54-46 Was My Number

Been going through the stacks of vinyl I inherited from my father, and lo there was Toots and The Maytals. I never realized how old and rare a lot of the vinyl I had was, until I dug into the crates this weekend. I know old books, I had a lot of old rare books back in New York before the move to Philly, and I miss those fucking books. I lost four entire bookcases to the move. And I miss those fucking books, I miss that slightly musty slightly nutmeg non-chemical smell, the easy familiar weight of a book you've read and treasured, the slightly yellowed paper, their irregular sizes, and the meaty covers that just seem to balance the weight of an older book's clothy pages perfectly.

Anyway, It's been ten years since I've really looked at some of this vinyl. And yeah I've got a lot of semi-old Jazz and Blues albums, and my blues collection is a lot poorer since I sold my .78s. But within the Reggae, Ska and Rock Steady stacks I have, well there's some crazy shit in there, at least I think it is. An old West Indies Record company .45 recording of Bob Marley and the Wailers' Nice Time, a Treasure Isle recording of Saboo by Tommy McCook and the Supersonics, A Dynamic Sounds .45 of The Harder They Come by Jimmy Cliff, an R&B Discs Ltd. of London .45 recording of Lonesome Feelings by Bob Marley & the Wailers. Jamaican recording companies I have never heard of like Doctor Bird, Unart Music, and Federal Record manufacturing. LPs with songs I heard so many times growing up like Oh! Carolina, Ba-Ba-Boom Time, Release Me, Jamaica Ska, 54-46, If You Act This Way, Monkey Man, Up Town Top Ranking, Shocks of a mighty, Singer Man, and Money can't buy life.

Fuck I'm just buried in nostalgia here, and from under this pile of vinyl I can see the memories I have of my father more clearly. I remember the brightly painted little iron and tin soldiers made from melted down spoons he'd bring me once a week, after his shift at the Underground was over. In my youth he was a wonderful and nurturing man, but he soured as I grew older.

According to my mother, my father had been a functional illiterate when she met him, but he taught himself to read by force of will. By the time I knew him, he was a slow but voracious reader. Growing up in Jamaica I didn't mind reading the occasional book, but it was only during and after my prolonged childhood illness that I really began to treasure reading. My mother stoked that fire with books from the Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, Tom Brown's School Days, and of course Biggles.

I am, as always, indebted to my mother for three of the greatest gifts she ever gave me: my reasoned free will, my common sense, and my book educated mind. And as always at this time of year during hurricane season, I irrationally worry about her out there on that tiny island with her special room full of books, her green green garden, and her blue blue sky.



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