The Fans

Oh Jesus where are we on this journey; All adolescence out the window.
- Patti Smith*

Apparently, space is a precious commodity at a Todd show. Something to be fought for tooth and nail. I'm squeezing forward to get to where Pippi and her crew are standing, right down front. This is a mistake, I can tell as I snake through the crowd, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. I encounter stiff elbows and locked shoulders. Everyone weighted down to the tilted floor of the Gramercy Theater, like anchors. A group of women calls out "stand FIRM, ladies" as I pass, their arms akimbo. The most vocal of them continues to shout at the back of my head. "That's right, keep moving. This is our space." I turn around to apologize. "I'm just trying to get to my friends. They're right over…" "Keep moving, we don't want you here." My fists clench against my chest. And here I thought we all had something in common.

(I related this story later on to a guy from our neighborhood in our local bar. "They were older than you?" "Yeah. I'd say they were in their fifties." "So you got bullied by a bunch of moms?" I don't think he spends all that much time on the internet.)

Later I read somewhere that some people had waited in line for four hours in frigid temperatures to claim a spot close to the stage and realized that I was the jerk in this situation. When it comes to Todd fans, to the lengths they'll go to, I still have so very much to learn.

I finally make it to Pippi. "I made it," I say. "But I think I made a few enemies."

"It's a bit early for enemies, Zan," says Pippi, and welcomes me into the fold. And then it all unfolds: Black Maria, No. 1 Lowest Common Denominator, oh man he's playing Bleeding. His fingers on fire. His voice melting over the crowd. At concerts there is this ebb and flow of connection: the artist moves towards the crowd, and the crowd moves closer to the artist. A call and response of attention and attraction.

Then there is this: Todd is doing runs, challenging his backing band to echo him. Their own little game of call and response, all of us involved in this elaborate triangular give and take of listening initiated by the man in the middle. He hits a particularly beautiful trail of notes, casts them up into the air, watches them hang there for a moment, and from the mouths at his feet you can hear breaths caught in throats. All around us: everyone pausing to recognize the beauty of that moment.

I can't help it: I will gush. I will gush until there's nothing left in my heart to gush about, until it all runs dry.

The fans stand in awe. "This is the best he's sounded in years."

"Did you hear that?" says Pippi, turning to me. "The best in years."

"I heard that," I say. I secretly decide it's because I'm finally there.

Pippi reminds me of something he said the night before when she told him I'm a new fan, something that I'd forgotten in my delirium. "We must nurture her and help her grow," he had said, throwing his arm over my shoulder. He bends the strings on the guitar there on that stage, leaning back on his heels, and my little sapling heart grows three sizes.

"It's almost too much," I say, hand to chest. I feel it pounding.

"Too much?" says a fan behind me. "No way: MORE!"

We the insatiable.

*In what I can only describe as an homage to Patti Smith created by the circumstantial location of a BBQ joint I'd been wanting to try, I ended up walking from the Hotel Chelsea along 23rd street to the gig. This quote, from Patti's review of A Wizard, A True Star, feels fitting.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved. Todd Is Godd.

Speculative Comforts

Patti Smith isn't particularly concerned about the dust that has collected on the mouldings in her kitchen. Joan Didion doesn't fret when the slipcover comes untucked from the corner of the couch.

Joni Mitchell spends one day a month in her pajamas, eating popcorn for dinner. She thinks about combing her hair.

Todd Rundgren sometimes just feels like spending the entire day reading Wikipedia.

There is a bag sitting in a closet in Oprah's house that is full of things she's always meant to get around to putting in a scrapbook.

Zadie Smith sometimes orders dinner for one at the bar. Annie Leibovitz sometimes leaves her camera at home.

President Obama might, on a good day, let himself hit "refresh" one more time before bed.

Bob Dylan hates going to the dentist.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.

I've Seen Your Symptoms Many Times Before

Todd Rundgren. Todd Rundgren! TODD. RUNDGREN.

Shut up about Todd Rundgren, Zan.

Can we talk about Todd just this once? Tomorrow night, I get to see the man in concert for the first time. Surely that makes this an exceptional situation.

Go on then. Try to keep it under 500 words.

Oh, Todd. (Good god woman, are you blushing?) You're so hard to explain to others. Friends ask me which Todd songs they should listen to first. Honestly? None of it. It's not for them. Or I'll choose just one song, the perfect song for whatever type of person they might be. For the whistful: "The Range War." And for the intense: "Black Maria." Like writing up prescriptions. On each label: twice a day for five days, with meals.

