By David Farrell

I am one of those old fashioned types that still loves LPs and CDs and enjoys perusing record shops and old book stores. I remember  living for a summer in Winnipeg in the early ’70s. There was an independent shop at the top end of town called Opus 69. At least, that’s the name that sticks with me. Anyway, it was like a candy emporium for me, stocked with the latest British music tabloids, and an impressive collection of import LPs that were neither cheap nor overly expensive.

In Toronto we had the late Larry Ellenson’s Round Records, set on the second floor of what is now Holt Renfrew’s on Bloor. That store was the focal point of most Saturday afternoons, then on to The Pilot Tavern, or down to Melanie’s to hear the (anti) Climax Jazz Band.

More often than not Saturday nights were spent at the  Rock Pile, the Elmo or Grossman’s Tavern with the ever so sweet Cindy Grossman serving the 20-cent drafts and her father and mother behind the kitchen counter watching the parade of candle makers, musicians, poets and the likes of me rolling in. It was more akin to Fagin’s den, but after hours every blues musician playing the ticketed clubs on Yonge would come down and jam on stage with the Cameo Blues Band or Downchild. The music was rich and the memories made fragrant with the smell of incense, petulia oil, grass, hash and watery beer.

Music World had a store just south of Sam’s on Yonge. That store had the best collection of R&B 45s in the city; and Sam’s, well stroll in most Saturdays and Sammy would be standing somewhere with that grin of his, most always helping out a client to find a certain artist, or helping someone discover something new. One rarely saw anyone leave his store empty handed. It would have been an affront to him.

Those were merry times:  LPs stacked on skids off the floor, walls bulging with specials and remainders and hot new releases.

Music retailing in Canada became stale when A&A’s started to expand under the helm of Fred Rich. The other chains followed, and the stores became uniform and the music they played in them started to be controlled by head-offices that were cutting deals to push greater volumes. Then HMV came along and debunked the notion that record stores had to be cookie cutter franchises with uniform inventories. Paul Aloffs revolutionized music retailing in this country and for an all too brief  time, the shopping experience became second to none. Well, times  changed, but there remain a great number of stores that have their mojo intact. There’s Soundscapes on College in Toronto, and the Grigorian on Yorkville. There are others too, but these two stores are where I tend to shop in town when I feel the mood strike to touch and feel and discover new music.

I suppose in a way this column is  an antidote to the rant I posted yesterday about telemarketers, governments, and the wretched excesses that have plummeted many to a point of despair. Alan Cross often leads me to some new discovery, either through his Ongoing History,  on Twitter, his blog or his online emporium, and then there is Richard Flohil whose exhaustive knowledge and unerring ear for great roots, blues and songs in general has shaped my record collection over the years.

There are many others whom I admire, and I don’t have the time or the inclination to mention them all here now. I don’t get out too often to the clubs and soft seaters as I once did. There was a time when I thought nothing of doing three clubs a night, four nights a week. Now, most mornings I am in front of my computer by five a.m., but the music still moves me.

I’m in awe of Flohil’s ability to squeeze every second out of  every minute out of most every night in his race against time to see and hear and offer up his always insightful, often times amusing opinion. There should be some corporation out there to fund his indulgences, his passions. He is one of those taste makers that has and does influence a wide circle of friends who in turn influence a wider circle of friends again. He has been social networking before social networking became a buzz term.  Before Facebook, MySpace were ever conceived.

I don’t get a lot of albums as I once did. To be honest, that’s just fine. It was onerous having to blow through all the singles and albums weekly at Record Week, and then The Record.  I was fortunate to have the world on a string for 30 odd years. Along the way I amassed a record store-sized record collection. Over the years I have pruned and restricted and up-loaded an enormous amount of my favourite artists, albums and songs. Below, a taste of what I have on my desktop, spines out. These are CDs, separate from what I keep on my hard-drive.

Fred Eaglesmith, Tinderbox. Not his best work, but anything he does is better than most. His songs are crafted jewels, his voice as rough as rawhide, and his delivery always honest and well supported.

