Path of the Vampire forum

At what point does something jaded, tired, and old-fashioned become fresh, cool, and “retro”? When do out-dated items complete the circle of rejuvenation, and obtain the tag of must-have trendy products? Is it simply a case of people hankering for something familiar and comforting, rather than just being forced to follow the latest fads?

Aaron Hunter loved vinyl records. The musician got a tingly feeling listening to the crackles and hisses as the needle dropped into the groove. The hypnotic journey of the stylus, ever-spiralling inwards like a sonic helter-skelter, was a sight of pure beauty to Aaron’s bewitched, hazel eyes. CDs were so sterile, so clean. They were swallowed by boxy machines; consumed like flat, tasteless silver pancakes, taking away that mesmerizing power.

Cassette tapes, also consigned to the musical scrapheap, were an accident waiting to happen. Evil tape tendrils that looped down like prolapsed intestines from a plastic gut, were a recipe for disaster. There was nothing fun about trying to unknot a tangled web of delicate threads with a pencil, spinning round the two central wheels, while hoping that the musical etching hadn’t been accidentally erased by the fridge magnet.

As for MP3s, digital downloads, “invisible music", well, there was literally nothing to see, nothing to feel in the palm of one’s hand. Not only was there no physical disc, but there was no album sleeve, no amazing artwork to showcase the music that lay within. No swimming baby from Nevermind, nobody smashing of a bass guitar like the cover of London Calling, no crazy collage of famous, iconic faces as depicted on Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. As a keen doodler, the album cover was almost as important as the record housed inside to Aaron.

There was simply something exciting about a vinyl record tucked up in its sleeve, something about this antiquated format that digital technology couldn’t match. Maybe Aaron had spent so many hours as a small child sorting out the record collection of his parents, filing them alphabetically to help him learn to spell, that they had become an integral part of his development. Perhaps he just dreamed that one day his own music would be cast forever in a black Frisbee. Whatever the reason, the drummer was a huge fan.

It appeared that Aaron was not alone in his fondness for all things vinyl. 12” records were making a resurgence, sales were up; it was the musical equivalent of Lazarus coming back from the dead. The trick at the moment was getting hold of a vintage record player that actually worked, to enable to resurrection to be completed.

Aaron was on a mission. He wanted to hunt down a few rare LPs, uncover some hidden gems like a musical Indiana Jones searching for the Holy Grail. A new store had just opened in town, so it felt like the perfect opportunity to check the place out, and dust down a few discs. The aficionado didn’t need to venture throughout the Middle East, looking for clues; he simply had to wander over to the Newborough district of Harper Rock, and push open a door.

Aaron skipped out of the subway train at Newborough station like a galloping gazelle, his chunky boots making far less of a thud as they hit the platform than one would have expected. There was a chill in the air, which was par for the course at this time of the year. Autumn had well and truly arrived, bringing with it an entourage of warm amber and red coloured leaves, thick woollen clothing, colder days, and long, dark nights. The lengthened spells of darkness suited many vampires, as it afforded them a greater cloak of invisibility beneath which they could go about their daily tasks. Aaron didn’t rely upon the shroud of night to do his bidding, having built up a tolerance to sunlight, but it certainly made things a little easier at times.

The cooler weather also allowed Aaron to pretend to be a dragon, exhaling unnecessary breaths from his lungs that resembled fine puffs of swirling smoke as they clashed with the chilly air. It was something that he’d done since he was a small child back in New York. Occasionally, the playful music lover would light a cigarette, and simply hold it between his dry lips so that he could blow real smoke into the air, complete with a burning flame, albeit a tiny and rather pathetic one. Perhaps one day the vampire would discover a power that enabled him to breath actual fire? **** yeah, that would be awesome!

Mythical beasts weren’t on tonight’s menu; Aaron was looking for a cat, a black cat to be precise. It was fair to say that the young punk preferred his felines to be ginger, but the one on this evening’s agenda was not a physical cat, it was in fact a music store called Black Cat Records.

Superstitious folk will often say that a black cat crossing your path is a sign that good fortune will be heading your way, while others will say exactly the opposite, that such creatures are nothing more than the slinky companions of witches. Aaron didn’t really believe in folklore mumbo-jumbo, but then again, he didn’t believe in vampires and zombies until a couple of years ago; however, he was wishing for some good luck tonight. As he entered the store, the black cat logo hanging on a sign above the sturdy door, Aaron hoped that he’d uncover a few rare gems within the shop’s shelves. He was a musical pirate, ready to plunder vinyl treasures that were buried deep within the walls of the record emporium.

Aaron rubbed his hands together: a sign of both gleeful excitement, like a kid on Christmas morning about to open their gifts, and an acknowledgement of the change in temperature. Outside was cold and uninviting, but inside was warm and toasty, welcoming like a visit to one’s favourite aunt and uncle’s house. Aaron gently raised a hand towards an air vent. His fingers were greeted by a blast of hot wind, like a North African sirocco blowing across the Mediterranean. The store owner clearly liked to feel cosy.

