Did Your Parents Drag You Here?
A Vinyl Story
By Josh Dezern
To Jebb and Brendan, the two that were with me as me, and as Mike.
Introduction:
Crazy. That’s what I was called since I was eleven years old. I didn’t have any friends in middle school, except for the people who were twenty to thirty years older than me, because God forbid I should do something that made me happy. A typical boy my age at the time would be playing baseball, or gluing his eyes to his Xbox One for weeks at a time. But that wasn’t me.
When I was ten years old, I got a turntable for Christmas, after about two years of spinning two of the five records my sports-crazy father had owned. He had died when I was three after a failed hip replacement, triggered by some wrestling thing. The records he had were all sports related, except for the two I had continuously listened to since I was eight years old. I was, in a way, surprised that somehow, my departed father had tracked down records about physical activity and sports, rather than true musical albums. I couldn’t remember for the life of me what those two musical albums I always listened to were, but what I do remember is that I was the only one who listened to them. My mother was understandably crushed when my father died, and one of her fondest memories was listening to the Let’s Go Mets album with him while pregnant with me. She was also a very sports-crazed person, who even forced me to play tennis when I was only three. I always mentioned the two albums to my mother, and she never had the slightest bit of idea what I was talking about. See, my parents, quite obviously, didn’t really like music, and never went to any concerts growing up. The only one my mother went to was when I made her buy tickets to David Bowie’s last tour that was making a stop in my town. Yes, I was two years old, and wanted to see David Bowie.
I always found the idea of music being pressed onto a wax disc was pretty cool, and I began to head to record shops with my late father’s brother, who didn’t have a job. He seemed to be okay with the fact that one of the only parts of his late brother’s legacy was musical rather than athletic, but he would just sit in front of whatever shop I would go to, and play on his phone, like usual, while I was inside digging. My name is Michael Shamsky Garfunkel. My father was a wrestler, my mother was a sports writer, but I am a vinyl collector.
I:
The only friends I had in elementary school were my classmates, and that was only because the staff at most elementary schools make sure that all of the kids aren’t necessarily friends, but are comfortable talking to each other. I was never really social in my early life, because I knew deep down that none of these kids would understand me in the slightest bit. Then there came one morning when I was about to enter the fifth grade, and was on summer vacation.
“Happy birthday, Mikey!” were the first words I had heard the morning my life changed. My mother was standing on the foot of my bed, and was beaming down at me for the first time in a very long time. It then occurred to me that it was my tenth birthday, and I dashed past her in my blue striped pajamas, straight out my bedroom door. I expected bacon and French toast on a plate, but on the dining room table, I found something else. It was a record player! A brown, deluxe sized record player! I ran back to my room to thank my mother, but she was no longer standing at the foot of my bed. In fact, she wasn’t standing anywhere. She was lying down on my bed, crying. “Mama, what’s wrong?” I asked. She began to explain to me how emotional it was to buy the record player, because it had apparently been her dream to watch me play at a world championship tennis game before I turned ten. “But no,” she concluded. “You HAD to want a record player of all things. Like we need more noise in this house.”
I felt pretty bad for my mother, considering that now, not only was she widowed, but her dream of me playing some sport had been crushed. But I didn’t say anything to her about it. I just ran down to the kitchen so I could spin one of the two albums that my father had owned. I wanted to go record shopping immediately, but of course, being only ten at the time, I couldn’t drive, and knowing my mother, she would want to take me to the Florida tennis championship game of which she expected me to play. I called up my uncle Raymond, who was my father’s peculiar brother, and asked him if he could take me to a record shop. He said yes, but only I went digging for the records. I bought about 30 different albums, for an incredibly low price. When I got home, the first spin from that pile would be Billy Joel’s “An Innocent Man,” which would go on to be one of my favorite albums of all time. The second the needle dropped, I started dancing, because why the hell not? It was my tenth birthday, I was listening to rock and roll Billy Joel, and it was a great album.
A few years went by, and I can still recall all of the strange looks I received when browsing in antique shops, record shops, and even something simple as the vinyl section of Barnes and Noble. Those were just odd looks, because my middle school, on the other hand? There’s always that one outcast in the hallway who walks alone, sits at an island desk group, and eats his lunch alone. That was me in all three years. I tried befriending some people who didn’t necessarily like vinyl as much as me, but were into good music from thirty to forty years prior. Every single one of those kids turned out to be utter assholes. But what did I care? By the time I was twelve, I owned a few hundred albums, had been to five different concerts on my own, and I even began to play the piano a bit after being inspired by a John Lennon song to do so. I was the most musically inclined bleach-blonde twelve year old I knew. My mother never got on my case about my collection, and avoided it for the most part, so my home life was for once, great. Music had officially taken over my life, and I would occasionally sit up for hours at night jamming to Guns ‘n’ Roses on vinyl, or Elvis Presley on MP3. People were my smallest concern. When I turned thirteen, though, things turned to the worst for me.
