Columbia House

#1132: Youth Gone Not-So-Wild

RECORD STORE TALES #1132: Youth Gone Not-So-Wild

I love admitting to my past musical sins.  Perhaps others will learn from my mistakes.

I was in grade 11, a mere 16 years old, when the music video for “Youth Gone Wild” hit the airwaves.  Skid Row were the latest thing, a band promoted by Jon Bon Jovi himself, from his home state of New Jersey.  We didn’t know yet that the lead singer, Sebastian Bach, identified as a Canadian.  He grew up in Peterborough Ontario, just on the other side of Toronto.  In fact, I didn’t know that I already had something of Bach in my music video collection.  I had a brief clip of him, with teased up hair, in a prior band called Madame X.  This band was led by Maxine Petrucci, sister of Roxy Petrucci from Vixen.  They featured a young Sebastian Bach and Mark “Bam Bam” McConnell whom Bach would play with in VO5.   I wasn’t into any of those bands.  I was pretty hard-headed about what I liked and disliked.

In Spring 1989, I first encountered “Youth Gone Wild” on the Pepsi Power Hour.  It could have been Michael Williams hosting, but whoever it was, they hyped up this new band called Skid Row.  I liked getting in on new bands from the ground floor.  Made them easier to collect when you started at the start.  At that point, I wasn’t even sure how many albums Judas Priest actually had.  I was intrigued enough to hit “record” on my VCR as the music video began.  I caught the opening “Ba-boom!” of drums, and sat back to watch.

While I wasn’t blown away, I kept recording.  The key was the singer.  If the singer sucked, I’d usually hit “stop” and rewind back to where I was.  The singer passed the test:  he didn’t suck.  I kept recording.

After about a minute, I pressed the “stop” button, and lamented that this new band wasn’t for me.  What happened?  What did Skid Row do to turn me off so quickly?

I can admit this.  I’ve always been open about the fact that I was very image-driven as a teenager.  We all were!  With the exception of maybe George Balazs, all the neighborhood kids were into image to some degree or another.  I was probably driven by image more than the average kid, consuming magazines and music videos by the metric tonne.  So, what exactly was wrong with Skid Row?

I’ll tell ya, folks.  It was serious.

The bass player had a chain going from his nose to his ear.

I just could not.  I couldn’t put a poster on my wall with some band that had a bass player with a chain that went from his nose to his ear!  No way, no f’n way.

I pressed rewind, and prepared to record the next video over Skid Row.

That summer, the glorious, legendary summer of ’89, I went with Warrant.  I bought their debut album sight-unseen, based on a blurb in the Columbia House catalogue.  Warrant were the selection of the month.  “What the hell,” I thought, and checked the box to order it immediately.

Meanwhile, Bob Schipper and the girl I liked, named Tammy, were really into Skid Row.  They knew all about my issues with the nose chain.  They got under my skin about it a bit, but I wouldn’t bend on Skid Row.

“18 and Life” was the next single, a dark power ballad that was easy for me to ignore.  “I Remember You” was harder to pass on.  It was the perfect acoustic ballad for 1989.  You had the nostalgic lyrics, which Bob and I both connected with.  Somehow, we knew that 1989 was the absolute pinnacle.  We knew this would be the summer to beat!  Bon Jovi and Def Leppard were still on the charts.  Aerosmith and Motley Crue had new singles out with albums incoming.  We walked around singing “Summer of ’69” by Bryan Adams, except we changed the words to “Summer of ’89”.  We just knew.  “Got my first real six string…” we sang.  And we both had our own fairly new guitars that we could barely play.

“I Remember You” was a massive hit, and still I resisted.

“Because of the nose chain?” Bob Schipper questioned me.

Absolutely because of the nose chain!

I stood firm for two years.  Bob Schipper went to college, and Tammy was long distance and not meant to last.  I felt a bit like an island by the time 1991 rolled around.  I felt alone.  My best friend was gone, I had no girlfriend, and most of my school friends went their own ways.  I was a loner like I’d never been in my life before.  Music was my companion, and my beloved rock magazines were my library.

That’s how Skid Row eventually got me.  Sebastian Bach had a good friend in Drew Masters, who published the excellent M.E.A.T Magazine out of Toronto.  Drew’s praise for the forthcoming second Skid Row album, Slave to the Grind, was unrelenting.  He caught my ear.  I was looking for heavier music in my life, not satisfied with Priest’s Painkiller as one of the heaviest albums I owned.  I wanted more rock, and I wanted it heavy.