Justin Rutledge, Man Descending. I don’t know if Justin will ever match No Never Alone, his first recording. Then again, perhaps he will. He is a young man blessed with a muse on a voyage of discovery. His songs are soaked in realism, and his recordings always deliciously musical.

Islands, Arms Way. I discovered this Montreal band on MySpace and purchased the album after having listened to two songs. When I played the album in its entirety it had me riveted and stayed on repeat for several days.  I still love this album and The Arm grabs me each and every time I hear it.

Nick Lowe, At My Age. Several years old now, Lowe is like Ian Tyson. He just gets better with age. His ability to craft a song using the bare minimum of words is simply incredible, and his melancholy delivery captivates me every time I hear his voice.

Amos Garrett, Get Way Back – A Tribute to Percy Mayfield. Likely his finest moment. Play this once for anyone who loves music and chances are good they will head directly out to a store and purchase it.  The performances are impeccable, the delivery understated and affectionate.  It’s one of those ‘desert island’ discs.

Treasa Levasseu, Low Fidelity. An indie project funded by FACTOR. She has her own website and if you haven’t heard her, she’s appearing at the Silver Dollar with a full band this weekend and likely with David Baxter (see below) in the band. There isn’t a duff song on this ten song album. A hint of Janice Joplin, a measure of Carole Pope, and a nod to Dusty in Memphis. Unquestionably my favourite new album of late. Like Amy Winehouse, Treasa was born with an old soul.

Biber, The Mystery Sonatas, featuring violinist John Holloway. Simply the most divine, spiritual work I have ever heard. Doug Chappell unknowingly turned me on to this masterwork when he added me to the Virgin Classics mailing list. It is a two CD album and I have yet to get past the first 70 minutes. I have owned this gem  now for more than ten years. One day I must see how the other half sounds.

David Baxter, Day & Age. This twelve song acoustic roots collection is unbelievably Baxter’s first album. He has busied his life adding sweetness to works by others for most of his working life as a hired gun in the studio and on tours. There are a handful of songs on here that take me higher. Angeline is most definitely one of them.

Amelia Curran, War Brides. Flohil turned me on to this Six Shooter artist; he even managed to drag me out to hear her at the Mod Club a few months back. She can send shivers down one’s spine when she hits her stride, and her own songbook contains novellas that explore the soul.  Amelia  is an artist building a songwriting rep that is already exalted down east where she started her journey from.

Eleni Mandell, Artificial Fire. Reminiscent of Jill Sobule and Crash Vegas (first album) at times, this sounds to be an unfinished work that was  released before it was mixed; then again, its charm is that it is sounds so unaffected, unfinished and spartan.  Eleni came to me out of the blue, in a manila envelope, and I’ve been increasingly drawn to her softness and sparks, just as one is to the sound of soft running water.

Ray Davies, Working Man’s Cafe. Another album I purchased and I can’t say it is his best. Can’t even really say I like it that much, but I have lived with Ray’s muses since boyhood and seen him with his band and solo inumerable times. I’m trying to connect with this seemingly haphazard song collection. One lonely evening perhaps I will. It remains close at hand as I am loath to discard a record by a man who is to  some an acquired taste and to others, like me, a journeyman songwriter who spins tales I want to know about.

Sugarland, Love On the Inside. What can I say? You know the band, most of you know the songs. It’s just my thing.

Various, The Gift - A Tribute to Ian Tyson. A couple of years old now, this wonderfully affectionate collection includes some of my favourite Canadian ensembles, singers and songwriters. I’m not a fan of tribute albums but this one makes the cut and never wears thin on me.

Ralph Murphy, Ralph Murphy. Ralph is no Eric Carmen when it comes to singing, but lordy mama has this Canadian boy seen the world, lived a life and penned the songs about life, love and time on earth. This is a songbook of songs that have been hits for half of Nashville’s elite and a hit parade of Brit popsters when Jimmy Saville was alive and kicking. As the song goes, to know him is to love him. I am guilty on both counts.

What feeds me, what brings me here is the music and the musicians that that feed my soul. Music that encapsulates  indelible moments  in my life, and the lives of others. The business is just that. Business. May all those who labour to create magic verses, and can serenade my mind with unspeakable beauty…god bless you all.