Todd has a pharmacy full of them. Love of the Common Man Cure For The Common Cold. Feet Don't Fail Me Now Blister Bandages. Death of Rock N Roll Ear Plugs. Some Folks Is Even Whiter Than Me Sunblock and Can We Still Be Friends Breath Mints.

You do know that "Hello It's Me" was used in a Tums commercial? And that the album you're seeing him play tomorrow is called "Healing"? Aren't we beating this theme to death?

Then forget the pharmacy. That's all beside the point. The real point: I couldn't tell you why I started listening to nothing but Todd Rundgren. (I can tell you when: last September in Brooklyn, Big Star covered Rundgren's "Slut" in their encore; the next day, I came across Faithful, and consequently, this video. That video—that white suit—was the beginning of the end.) Or why I can't stop.

My friends all think I'm crazy. (Eden: "This has got to stop, Zan, you're just throwing yourself away for some rock musician who's old enough to play checkers with Ron Wood.") My boss—after pointing to the picture I have pinned to the wall above my computer and asking me who that girl was—wonders how my husband puts up with me. My husband, bless his heart, puts up with me enough to go to Morristown, NJ and sit in the back row of a theater for 3 hours to hear two entire Todd albums performed live.

I couldn't tell you why it's my latest thing. It's an infection, an itch I must scratch.

Maybe Dr. Todd can prescribe you something for that.

A recent review described Rundgren fans as "Trekkie-like," and while I have yet to meet any others, it personally feels very, very true. I need to know every episode inside and out. Or in this case: every record he's ever been involved with. J even mentioned that now that he's more familiar with Todd Rundgren's music (he's learning through "Toddmosis"), he can hear it in the Todd-produced albums: the XTC, the Patti Smith, the Psychedelic Furs. Those transitions on Skylarking? All his. The synths on Waves or War Babies? The layered backing harmonies in Cheap Trick's "Heaven's Falling"? Todd, Todd, Todd.

Go on, let's hear it then...

Twice a day for five days, with meals.

Open Your Eyes - The Nazz / Couldn't I Just Tell You - Todd Rundgren / Personality Crisis - New York Dolls / The Last of the New Wave Riders - Utopia / I Can't Take It - Cheap Trick / I Saw The Light - Todd Rundgren / Frederick - Patti Smith / Long Flowing Robe - Todd Rundgren / Summer's Cauldron & Grass - XTC / Black Maria - Todd Rundgren / Love My Way - Psychedelic Furs / Lucky Guy - Todd Rundgren / Broken Flag - Patti Smith / Death of Rock N Roll - Todd Rundgren / Ain't Got Nobody - Grand Funk Railroad / Sons of 1984 - Todd Rundgren

(If you're viewing this in your RSS reader, you'll need to click through to see the player. Though, really, no one's going to blame you if you don't.)

Further reading:

I Hate To Break It To You, Animal Collective, But Todd Did It First

Patti Smith reviews A Wizard, A True Star

Todd Rundgren Time Machine, etc.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved. Todd Is Godd.

Three Clerks

One.

Marvin Gaye and His Girls
John Lennon & Yoko Ono - Double Fantasy
Paul & Linda McCartney - Ram
Loudon Wainwright III - Album II
Rick Nelson - The Very Thought Of You
Herman's Hermits - There's A Kind Of Hush All Over The World
Yaz - Upstairs At Eric's
The Best of Burt Bacharach
Burt Bacharach Plays His Hits
Donovan's Greatest Hits
Tim Buckley - happy sad

"I'll throw the Tim Buckley in for a couple of bucks," said the record clerk. "It's my last day. What do I care." He slides the records into a brown plastic bag. "Overworked and underpaid."

"Well, thanks for your help, and good luck with whatever you do next."

"I'm going to the moon."

"To the moon?"

"Yeah, to the moon."

"Well, good luck with that."

*  *  *

Two.

Tammy Wynette - Stand By Your Man/Bedtime Story
Elvis Costello & The Attractions - Punch the Clock
Cat Stevens - Tea for the Tillerman
The Steve Miller Band - Book of Dreams
Dick Hyman at the Lowrey Organ - Electrodynamics
Utopia - Oops! Wrong Planet
Utopia - Adventures in Utopia
Utopia - Utopia

"Do you want to try anything out?" said the girl at the counter. "I've been listening to The Kinks all day."