The other thing that got me was the collector’s itch.  When I found out that Slave to the Grind was released in two versions with different exclusive songs, I was triggered.  I had to have both.

“I’ll make a tape, and put both songs on my version!”  It was a pretty cool idea.

Costco had Slave to the Grind in stock.  They had the full-on version with “Get the Fuck Out”, the song that was excluded from the more store-friendly version.  Columbia House stocked the tame version, which had a completely different song called “Beggars Day”.  I bought the CD from Costco, the vinyl from Columbia House, and suddenly I was the only guy in town who had the full set.  I made my cassette with joy, recreating the Skid Row logo on the spine, and writing the song titles in with red ink.

“Get the Fuck Out” was track 6, side one.  “Beggars Day” was track 7, side one.  I still have them in that order in my mp3 files today.

Sure, there was an audible change in sound when the tape source went from CD to vinyl, but I couldn’t afford two CD copies.  Little did I know how cool it would be later on to have an original vinyl copy of Slave to the Grind.

I loved the album.  I loved all three of the ballads.  The production was sharp.  There were excellent deep cuts:  “The Threat”, “Livin’ on a Chain Gang”, and “Riot Act” were all as great as any of the singles.  Furthermore, the singer had taken it to new heights of intensity and excellence.

I let Skid Row into my heart that day.  It was a good decision.  Skid Row accompanied me through times good and bad, lonely and angry.  They were my companion through it all, and they’re still pretty good.  It was meant to be!

#1099: “Can you play it a little louder?” – An Uncle Paul Story, aka “Big Bad Bill Is Sweet William Now”

#1099: “Can you play it a little louder?” – An Uncle Paul Story
(aka “Big Bad Bill Is Sweet William Now”)

 

In the late 80s, I was starting to fill in my Van Halen collection thanks to the generosity of family, and the Columbia House Music Club.  Diver Down turned out to be a favourite because of the cover songs:  this was an album that parents and family would let me play in the car, because they knew the songs and they were not too too heavy!

Any time I found a Van Halen song that I thought the older generation would swing to, I would proclaim:  “I found another one!”

“Why is the band called Van Halen when the singer is named David Lee Roth?” my mom asked.

“Because there are two Van Halens in the band and only one Lee Roth,” I answered simply.

“Van Halen?  Sounds like some kind of tropical disease,” deadpanned my dad once upon a time.

But my family and especially my uncle liked enough of the songs:

  • “Pretty Woman”
  • “Dancing in the Streets”
  • “Happy Trails”
  • “Big Bad Bill (Is Sweet William Now)”

They really, really liked “Big Bad Bill”.  Especially the sweet, smooth clarinet melodies of Jan Van Halen.  The tone!  So full.  I don’t think they ever heard the clarinet played with the speed of Jan Van Halen before.  Diver Down was my pathway to having my music played in the car stereo.  Uncle really liked the upbeat sounds of these Van Halen covers.  Everybody seemed to like Roth.  I couldn’t get them into Hagar, even with ballads like “Give To Live”.  Uncle wasn’t into ballads.  (I should have tried “I Can’t Drive 55”.)  He always wanted something with a good tempo.  I have more stories about this, but today’s is about the mighty VH.

“Big Bad Bill (Is Sweet William Now)” was the one song everyone universally agreed on.  It was so different from anything in the mainstream.  It had a vintage country shuffle born from the 1920s, and of course that clarinet.  David Lee Roth hammed up the vocals, at his Vaudeville best, and Uncle Paul ate it up.  And then he said the magic words:  “Can you play it a little louder?”  The one phrase that no adult ever uttered:  “Can you play it a little louder?”  Uncle Paul was the only one.

What kid wouldn’t dive for the volume knob when an adult asked them to?

“If it’s too loud, you’re too old,” goes the saying.  Uncle Paul was never too old.

We loved Uncle Paul.  It was he that bridged the two generations.  He was an adult, but he was welcome to hang with the kids.  He was part of both groups.  Not very families has a member who fills that role.  We did — and I am so happy we had that.  Our childhoods were so much richer for it.

Miss you Uncle Paul.

From Wikipedia:

“Big Bad Bill (Is Sweet William Now)” is a song with music by Milton Ager and lyrics by Jack Yellen, written in 1924. The song became a vocal hit for Margaret Young accompanied by Rube Bloom, and an instrumental hit for the Don Clark Orchestra.