I was in eighth grade, and it was three weeks until school was letting out. There was an assembly happening about rather than graduation plans, how you could win a huge chocolate bar by bringing in a few hundred dollars through a fundraiser. I noticed about halfway through that the kid sitting next to me had been staring at me for awhile now. I decided to track him down during lunch hour, and ask him what was going on. Sure enough, I managed to find him, sitting on the blue benches outside of the cafeteria. He was, like me for the past three years, sitting alone, and eating his lunch. “Hey,” I began. “I noticed that you were staring at me during that assembly?” The kid looked up at me. He had black hair, the teeth of a Brit, and a Japan shirt on. “Oh, yeah.” He said. “I was just looking at your shirt. I really like that band.” I had gone to school that day wearing my Rolling Stones Live in Cuba shirt.
“Oh, I do as well.” I replied. I sat down next to the kid, and we got into a conversation about how awesome classic rock was, and I thought that I had finally met somebody who viewed life the same way I did. But then, all of a sudden, he asked me if I was wearing a bra. “What? I’m a guy.” I told him. The kid repeated the question, and I repeated my answer. “I think I’ll call you…’Rocket Tits!’” I stuttered in a way that said “Where the hell did that come from? We were just having such a pleasant conversation.” Then he began yelling as everybody started walking in the hallway. “Come see Rocket Tits shake his big nips for you! 5 cents a pop!” I walked off immediately, and thought that this would blow off in a day. I was terribly wrong.
“Rocket Tits, my man!” I was greeted throughout the next day. Only my Chorus teacher, who was the only teacher of mine who knew my name by heart, called me by my real name that day, and for the remaining two weeks of school. I got the police involved with this, because I can deal with name calling, but when you see your face pasted onto a shirtless overweight body on a now-world famous meme, something had to be done. Thankfully, the Kid got expelled from the school about a week later for it, and the memes were removed from the Internet, but the Rocket Tits thing kept going until the last bell on the last day of school.
I was scared as Hell for high school, because what if one of the kids from my middle school would come to start the whole thing up again? But I didn’t dread it that much. I was in a new environment, with new people, and I was starting over. When the first day of high school did come, I expected to be completely avoided and friendless, which I was. But I was totally okay with that, because each night, after I had completed everything that needed to be done, I’d select an album I owned, and I’d spin it until I fell asleep.
II:
High school was not treating me terribly. I didn’t have any friends for the first few months, except for a few people that pitied me, but I really didn’t care. Come to think of it, I had actually enjoyed being alone at one point, only because I was used to it. But one fateful December evening, however, I was spinning my first pressing of “There’s A Kind Of Hush All Over The World” by Herman’s Hermits, that I had hoped to get autographed by Peter Noone one day, and I got a message through Instagram. It was from some guy that was in my geology class that gave a follow to everybody at the school we were at. I had posted a picture of The Beatles doing something related to Christmas, and the guy really got a kick out of it. “I love The Beatles!” was all he wrote in the message. For a second, I thought that he was some sarcastic punk who would rather play football than do anything musical, but then it occurred to me: I had not seen this kid anywhere, except for in class. And I had overseen sports matches at my school before, and I knew the faces of every single player. This kid was way too thin to be a jock, and I’d only seen him do academic things. And whenever he listens to his music, he would rock from side to side, as if he’s listening to a song for the first time, and pretending to get a slight bit of enjoyment out of it, which he still did for the rest of his life. I didn’t even bother responding to the message because at that point, I had just become uncomfortable around all people.
The next day while walking into my geology class, I saw the guy sitting alone at his table on the far right of the room. He was writing something, and he didn’t have his earphones in. I took a look at him, and immediately knew that this was the guy that messaged me. He had short blondish brown hair, a red V-neck, and black sandals. I decided that maybe, it would be best to communicate with at least one person. “Maybe he likes vinyl.” Said a voice in my head. I rose up and walked over to the empty seat next to him. Little did either of us know that those first few minutes we were in the classroom, apart from each other, would be the end of our lonely lives. I sat down, and he looked at me like I was a scary jock, ready to emotionally smother him up because of his nerdy qualities.