"I'd love to hear how this side sounds. There's a big scratch."

"Do you come in here often?"

"I try not to. If I do, I'll just spend loads of money on Todd Rundgren albums."

"I know what you mean. That's like me and bookstores."

"Oh, me too." Dick Hyman plays his Lowrey Organ. "I'm definitely getting this one."

"I used to be so into listening to new music. Now I'm just like, whatever." The sound of a cash register. "My boss will be so happy. He called before and said 'did we earn any money?' and I was, like, 'no.' I've been here for seven hours."

And with that, I crossed "record store" off our list of possible storefront ideas.

*  *  *

Three.

Prince - Purple Rain
Grand Funk - Phoenix
Christopher Cross* - s/t
Bessie Smith - Nobody's Blues But Mine
Kate Bush - Hounds Of Love

"Ah, yes. Kate Bush. I met her once."

"Was she nuts?"

"Well, hold on, hold on. She was signing records as a promotion for her album back in 1993."

"Rubberband Girl?"

"Well, no, let's see, it was… hmmm. It was called The Red Shoes."

"Uh-huh."

"This was in the days before the internet, but somehow word got out, and by the time I got there the line stretched six blocks. She ended up signing for six hours."

"Wow." (…ow, wow, wow, wow, wow; unbelievable.)

"I actually handed her something to sign that she'd never seen before."

"Cool. Do you still have it?"

"Of course." He flips back to the beginning of the stack and starts counting the prices all over again.

He never did tell me if she was crazy or not.

*Purchased because I confused "Sailing" with "Come Sail Away" by Styx. Oh well. At least I have something to listen to now when I take bubble baths.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.

The Needle and the Damage Done

The other day my brother called me to talk record players. "I think I want to get one. I think I need vinyl in my life."

It's addictive, I warned him. You will accumulate; your apartment will begin to smell like cardboard. Tthere's just something about listening to an entire side of an album, waiting for that pop that signifies it's through, the needle bumping in the groove, sometimes silently, then you rise and carefully flip it over… it's meditation over music. None of this shuffle nonsense.

Ceremony.

"I know a great shop for second-hand records if you do."

I've owned a record player at almost every stage of my life. From the time our mom came home from a yard sale with the Saturday Night Fever and Breakin' II soundtracks, up to the days I discovered my dad's collection of Neil Young albums and hauled them off to college along with a portable turntable that had faulty wiring and used to give me electric shocks. Even when the record player was an old broken one we had to hand-wind to play our Herb Alpert while living a ball's throw from the cricket ground in London, the spinning record has always been there, a 33 1/3 metronome for the rhythm of my life.

This Saturday, I popped into the East Village outpost of Kim's, enticed by balloons and the excitement of a crowd still loyal to the format, a crowd who still knows why they're called "record" stores, all congregating on a single day to support a cause they believe in. I wasn't hip to how things worked, and didn't realize I was supposed to buy some sort of limited edition 7" from The Hold Steady or Surfer Blood or the like. Instead, I walked out with Grand Funk's Shinin' On (replete with 3D cover, but missing the 3D glasses), the new Yeasayer album, and a kit for cleaning vinyl—an impulse buy at the register.

Here is where I admit how cool I feel carrying around a bag of vinyl records. Whether I actually am cool or not doesn't matter; it feels cool.

A few nights later, my brother, his girlfriend, and I met at a pizzeria in Brooklyn before we went off to see Liars. The record player was still on his mind. We talked needle quality, pre-amps and speakers. I'm not much of a gearhead, but I now know where to get a good belt for your belt drive, and I know how to handle a record, no matter what the alert looks record shop owners give me when I slip the record out of its sleeve may tell you.

John was all set to dive in. And, coming fresh from the high of slipping vinyl out of its sleeve, I was excited for him.

"I can lend you all my Todd Rundgren albums now."

***

I've been relegating anything I have to say about music lately to Tumblr, partly because the format is more conducive to posting video/audio. But this recent post from Jessica made me realize that there's still something to be said about the songs we love, and why we love them, and oh boy what they do to us when they get stuck on repeat. (If there was a Last FM for my record player, I'd be embarrassed to see how many times I've listened to Todd. And Honky Chateau. And Enoch Light's Persuasive Percussion. And — oh my god — Upstairs at Eric's.)

WORDS. Words used to talk about how much we love our music. Gushing, unadorned words. This is okay to do sometimes.

So this is it. This list: these are the albums that make me happy I own a record player.