The music aficionado had only come to the shop once before, and that was nothing more than a flying visit, popping his head through the door to give it a quick once over. He’d been in a rush on that particular occasion, unable to stay for more that the briefest of moments. Tonight, Aaron planned on giving the establishment a thorough examination, leaving no shelf left unexplored. If there was a hidden masterpiece lurking in the darkest, dustiest recess of the store, then the intrepid investigator was going to find it.

The layout of the shop was straightforward: various musical genres laid out alphabetically, within which were the individual artists, also arranged in a convenient alphabetical manner. Keeping things simple was usually the best way forward. Classical: no. Dance Music: no. Electo: no. Folk: are you fuckin’ kidding me!

A satisfied customer wandered passed Aaron towards the exit carrying a couple of jazz LPs under his arm. The pair nodded politely to each other as their paths crossed, the beaming smile etched upon the middle-aged gentleman’s face advertising very clearly that he was delighted with his recent purchases.

Aaron continued his journey towards the Promised Land of guitar milk and drum honey, trying not to snigger while he ventured passed the section labelled “Jazz”. He glanced over his shoulder, watching the customer leave the store. Aaron grinned at a young woman who was browsing through a few LPs up ahead of him, her black and white shopping bags an indication of a successful session of retail therapy.

“Seriously,” he said, tongue firmly in his cheek, “who actually listens to jazz? Geography supply teachers, and dudes with elbow patches on their cardigans?”

The vampire slowed in his tracks, arriving in the area of the store that specialised in opera, although he was focussing his attention on the punk section that lay ahead, and the woman holding a record by a band named Say Anything.

“Punk, on the other hand,” continued Aaron, “is for truly enlightened souls! I quite like the song ‘Hate Everyone’. Is it on that album?”

Aaron strummed his nibble fingers across the corner of several album sleeves as if he were plucking the strings of a harp. The loose edges flapped under his touch as the drummer quickly learned the improvised instrument and played his basic tune. Perhaps he belonged in the opera section after all? With a bit more practice, he could be writing full-blown concertos in a week or two.

He moved slowly closer to the woman, listening to her words, her passionate yet succinct critiques of both a certain group of music lovers and of her favourite band. Aaron instantly admired her enthusiasm, and in particular her take on jazz aficionados.

“Ah yes, jazz lovers,” said Aaron. “They do enjoy telling you how superior their genre of music is compared to yours.”

He paused, a quizzical expression creeping across his stubble-covered face.

“In fact, yes, they do have a habit of trying to convince you that everything about them is superior!”

Aaron’s puzzled look swiftly morphed into a cheeky grin, the mildest of chuckles escaping from his lips.

“I once had wine, well, kind of. I was impressed because it was French Champagne. I had it at a wedding reception. Some dude who was into jazz gave me a verbal slap on the wrist, telling me that all Champagne was French. He was very… superior.”

Aaron rolled his dark hazel eyes while moving alongside the woman. He glanced at the LP that she was holding, almost caressing, between her fingers. She clearly loved the band, loved their music.

“The Kings of Leon are an interesting bunch,” continued Aaron. “I kind of liked them when they first hit the scene, looking like some kind of hillbilly Hendrix wannabes. That was a funky image.”

The punk suddenly began to wave his index finger as if he were chastising a small child, continuing his analysis of the indie rock band.

“But then they cut their hair, and started wearing vests, like some kind of boy band.”

Aaron’s words stopped abruptly. It was like his vocal chords had been frozen in time. He tilted his head to one side, a hand springing up to his chin to stroke the bristles that lined the skin his jaw. He was clearly deep in thought, about to unleash a pearl of true wisdom.”

“The drummer, however, didn’t cut his hair. Now he looks like a badass beast!”

Aaron smiled, clearly amused by his own thoughts. The daydreamer could happily sit alone, staring into space as if he were in a hypnotic trance, and allow his mind to wander. He was happy with his own company just as much as he enjoyed socialising, although the quality of those around him would definitely define just how content the affable drummer actually was. Aaron wasn’t the kind of person who suffered fools gladly, then again, who was?

“Anyway,” added Aaron, “enough of the poster boys. I have heard a few more songs by… your favourite band. They’re not bad.”

Aaron’s keen eyes scanned the punk section like a hawk. Once he’d caught sight of his intended prey, a rapid hand jumped forward to grab an LP as if it were a field mouse. Taking hold of his prize, the punk fan withdrew the album from the rack, delicately, like a waiter at an incredibly posh restaurant removing a dusty bottle of overpriced wine from the top shelf, undoubtedly before he delivered it to a jazz lover.

“But if you really want to hear a great song called ‘Eloise’”, said Aaron, holding his trophy aloft, “you should check out this masterpiece of work.”

Turning to face his new acquaintance, Aaron offered the woman a copy of Smash It Up: The Anthology 1976-1987 by The Damned.

“Now this is punk!”

Aaron’s grin was ridiculously huge in nature. He resembled a child who’d been let loose in a candy store. The musician had transformed into Charlie Bucket, holding a golden ticket for Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.

