. He’s of the iPod generation, so CDs are the Old Way of listening, just like regular radio compared to XM. What’s really making him work faster – yeah, yeah, besides the money I promised – is that we will sort my six boxes of vinyl and several hundred 45s. That’s exotic, to him.
The recent review of Davie Allan’s Moving Right Along prompted an appreciative email from him (something that makes a writer feels ridiculously pleased):
“Thanks for singling out a couple of my faves. By the way, I wrote ‘Vanishing Breed’ a few years ago for Dick Dale who said he would record it … He didn’t so I made it a labor of love in doing it myself. Speaking of a labor of love, so was ‘Listen to the Guitar Man.’ My plan was to see about getting Duane [Eddy], Nokie [Edwards of the Ventures], Dick [Dale], and Link [Wray] to do the parts I wrote for them but I had no way to follow through with it.”
“Vanishing Breed” is a remarkable song because, without a word, Allan sums up the beauty and muscle of the dying class of instrumental guitar players of the 1950s and 60s. The recent death of L.A. super session guitarist Jerry Cole (The Champs, Beach Boys, Nancy Sinatra, Wrecking Crew) and Link Wray’s death in 2005 are painful milestones in that genre.
Yet Allan’s alive, well, and smoking that Jazzmaster so hard there’s rumor Fender is considering a custom model in his honor. This kind of music belongs on a Tarantino or Rodriguez soundtrack, and the first one that gets Davie Allan will score, guaranteed.
This article appears in July 4 • 2008.