my phonograph illness, explained in part

[MicaMonster]

This post is machine related, kind-of. Sort-of. While I write this, I have echoes of Billy Murray singing "Come Take a Trip in My Airship," whispering in my consciousness. Complete with surface noise. Uncontrollably, I'm afraid. Sometimes I hear voices. I hear Ed Meeker announcing an Edison cylinder. I can be at the checkout counter at a department store (large open spaces make me a little uncomfortable), and while swiping my credit card, I hear the opening score from Madame Butterfly in the sounds of shopping carts wobbling by, or in the screams of little babies being comforted by their mothers.

Even the chore of driving becomes a burden. Every sign nailed to a telephone poll says something to me. Here's a translation: YARD SALE = "baby clothes" GARAGE SALE = "78rpm records" BARN SALE = "next restoration project."

I lose sleep, I surrender to thoughts and images. The peacock of the Black Patti record label is always fading in an out of my unconscious vision. Words mumbled: "Original Stack O' Lee Blues" ...... "Electrically Recorded" Over....and Over....and Over again.

A trumpet solo by B.A. Rolfe.

And then, the REAL nightmares start. I start imaging scenarios where, by chance, I stop at a barn sale, and instead of finding a Victrola XI, or an Edison floor model, I end up finding a Type-K Graphophone. Covered in dark brown dust and stained with greyed decades old bird defecation. Its frayed cloth covered battery wires still attached. Then, while still asleep, I disassemble it. Clean off each metal part in lacquer thinner and degreaser to bring back the original shine. Then, before I get to connect my power supply to it, I wake up! In a cold sweat, both hands in the positions holding the ON switch, or tightening the battery binding posts. Reality sets in. Thoughts of "they have all been found already" materialize, and there is an exhale of mixed relief and disapproval.

I check Craigslist at 2:30AM for the Type-K, then go back to sleep.

Considerations of "door knocking" in Southern 'states, holding a 78rpm disc, and asking if the home owner had any in the attic or barn. Maybe in my retirement. The lawn needs to get mowed tomorrow.

Fueled by optimism. On one hand realizing that the lust for an original tinfoil phonograph may be all that satisfies me for the interim period. One day, when I do eventually find one, I vow to find it in the wilds of Craigslist, a garage sale, in some dusty barn, drafty attic or damp basement.

There is some importance in being the "discoverer." Finding something that has sat, neglected, for not just decades, but a heck of a long time. If it was a chair or picture frame, that DIDN'T TALK, I could care less. It is this unshakable fascination with mechanical things that keeps me coming back. Over and over. About two teaspoons of hope, and five cups of luck.

When I play a machine that has sat silent for so long, and it starts to make faint murmurs of song, it brings an inexplainable completeness to me.

This whole post is just an insight into my personality. Maybe others here will feel comforted that they too aren't alone in sharing such obsessiveness. Thanks For Reading.

-W

[HisMastersVoice]

"Confessions of a Phonoholic"

Great story, it was amusing until I started to relate!

[phonogfp]

Wyatt,

You're among friends, and I'm sure most everyone here knows exactly what you're talking about!

I once wrote up what I thought would be a brief explanation/answer to the question, "Why do you collect these things?" It turned into an autobiographical account of how I became involved and the historical-romantic associations that collecting had/has for me. I just checked it and it's 6 pages long!

Like most of us here, I've had dreams involving antique phonographs and records. One I remember vividly... I was in a shop looking through records and found a group of 7" U.S. Berliners, but they were brick-red: the color of 1899 Vitaphone discs. I was VERY excited...and then I woke up. Boy, was I disappointed!

George P.

[fran604g]

I understand your passion, Wyatt.

Though I'm only in the infancy of my own personal Phono-neurosis, I've recently begun to dream of Graphophones.

Am I going crazy?

Fran

[Valecnik]

When I play a machine that has sat silent for so long, and it starts to make faint murmurs of song, it brings an inexplainable completeness to me.

-W

There's just something about setting that needle down and waiting for the music to start. Add kerosene lighting and a sip of merlot per side, (two sips per side when playing diamond discs).

[Curt A]

All of this talk brings me to a frequent question: Is it the content, the media or the machines?

