The House of Records Pt.1

In the 1980's, I was a music critic.  

Record companies constantly sent me records so I could listen to the latest and shower the world with my cultured opinion. I could make or break an album just by turning on my word processor.  I had power.  I had influence.  Then, in the mid-eighties, it happened.  A major record company sent me what I thought was a toy for a Barbie doll.  It looked like some type of miniature album.  "What would they think of next?," I wondered.  I tore open the package and was appalled by the shoddy workmanship.

Any amateur could see, this toy didn't even look like a record.  It didn't have any grooves at all.  I imagined it was some new promo idea.  These semi-educated guys in promotion are always trying to think up new stuff.  I put the little disk on my turntable just to see.

As this disk haphazardly spun around, the bloody turntable arm slid right across the thing and ruined my brand new diamond stylus.  I was livid.  I decided to lambaste the company that sent this tool of destruction.  These idiots in promo had done it this time.  They designed a record which would intentionally ruin mine, or anyone else's phonograph.  My next review was scathing.  I wrote of recklessness, of malice and of audio irresponsibility.  

I publicly urged the artist, whose likeness had been attached to this faulty product, to break her contract and fight 'til the record company vindicated her and learned to treat their talent responsibly. I urged the stockholders to take a more active roll in the publicly held concern.  I suggested a proxy fight may be in order.   The shareholders ultimately took the issue into their hands; instead of taking the parent company to court, the corporation sued me for slander.

It seemed I had been duped.  No one had told me about this "CD" thing.  How was I to know?  Who would imagine one would need a completely different piece of machinery to play this "record?"   I thought it was some type of sick joke.  I'm no slouch; I realized there had been a few technological advancements in records since the ill-fated quadraphonic movement, I just kind of lost touch.  I suppose I should have read a few more magazines.

Being a freelance writer has its ups and downs.  When you're hot you can command high prices.  When you have just been successfully sued by one of the nations, in fact the world's largest recording conglomerates, many publishers are hesitant to print your latest critical insight. All of a sudden I found myself sitting in my house everyday with very little to do.

I felt much like the LP record.  I had been the biggest thing since the microwave and now I was written off as radioactive.  I decided it was my duty to keep this from happening to the long playing album.  It was my job to find people who cared about records.  

I went to the library and searched the papers to capture some type of motivation.  That is when I happened on a quarter column story in a Canadian newspaper called The Biloxi Press. The story takes place in Biloxi New Brunswick, a small province in Canada where James and Joanne Holdenfield live.  According to the article, by their fifth year of marriage, Joanne warned James that if his record collection grew much larger, it would take over their home. As you will see, this was a prophetic statement.

 Next: The Binge