“Mike Garfunkel,” I began. The guy looked up from his paper, and directed his eyes towards me. “What?” he responded. I repeated myself, and his eyes lit up ever so slightly. “Oh, now I know who you are! You’re that guy that posted the Beatles eating turkey on Christmas! I love that band!” I raised my eyebrows. “I’m a huge fan. I own most of their albums on vinyl, and I even have an original pressing of Abbey Road.” I could tell that he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about, but it was okay, because I was probably the only kid in the school of 1200 that actually had an appreciation for vinyl. The guy gave me a thumbs up, and I asked him what his name was. “Floyd. Floyd Wilbury Young Petty. I was named after three music people that I don’t even know.” I knew them, though. Though I never found out what they officially were, I could tell that he was named after Pink Floyd, the Travelling Wilburys, and Neil Young.
“Any relation to Tom Petty?” I joked. “Who’s that?” Floyd responded. What I didn’t know that day was that Floyd was practically clueless when it came to music. So, I explained to him ever so patiently how Tom Petty was “the guy from the Heartbreakers.” I could have used a much better explanation for him, but it was all I could think of at the time, considering how early in the morning it was. “Do you like any other bands?” I asked him. Floyd paused for a moment and thought about it. “I like The Beach Boys as well.” “Since you like The Beatles, have you listened to any of Paul McCartney’s solo stuff?” I asked. Once again, he responded with “Who’s that?” But this time, I gave him a look that said “Really dude? You’re a Beatle fan, and you don’t know Paul McCartney?” I didn’t say anything bad to him, so I began to explain who the four Beatles were. When I finished explaining, he made a noise that sounded like he didn’t give a crap, which he occasionally made for the rest of his life. Well, he made it towards non-musical people telling him things that nobody cared about. We remained quiet towards each other for the rest of the class period, and I thought that the friendship I made would blow off the next day: He’d forget me, I’d probably forget him, and our lonely lives would go on.
I got home that day and started spinning a Monkees record I had for a year now. I was really getting into it, and all of a sudden, Floyd messaged me through Instagram, simply saying “Hello.” I was confused for a minute, because nobody ever sent me a message saying simply “Hello.” I usually got more along the lines of “Hey what was the Algebra homework?” I responded back to him, and before I knew it, we were in conversation about the history of The Beatles. Maybe this wouldn’t blow over, I thought. Perhaps, there’s another person out there who’s not an utter asshole and is into awesome music.
III:
Sure enough, when I was headed to my lonely little corner during lunch hour the next day, Floyd spotted me and waved me over. We were in a quiet little place, so it was easy to have a conversation with him about what other musicians he liked. I was so stoked to have befriended a loyal Beatles fan, and now, I was going to find out who else he listens to. The conversation did not go very well. I began by asking him who he liked. “The Beatles and The Beach Boys, and that’s about it,” Floyd replied. I then began naming some artists that I was a fan of, and when I was done naming those artists, he asked me to repeat fewer artists since he could not keep up.
I left school that day highly disappointed. I was not necessarily disappointed in Floyd, but just in how some people say they love something, and in conversation about it, they have no clue what the hell you’re talking about. The conversation that Floyd and I had at lunch was not as good as I thought it would be. I named about 10 basic artists and bands, and I can give you the exact response I got out of him after asking if he liked them.
- Billy Joel: “Who’s that?”
- David Bowie: “Who now?”
- The Who: “I don’t know what that is.”
- KISS: “I don’t like rap.”
- The Rolling Stones: “Never heard of em’.”
- Bruce Springsteen: “Who?”
- Queen: “No idea.”
- The Monkees: “Is that a local band?”
- Pink Floyd: “Don’t know who that is.”
- Guns ‘n’ Roses: “No.”
Okay, so I’ll admit, it’s a wonder how I, a high schooler, even knew of the existence of some of those people, mainly The Monkees and Billy Joel. I guess I had to let Floyd slide on some of those, but he said he was a “huge fan of rock and roll,” and had never heard of the fricking Rolling Stones. I knew that if he wanted to stay in the fandom, or at this point, even get into it, I had a job to do: Introduce him to rock and roll. Of course, there were some ever so basic artists that he at least knew of, like Elvis Presley or Bob Dylan, whom he had heard of only once from a friend. Even though at least a quarter of the school we were in didn’t know who Bob Dylan is, I got to work on a classic rock playlist as soon as I got home. It had practically everything you could ever imagine on there. Roughly 3,000 songs by the basic artists I love, and some by bands and artists that I know, but don’t really like. I sent Floyd another Instagram message asking for his number, and he responded in about a minute flat. I sent him the link to the classic rock playlist, which I named “Beatles Not Included,” just to dignify that there were no songs by The Beatles in this playlist, but the solo music by the members were put on the list. I got a response about two minutes later. “I’ll listen to it later.” It was the first time that Floyd would use that sentence towards me, and he would use it whenever I sent him a link to a newspaper article about a new Beatles statue being unveiled or something like that. He used the sentence for the rest of his life, but as time went on, he used the phrase less and less.
That’s all I’ve got for now, and I will inform you when I have something new.
-Dez
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