The song has also been recorded by Ernest Hare (1924), Billy Murray (1924), Clementine Smith (1924), Emmett Miller (1929), Glen Gray and the Casa Loma Orchestra (1940), Peggy Lee (1962), Merle Haggard (1973), Ry Cooder (1978), Leon Redbone (1978), Van Halen (1982) and others[4] and has been a popular song in barbershop quartet and chorus competitions.

The lyrics describe a man “in the town of Louisville…” who was once a fearsome and rough character known for getting into fights, who, after getting married, becomes a peaceable person who devotes his time to domestic activities such as washing dishes and mopping the floor. He was “Stronger than Samson I declare, til the brown skinned woman, bobbed his hair.”

#523: Columbia House

GETTING MORE TALE #523: Columbia House

How many of you were members of the Columbia House music club?  Tapes or CDs?

The concept was simple.  Get 12 tapes or records for one penny.  Then agree to buy “X” more at “regular club prices” within a year.  They would usually offer all sorts of incentives, such as getting your first regularly priced item for half price.  Their “regular club prices” were fairly high, but if you played your cards right you could make joining the club worthwhile.

Every few weeks after signing up, Columbia House would send you a catalogue and an order form.  The order system was controversial, because it required a negative response if you didn’t want to buy something.  When you signed up, you could pick your favourite genre of music (I chose “metal”).  Each time a catalogue came out, your selected genre would have a “selection of the month”, usually a new release but not always.   If you did not respond with an order form expressing that you didn’t want it, they would automatically mail you the “selection of the month” and bill you for it too.  (The Columbia Record Club system was worked into a sub-plot of the movie A Serious Man by the Coen Brothers.)

For many people this wasn’t a problem.  Our parents let my sister and I sign up when I was in grade 11.  We split the membership and free tapes 50/50.  We paid for everything ourselves and diligently sent in our order forms each time.  We were both already massive music fans, so we poured over every single page.  Most times, one of us ended up buying something, if not the selection of the month itself.

I can still remember every album I received in that first shipment. Seven tapes.  These tapes went into immediate and constant rotation, which is why I remember them all so well today.

  1. Leatherwolf – Leatherwolf
  2. Motley Crue – Girls, Girls, Girls
  3. Hurricane – Over the Edge
  4. Stryper – To Hell With the Devil
  5. Stryper – In God We Trust
  6. White Lion – Pride
  7. Sammy Hagar – VOA

Our musical world opened up in a massive way, and not just because of the new music we were listening to.  The catalogues introduced us to names and album covers that we’d not experienced yet.  What is this Bitches Brew thing?  Why did Deep Purple albums have so few songs?  Did Iron Maiden copy their Maiden Japan from Purple’s Made In Japan?  Holy crap, Hank Williams Jr. has three greatest hits albums?

Everything was absorbed.  Five years later, when I started at the Record Store, my boss was surprised that I knew who most of the artists were, what sections they should go in, and even what record labels they were on.

“I read the Columbia House catalogue cover to cover every month,” was my answer!

The catalogue provided knowledge, and pictures to cut out for locker or wall.  We made the most of that catalogue every time.  It was rare when pictures were not cut out!

I was even able to acquire things that might have been considered rarities back then.  I had never seen Leatherwolf stocked in a store, but Columbia House had it.  When vinyl was being discontinued, I was still able to get Skid Row’s Slave to the Grind (1991) on LP.  They had most of the Savatage albums.

It all sounds wonderful, but Columbia House had flaws too.  The biggest one was horrendous quality control.  They licensed and manufactured the tapes themselves, which were simply not as good quality wise as the ones you could find in a store.  They would be warbling within weeks (if not right out of the case) and the J-cards were sometimes shoddy, with printing not lining up with fold lines, or just they’d just start falling apart along perforations.  They also didn’t carry certain record labels.  While they had everything Warner Bros and Columbia Records, they had nothing from EMI.  Finally, bands made next to nothing on albums that were sold through Columbia House.  Some bands such as the Tragically Hip refused to sell their music via Columbia House.  We didn’t know all of this as kids, of course.  I started to pick up on the quality issues when they seemed to take a serious dive around 1991.

The key to not getting ripped off by Columbia House was to order smart.  The 12 free tapes sounds like a great deal, but when you balance in buying the rest of your selections at full price, most people ended up on the losing side.  Get in and get out, buying the bare minimum.  That was the way to do it.  Of course, we didn’t.  We just enjoyed the convenience and stayed members for years!  No regrets since this led directly to a 12 year career in the Record Store!