(If there's something broken in you and you are predisposed to hate anything that came out of the seventies, please skip forward, waving along the way to me in my jeans zipped up with pliers and my hair feathered out to here.)

Todd Rundgren - Runt. The Ballad of Todd Rundgren
Track: Long Flowing Robe (links go to YouTube)
Let's get this out of the way first. Everyone who knows me is so completely sick of hearing about my recent fascination (to put it mildly) with Todd Rundgren. But I'd be untrue if I didn't mention it at the top of the list. As much as I love the wacky later Todd records, there's something about his early Carole King-esque ballads that I really connect with. This is the sound of my memory: Nothing beats a lonely Friday night. See also: Todd, Hermit of Mink Hollow, Healing.

Joni Mitchell - Hejira
Track: Furry Sings The Blues
Joni Mitchell's Blue was the first piece of vinyl I purchased as an adult, an album I used to listen to while I took baths in the perch of our Crouch Hill flat in London. It was all optimism and airy vocals; even the sad songs seemed elated to be sad. Hejira came to me later, once I'd started to tire of living in New York. "Furry Sings The Blues" may be a song about Memphis, but it still somehow applies to this town too: Old Furry sings the blues / He points a bony finger at you and / "I don't like you" / Everybody laughs as if it's the old man's standard joke / But it's true / We're only welcome for our drink and smoke.

Cat Stevens - Buddha and the Chocolate Box
Track: Oh Very Young
And though you want to last forever you know you never will... This is the tagline of my life.

Fleetwood Mac - Fleetwood Mac
Track: I'm So Afraid
Our favorite part of this album is the credit on the back that says "Sleeve Concept: Fleetwood Mac." Oh, the seventies. I can't listen to this album without raiding my own collection of scarves.

The Stranglers - All Live and All of the Night
Track: Always the Sun
The Beatles - The Beatles '65
Track: I'll Follow The Sun
There are bad days once in a while. Days when work has been difficult, or someone got uppity on the subway. These are the days we require these tracks. A rough day turned around by a Hugh Cornwell lyric.

The Sandpipers - Guantanamera
Track: Louie, Louie
Since discovering this album, we give money to anyone who enters our subway car and plays "Guantanamera," no matter what mood we're in that day. The Sandpipers' version of The Kingsmen classic is worth the price of this album alone.

The Clash - Singles Box
Track: This Is Radio Clash
I defy you not to dance. I'm dancing in my office right now. (Yes, dancing in my office. Not that uncommon. Whenever I get caught, I tell people I'm stretching my legs. Those devil's horns I was throwing? Carpal tunnel exercises.)

Bob Dylan - Blood On The Tracks
Track: Tangled Up In Blue
My reading album. It goes on, the book comes out, and I listen to it over and over. I never could listen to Dylan before I owned it on vinyl, maybe in the way I don't like to read Hemingway in paperback. Little peculiarities and preferences that make life more comfortable.

Yeasayer - ODD BLOOD
Track: O.N.E.
Holy 1991 dance party! Erasure vocals and whistles and pumping your fists in the air. The song that follows it on the album is like "WHOA, who let Altern-8 in here?" (Which, in turn, reminds me of this episode of Spaced. Only for the hardcore UK raver.) Well done, Secretly Canadian, for including an mp3 download with the album. Most record companies do this these days; it's smart and appreciated.

Brainiac - Bonsai Superstar
Track: Hands of the Genius
See also: every album I ever bought in college, from Lazy to Hüsker Dü, and many a Guided By Voices or Boyracer 7" in between.

And the one I'm on the hunt for...

Badfinger - Straight Up
Track: Baby Blue
This is one of those pop songs that is near perfect. Along the same lines as Big Star (also a regular on the turntable, but then you knew that). The thing is? You can only get the version I want — the version, I later discovered, that was produced by your favorite and mine: Todd Rundgren — if you find an old copy of Straight Up, or buy the entire soundtrack to The Departed. I do not want the soundtrack to The Departed. Somebody fix this, please.

One of these days I'm going to make a mix for the internet. Or you could totally just borrow all my Todd Rundgren albums.

(Also on heavy rotation: these Kenny Powers inspired mixes from Molly Lambert at This Recording. Which were obviously inspired by many old beat up record players. And more vinyl inspiration from Jim at Sweet Juniper, including the fabulous Loudon Wainwright III track, "Hotel Blues," also part of the collection that currently leans against my wall.)

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.