I have been fascinated with phonographs since age 16 or so, when my dad and I purchased a Victrola XI at an auction for $12. Included were a batch of records that I had never seen or heard of. I spent hours listening and forming opinions and ideas about the music and the history and also paid attention to the labels that seemed to record my favorite types of music of the period. That being in the 60's during the age of the British invasion and rock & roll seemed like a strange time for a teenager to be fascinated with sounds from the 1920s and before...

Wyatt, you are right... any other antique "thing" doesn't talk to you. I remember looking at old radios and thinking they would be interesting if only they could play back the broadcasts that were heard on them. I always liked antiques and wished they could relate some of their history to me, but they were silent and I could only imagine what settings they may have been enjoyed in. Phonographs on the other hand, have that distinct ability to put us into their original settings, since they were used for only one thing.... entertainment in an earlier time. You can imagine people sitting in front of them listening to the exact same records you have in your hands...

The unique thing about these phonographs is that they are actually a type of time machine bringing back sounds of long gone times and long dead performers. There was a real connection thinking about someone performing or singing directly into a horn and years later I could bring back that song from the dead. Somehow, maybe its only me, but later vinyl recordings didn't have the same mystery about them. They were made as a large commercial enterprise, where some of the early recordings were only made in small numbers and the performers didn't get huge contracts or reality shows... In fact, some of the early recordings were so regionalized that they are rare for that reason alone. People in California or New York had absolutely no interest in hearing recordings of southern hillbillies and people in the south had no interest in Jean Goldkette.

Oh well, so much for the esoteric BS... whatever drives our interests is an overwhelming OCD compulsion to escape to simpler, different times and I think we all live in other decades in our minds. This is the primary difference between a true collector and a phonograph investor...

Now, back to that question: Is it the content, the media or the machines???

[VintageTechnologies]

All of this talk brings me to a frequent question: Is it the content, the media or the machines?

Wyatt: I think there are medications that could dispel the hallucinations and voices in your head, but the side-effects may be too horrendous to endure. I would simply live with the malady!

For many years, I have had recurring dreams of wandering into antique (junk) shops and finding improbable records that never existed, such as 12" electrically recorded Diamond Disks with weird labels never seen before. What does this say about me? Any dream interpreters out there?

Curt: First came my fascination with the hardware: windup machines, external horns, cylinder record format, and thick Diamond Disk records. As I acquired records, I unknowingly stumbled into a world of discovery, like a time machine. The "software" became even more important to me than the hardware. I have also collected antique radios from the dawn of broadcasting, but it just isn't the same without the original 1920's programming to go with them.

[alang]

Wyatt, even though you may decide to get professional help, I still see normality peaking through. Since you still associate YARD SALE = "baby clothes" there is still hope. Of course if this association changes to "clothes for Edison Talking Dolls" I would get very concerned indeed.

Don't worry, we are all members of PA = Phonoholics Anonymous, we can relate.

Andreas

[Aaron]

You are in good company Wyatt! I'm afraid I too can relate to much of what you said.

Even worse than the dreams for me, is the moment I walk into just about any antique store, or barn sale, and see what I believe is the Holy Grail... We've all done it, and if you say you haven't, you're a LIAR!

The scenario, which I speak of, is set up almost entirely the same each time... A nice country drive, when you happen upon an antique store, or barn sale... You walk in and start passed the tables of forgotten tea sets, and zippo's, when peaking out from beneath the Beanie Babies, you see a small table. Its cast iron legs curve and bend, and connect to a flat foot rest.. And from that extends upward a tattered old leather belt. You're heart races, blood pressure rises, and running towards it seems to take a life time as your knees are now almost too weak to move you. As you push away the items atop, you find a tag that says $50, and you think you've got it! Like Mad Hatter you laugh hysterically as you lift the lid. Underneath your expecting to see the beauty that would be the A-Frame of a Bell-Tainter Treadle machine. But alas... once again... just another sewing machine... With your hopes and dreams destroyed once again, you leave the establishment, with your head hung low... And as you pull away from the shop and continue down the road, you see "Antiques This Way!" crudely painted on a sign hanging from a post just a few miles down... And again the nightmare repeats itself... Such a vicious cycle...

But maybe someday...

Aaron

[VintageTechnologies]

Aaron, as I sift through the sewing machines and other clutter in innumerable junky antique shops, I am reminded of the old joke about the little boy that ends with the punch line: “With all this manure, there must be a pony somewhere!”