Country and Beyond

Crate Diving in Modern America

There’s a quiet over the crate-diving land, maybe because we got interrupted by Record Store Day, or maybe just because the seasons are changing and it’s been getting too hot to haunt old antique malls. Most are air-conditioned, but it still takes effort not to wilt as you trudge across gravel and weedy lots in between rusted chairs and what appear to be bombs from vintage World War Two fighter planes. I suppose someone wants these, but not me: I’m afraid the sweat from my brow might trigger a reaction and then where would I be?

Just kidding, but only in the sense that I keep my sweat to myself on such occasions, and hot as it is, I still manage to squeeze by and enter the premises of places that seem to be hanging on to something, or maybe it’s that they’re just too sweaty themselves to go anywhere or make any significant stock changes.

It’s also true that I’m sometimes stupidly lucky, in the sense that I don’t know what I want until I have it, and even then, it might take a few weeks or months to realize through careful searching that I’m actually sitting on something I would have wanted if only I had set about looking for it intentionally. But since I didn’t, happening upon such treasures helps me understand that being intentional is no fun. Records you don’t know you want have a remarkable, uncanny way of finding you.

So do comic books.

There was the time when I went searching for a certain issue of The Incredible Hulk—this particular issue because the story concerned the legendary Prague Ghetto Golem, and I was researching a story on comic book Golems. It seemed impossible, but there it was in the stacks of the first comic book shop I entered. I ended up writing the story, which no one wanted to publish. I have no idea what happened to my text, but I still have that Hulk comic book and so many Golem-related others (Ragman and certain Batman-related titles).

You do know, right, that Superman is a bit of a Golem? His creators were two sweet and mainly honest Bar Mitzvah boys who needed help searching for meaning and a meaningful career in that period when Germany was fascist and America wasn’t. Don’t believe me? Well, just look up the meaning of Superman’s Kryptonic birth name: Kal-El.

This has nothing to do with crate diving—in the comic world it might be called narrow-box diving—and so be it. I’m done collecting comics, but that doesn’t mean I don’t dream about them or pause every now and then to see if someone’s stash contains something rare from the Silver Age.

Man, there I go getting sidetracked again. Maybe I just wish we had a Superman to knock some sense into those who keep wanting to insure that America stays as white as possible, even if that means renouncing all that we might want or think we are in a representative DEMOCRACY.

Since no one seems to be getting rocketed from a planet far far away anytime soon, let’s think about music instead, and no, we’re not mentioning that song about where the “young men” go to play—a song that our non-super-hero prez considers his favorite song. We’ll be discussing instead a few classics and one new record that serve as antidotes to all the kryptonite being scattered and thrust at us these days.

Also, RIP the Late Show with Stephen Colbert.

Over on Medium, I have a story coming up about the old Country-music variety series, Hee Haw. I loved it when it first aired back in 1969, even if I didn’t exactly give its co-host, Buck Owens, his due. So let’s rectify this sad state of affairs.

Yesterday, I didn’t have to dig far in the crates at Cabin Floor Records to find this one: Buck Owens and His Buckaroos, Sweet Rosie Jones (Capitol ST 2962, 1968). This was a $6 treasure, featuring Buck and the boys (the shining Don Rich chief among them) singing and playing the title track plus “Hello Happiness Goodbye Loneliness,” “Swingin’ Doors,” and “The Heartaches Have Just Started.” 1968 was the year before Hee Haw started, and about the only way I knew about Buck was via the pictures of him on jukeboxes in old hamburger joints. I didn’t know what to know, but recognized that fact when Hee Haw started and I couldn’t quit watching and listening.

Some time back, I got another $6 Buck album at Cabin Floor. I knew what I was getting and couldn’t believe I was getting it this way, for so little cost and even less digging effort: Buck Owens and His Buckaroos, Together Again/My Heart Skips a Beat (Capitol ST 2135, 1964). Those two title songs alone are more than worth the price tag, even if it were four times what it was. In excellent shape, you can also hear on it “Truck Drivin’ Man,” “Hello Trouble,” and “Getting Used to Losing You.”

The real gold, though, was a record I almost didn’t buy—one I knew nothing about other than it looked old and it wasn’t released by Capitol, Buck’s longtime label of choice. I know nothing about La Brea Records other than in 1961, that label released Buck’s very first album, Buck Owens (La Brea L 8017). It’s still in its shrink wrap and it still has affixed to it an orange sticker with black print proclaiming that once upon a time, some retailer wanted 99 cents for this LP. I’m pretty sure I bought this copy at Cabin Floor, but there’s no price sticker from them. But since it sat in the racks for months before I even picked it up, I’m going to guess that I got this NM copy for less than $10. Recorded and produced by Virginia Richmond, this one defies anyone who thinks they know what Buck sounds like. If you heard it, you might think it’s a Hank Williams wannabe, which, in my opinion, is not a bad thing to want or be regarding Country or any other genre of music. And now I have it even if I didn’t know what I was getting when I got it.

Still, Buck Owens isn’t the only treasure worth searching for in the classic country world. There’s also this: Porter Wagoner and Dolly Parton, Always, Always (RCA Victor, LSP-4186, 1969). At a cost of $10 (it was a cut-out), when it was first released, Dolly was on the cusp of greater fame and of readying herself to split from Porter who, as legend has it, could be a bit controlling. Still, the man could wear a Nudie suit with the best of them.

Beyond country—because I promised—yesterday I found a rare Bill Withers recording that until yesterday I didn’t know existed: Bill Withers Live at BBC 1973 (Outsider Records, OUTS044). At the height of his career—a career longer than many would believe—this live recording features the best of Bill: “Ain’t No Sunshine,” “Use Me,” “Lean On Me,” as well as “Grandma’s Hands” and “Harlem.” It’s difficult to find copies of any Withers LP, so when you do, you’d better know what you’ve found and grab it if you can. I sing “Ain’t No Sunshine” at least once every week, but only to myself. This recording cost $26—worth it.

And finally, I first heard Maisy Owen on Outlaw Country, a station which plays pretty much whatever it wants to just as long as it seems rooted to the earth. I didn’t know who I was listening to, and it didn’t matter except for I needed to know so I could find more. She sounds country in the way Emmylou Harris does on Wrecking Ball: a bit haunted, wistful, and alive to sounds that pierce the heart and the soul of you. I love this debut record, Dark On a Sunny Day (Tompkins Square TSQ4128, 2026), and though this is only May, unless Waylon Payne produces an entire record of songs—there’ve been two released so far—I can’t imagine any record surpassing Maisy’s on my top of the crate pile, year-end roundup (I usually don’t so such a thing but this LP makes me want to). The standout track is “On My Way Down,” but the more I listen, it’s the final song, “All Ends the Same” that takes my country breath away.

Owen plays guitar, viola, bass, and piano, and she wrote the eight songs on this LP. She’s supposed to play an in-store show at the other record store here in Greenville—Horizon Records—some time this summer. I hope my heart and heated soul can take it.

That’s it for now. Stay cool in every way possible, and keep digging: for as Sylvester the Cat once sang, “You never know where you’re going until you get there.”