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Jacob Grimes Revised Draft

Page history last edited by N8 14 years, 5 months ago

a. who is your primary audience? your secondary audience?

 

The most logical choice for my primary audience would by fellow music fans and record collectors. As for a secondary audience, I could only assume someone who is ignorant to the record collecting subculture.  

 

b. what is your thesis, or main claim?

 

My main claim is how obsessive I can be over a thing as silly as buying music.

 

c. what genres of narrative to you explore/experiment with in your draft?

 

Dialogue with my inner thoughts and feelings. 

 

d. did you learn anything new in this process of composition?

 

That something that I can imagine is boring to others, is actually somewhat interesting. 

 

e. direct our feedback: where do you want our help/advise/attention?

 

Overall composition as well as if it makes any sense to a casual music listener. 

 

f. what do you like best about your composition?

 

The introduction. 

 

 

 

 

I rifle through my ashtray, shifting bottlecaps, pennies, and straw wrappers to the side, until I find a quarter. 30 minutes is all I will allow myself. I exit my vehicle and deposit the coin in the parking meter. Carefully looking both ways I cross the street. Anxiety kicks in, what possibilities wait for me inside? The door swings open, and I entermy own personal heaven, and hell.

 

As I cross the threshold I am bombarded with trite vocals, repetitive beats, and drop d tuned guitars. They always play the worst music in here. Like my other visits, I come prepared. I reach in my pocket and pull out my iPhone, inserting two small white earbuds into my ears. Hopefully The Band can save me from these juvenile sounds. Walking to the back of the store, I nod at the lone employee working the cash register. He is a short, bald man, clad in all black, wearing the same glasses Elvis Costello wore on the cover of his second album, This Year's Model. There is a mutual respect between us, I don't bother him and he doesn't bother me. Located in the very back of this narrow, yet cluttered shop is the cause of my anxiety, my only drug, and the reason why I spend many nights alone, vinyl. I cannot explain why I obsess over a music format that many consider dead. Maybe it is the audio quality, or the collectibility? It could be the time and effort put into the pressing and creation of the record. All I know is that my thirst will never be quenched for 7"s by obscure DC punk bands, or Steely Dan LPs.

 

"Is it alright if you hold these up here while I continue shopping?" I ask, removing my earbuds.

 

"Sure, no problem." The clerk replies. "Wow, 30 dollars a record, you must really like these dudes."

 

I could have told him that the Drive-By Truckers' frontman, Patterson Hood, is the son of music legend, David Hood, who produced songs by Willie Nelson and The Rolling Stones, or how they make some of the most honest sounding rock music next to to The Hold Steady.

 

Instead, I give him the half-ass answer, "Yep, they rock," followed by a fake smile.

 

Music for me is a love/hate relationship. On one hand I love listening to it and analyzing the lyrics, but I hate talking about it with complete strangers, let alone clueless record store clerks. I insert my earbuds back in my ears and leave the register. As I head back toward the vinyl section a young man approaches me.

 

"Hey, what up?" He asks me.

 

"Uh, not much. Do I know you?"

 

"Oh, no, I just saw you buying some records, that's cool man."

 

"Ya, I guess. Can I help you?" By this point I am starting to get annoyed.

 

"Actually, my band is playing this week and I am sure you will like us!" He says, handing me a flyer for his show. "I will see you there!" His confidence appalls me, but yet all I could do was nod in approval. If I was on top of my game I would have drilled him about why I should go, or what they had to offer me in terms of an enjoyable listening experience, but my previous altercation with the clerk left me mentally drained. 

 

The future rock star begins making small talk with the absent minded clerk and I make my way back to the new release section. Having already spent well over 100 dollars on three different albums, I approach the small bookcase that contains various 7"s. If any format truly captures a punk band, it is the 7". Back in the 70's and 80's most hardcore bands did not have enough songs to release a complete LP, so they took what little material they had written and released them on this format. Usually each record contains no more than four songs, and that is all some artists need. This is a tradition that continues today, thanks to record labels like Suburban Home and No idea, who continue to keep the format alive. I begin flipping through various artists of interest, trying to remember if I have each one or not. As I pass through the H section I remember that The Holy Mountain just released a few new splits with some obscure bands I never even heard of. Sure enough they were present in the small, blue, plastic bin. I carefully remove each record from its respected spot, making sure not to lose my place if I decide to put them back. The artwork on these particular splits are breathtaking. Intense, yet beautiful, almost the perfect way to describe The Holy Mountain.

 

I yell over to the clerk who's nose is buried in the latest issue of Alternative Press. "Do you mind if I check the color of these records?"

 

"Sure, no problem." He must have a stock answer for every question.

 

Just as I thought, white! If my memory serves me correctly they printed the least amount of these. And only five dollars each? What a steal considering the label was selling them for three. I check out each one in the series, and as luck would have it, all the rarest color. Record stores never have the rarest pressing. I eagerly approach the register, smiling like an idiot. 

 

"I think this will be it." I say, handing him even more records.

 

"Your total is 106.95." He says with a smirk on his face. "I am glad I just download all my music."

 

How could anyone say that? I can understand downloading an album to see if you like it, but not supporting the musicians, especially ones on small labels is criminal. Not even acknowledging his response, I hand him my debit card and enter my pin number on their credit machine. As I wait for my receipt, I try to decide which record I will listen to first. Every possibility and combination runs through my head, each one souding better than the last. I decide on The Drive- By Truckers southern rock opera, The Dirty South. 

 

"See you next time." He says, handing me my receipt and bag.

 

As I make my way to my car I notice a small slip of paper being held in place by my windshield wiper. I approach the front of my car and carefully remove it. Just as I suspected a parking ticket for 30 dollars. I convince myself it was all worth it.

 

 

N8's Final Narrative Peer Grading

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