“Oh, and I’m Aaron. It’s nice to meet you.”

The world was overflowing with mediocrity. It kind of made sense, because being average, by its very definition, meant that something was middle of the road, the norm, neither special nor disappointing, just somewhere in between. The problem that Aaron had, especially when it came to musicians and the work that they produced, was that mediocrity had become acceptable. Talent was secondary to style, substance and depth was glossed over by image and clever marketing. Most so-called “stars” only twinkled for a couple of years before fizzling away into obscurity, never to be heard of again. Very few artists really had their supernova spell, that monumental moment when their fame exploded through the stratosphere and they reached the level of truly stella stardom; certainly not stardom based on genuine ability.

Bands were routinely manufactured, assembled on a corporate production line following a set pattern to ensure that the cash-cow conveyor belt continued creating the “next big thing”. Solo artists were moulded like putty by the greedy hands of money-mad music moguls. The mannequins were mercilessly manipulated like ragdolls to do the bidding of the record label puppeteers in exchange for their fifteen minutes of fame. Maybe Andy Warhol wasn’t far wrong with his prediction from the 1960s.

There was, of course, that elite group of acts who managed to not only smash through the barriers into the global market, and impregnate their groundbreaking ideas into the minds and souls of music-lovers across the planet, but also possessed the gift of relentless staying power. Their songs endured the years, the decades, the ever-changing fads of fashion that drifted in and out of favour like erratic winds. Bona fide legends who produced a true legacy were few and far between.

“Yes,” said Aaron, a confident smile etched across his stubble-covered face, “a masterpiece. These guys are the real deal. Many people say that their song ‘New Rose’ was the first proper punk record to be released!”

Aaron’s enthusiasm was clear to see. He would wax lyrical about his love of music all day long, if given half a chance. The debate about the “first” punk song was one of his favourite topics of conversation. Could any one tune really be awarded the prestigious title of being the first of its genre? Music was always evolving, changing note by note, playing style by playing style, until something fresh suddenly emerged from the sonic melting pot. The likes of Television’s “Blank Generation”, or pretty much anything by Iggy Pop and his buddies in the Stooges, could probably lay claim to the crown of punk’s pioneering anthem. That was half of the fun of the discussion, trying to trace the true origin of the scene. What actually was punk, how was it defined, who qualified to be placed into the gang of rebels?

Even’s Aaron’s father had held an opinion on the subject. According to the musical novice, Elvis Presley was a punk, because he was a proper rebel, going against the establishment, gyrating his hips in such a provocative way on TV as to cause the entire nation to take notice while collectively adjusting its stuffy collar. What would the “establishment” make of the ***-shaking antics of modern pop sensations such as Nicki Minaj? What an outrage! The music of the Devil! Maybe Aaron should be impressed that he was named after his father’s idol, if he were indeed such a rebellious rocker.

Perhaps it was no coincidence that the Punk and Rock sections were next to each other not only musically but also alphabetically. Punk was effectively a sub-section under the rock umbrella, but thankfully for Aaron, the owner of the store was also a huge punk fan, so he’d given the sub-genre a place all of its own. There was a funny incident when a teenager in a Metallica T-shirt had enquired as to why there was no dedicated heavy metal area, yet there was one for punk. The owner had simply smiled and pointed to the Ramones T-shirt that hugged his middle-aged belly with affection.

There were, however, obvious crossovers in the whole rock arena, so when the woman reached into the racks and withdrew some Heart, Aaron wasn’t too gobsmacked. His mother had been a fan of the band, and often reminded Aaron that he was born in the year between the release of their self-titled Heart album and its follow up, Bad Animals. Apparently, Ann Wilson was no Debbie Harry, but she wasn’t bad.

“Is ‘Barracuda’ the one with the galloping intro?” asked Aaron, almost certain that he was correct in his assumption.

He paused, scratching the bristly whiskers on his chin as if he were in deep contemplation.

“I think I prefer ‘Crazy on You’ over ‘Magic Man’, but I may have those two mixed up in my head.”

Aaron knew exactly which song was which, but he didn’t want to come across as some kind of musical know-it-all, so he faked mild ignorance as a gesture of humility. Nobody likes a smart-***.

“As for The Runaways,” he continued, “I was also probably a dozen or fifteen years too late for them, but they are timeless, so I managed to catch up with them. Who’s your favourite member?”

Aaron had vague memories of Lita Ford in her reincarnation as a guitar wielding sex siren in the late 80s. A few of his friends were still jerking off over her posters a decade later, but Aaron always gravitated towards Joan Jett or the drummer, Sandy West. Her premature death was such a tragedy.

“Oh, and I’m not much of a guitarist or a singer, I’m afraid,” he added, “but I do play drums for a band called Breaking Bad.”

The punk directed a huge beaming smile in the woman’s direction, raising his arms as if he were about to worship an angel.

“Obviously, we are so awesome!”

Undoubtedly, he’d invite the woman to his next gig, but there was so much else to discuss first. Aaron had a feeling that this conversation was only just getting warmed up.