“It’s funny that you even call it an art,” a dedicated record collector responds when music writer Amanda Petrusich refers to his obsession as a dying art. “I think,” he reflects, “it’s more of a disease.”
In her exquisitely crafted new book “Do Not Sell at Any Price,” Petrusich challenges her immune system to fight off this illness and is delighted when it fails. Her offbeat experiment in embedded journalism starts with her wading into the shallow waters of hard-core 78 rpm record collectors but finds her almost immediately diving in deep (at one point literally, as some research requires scuba training). And though she discovers that record collecting can attack your wallet, focus and sanity, the characters she meets help convince her that these are small prices to pay for what the data hidden in the grooves does for your soul.
The 78 rpm disc, that brittle, 10-inch-wide, shellac ancestor of the 45, LP, cassette, CD and MP3, was the inaugural commercial recording format. For the first half of the 20th century, 78s entertained countless children with stories and songs, and spread culture by putting snippets of classical works at the fingertips of anyone with a record player. Consequently, today a trunk of kiddie or classical 78s might cost you this week’s lunch money. Rarer were “race records” marketed to African-American audiences, which included stark blues numbers (multi-track recording technology did not exist, so scaled down arrangements were optimal, sometimes resulting in haunting immediacy). Rural whites were marketed similarly spare folk performances. To obtain the rarest of these records (of which perhaps three or fewer copies survive) would run you tens of thousands of dollars. That is, if you can obtain the trust of one of the shadowy elite collectors with a copy to sell.
Despite catching the collecting bug, Petrusich seems more dedicated to obtaining this trust than the discs — which isn’t to say she’s more moved by fervent fanatics than the music. When collector Chris King plays her Blind Uncle Gaspard’s 1929 Cajun ballad “Sur le Borde de l’Eau,” the author “stared at the turntable, watching the record spin, feeling flabbergasted anew that anything so alive-sounding could be carved in a slab of shellac.” Later, when King shares a tragic ballad by Greek violinist Alexis Zoumbas, they both weep.
Collector John Heneghan drops the stylus on Mississippi John Hurt’s “Big Leg Blues,” and Petrusich feels “like every single one of my internal organs had liquefied and was bubbling into my esophagus.” Though her quixotic scuba dive into muddy waters, where it’s rumored some of the most collectible blues recordings were discarded, is a fine metaphor for her commitment, the most dynamic action in this book happens in the densely-packed sanctuaries of men who have dedicated their lives to finding, obtaining, organizing and luxuriating in the world’s rarest records.
There are some elephants in the Victrola listening room regarding race and gender that Petrusich addresses but doesn’t fully wrangle. That early blues records by rural blacks are the most coveted treasures to many white collectors brings up issues of historic exploitation. While Petrusich mostly leaves these ideas on the shelf, she focuses on one facet most pertinent to her subjects: Collectors seeking to locate and decode extraordinary records end up doing copious amounts of research to find recording history, biographical information and images of elusive artists. Subsequently, these amateur historians find themselves constructing important chapters of African-American history from scraps, creating a questionable canon.
One of the most fascinating aspects of this is how an obscure, bizarre recording like Skip James’ 1931 “Devil Got My Woman” became an iconic beacon of black culture because it captivated collectors, while the gospel and perkier blues artists that black audiences actually enjoyed still suffer anonymity.
Petrusich addresses the gender gap among collectors — an overwhelmingly male pursuit — by surveying research showing that the male brain may be predisposed to accumulate objects, put them in order and obsess over details. Alternately, according to some studies and Petrusich’s own experience as the only girl in the room for much of her career in rock journalism, women are more motivated by emotion and are more socially intelligent.
While this may explain why more guys collect, it doesn’t account for Petrusich meeting men who are welcoming, frequently emotional, nurturers. One explanation for this could be that the most antisocial or oddball collectors rebuffed her. But a more likely explanation may be that, as in all ethnography, her presence threw off the natural order. Perhaps a younger, hip woman made these outsiders feel like they were being invited to sit at the popular kids’ table in the cafeteria. Perhaps, despite themselves, they couldn’t resist having drinks, getting food (Petrusich catalogs meals in profound detail), and, most intimately, sharing their passion with the cool girl.
While I would have liked the author to address this dynamic, I suspect her charming presence only tweaked personalities. While her experiences don’t refute what science says about the male brain, they certainly challenge the stereotype of the female monopoly on emotional decision-making. Every one of these zealots seems to live for the deep joys and sorrows this music conveys to them. And every one seems to treasure sharing this magic with fellow humans. In fact, despite covetousness being the heart of collecting, generosity feels like a defining trait, as they seem anxious to share their discoveries.
Perhaps the most generous gentleman Petrusich encounters is also the most eccentric. The finest scene in the book occurs in Joe Bussard’s Maryland basement. Though the septuagenarian collector proves to be curmudgeonly, conservative and quick to gripe, he also may be the most munificent advocate of early recordings. No one is allowed to touch the records lining his walls, but he makes cassettes for anyone who asks, lends records for reissues and produces several weekly radio shows sharing his collection. And if he grants you a live audience, as he did Petrusich, you get to share the thrills of a man whose collection may be worth hundreds of thousands on eBay but is beyond priceless to his essence.
“Watching Joe Bussard listen to records is a spiritually rousing experience,” Petrusich writes. “At times it was as if he could not physically stand how beautiful music was. It set him on fire, animated every cell in his body.”
He only broke out of his trance for one thing: to see if his guest was similarly moved.
As she responded with “Oh, my God!” it became clear to him, and to the reader, that she certainly was.
Jake Austen is editor of Roctober magazine and co-author of “Playground: Growing Up in the New York Underground” and “Darkest America: Black Minstrelsy From Slavery to Hip-Hop.”
“Do Not Sell at Any Price”
By Amanda Petrusich, Scribner, 260 pages, $25
