Geogaddi

I had flipped past this record at Ground Zero dozens of times. Ground Zero was I suppose my first regular record store, the one I went go to regularly, stop by out of habit more than for a specific purpose. Or maybe the first one I really liked; there was Homer’s, of course, but they sold records AND CD’s, and then also, like, the paraphernalia of teenage life. It didn’t feel like a record store to me, and I don’t mean it wasn’t cool enough, it just was a different kind of place. I also remember that Ground Zero, unlike Homer’s, was a small place: it didn’t seem to have employees, just an owner, whose name I can’t remember but whose bald head, bearded face with a constantly skeptical face (at least when I was around) and quiet manner I can see stilly clearly in my mind’s eye now that I’m twice the age I was then. He was always behind the counter and I cautiously believed then that he recognized me as a regular and perhaps as a cool guy with good music taste and record buying habits. It was located just a block or two off UNL’s campus, and I used to go there…was it daily? So often. I can’t conceive, sitting here at 44, of how often I must have gone there, can’t conceive of having the time, the lack of concern about my financial situation despite my clear sense, now, that I didn’t have enough to be so unconcerned.

But as I was saying I remember seeing this Boards of Canada record there many times. I didn’t really know what Boards of Canada was, what kind of music they played, probably didn’t know that they were in point of fact from Scotland and not Canada. Well, maybe I had some sense of them; I am certain I had read Pitchfork’s review of it, and whatever high score they gave is why I was even aware of the album in the first place. And maybe it’s not true to say that that was the only reason: I remember the album art, so vivid and evocative, really calling out to me. And then the packaging, the nearly book-like density of it, the way the sticker announced it was a triple LP—for a regular album! I remember being fascinated by this idea, an album that wasn’t a box set but in packaging and overall…weight, in heft felt like far more than an album. I also remember it was so expensive (which at the time was probably $20) that it felt like an impossibly expensive record, more than I’d ever spend.

And yet, as I made my frequent (too frequent for my present-day mind to comprehend!) visits to the record shop, there it was. It called to me, somehow. One day I finally picked it up; today was the day. I don’t know what factors made this possible for me: I don’t think I had suddenly more money than I’d had before, or a reason to care even less about it. I don’t remember if I was buying other records and just decided to also get this one. Who can say what drives the consumer’s mind of the 20 year old college student budding record collector?

But the thing that really sticks out to me in my memory as I brought the record to the front was casually, cheerfully, mentioning to the owner behind the counter that I was sort of buying this on a whim, finally, after all these visits, despite not really knowing what I was getting into. I seemed like the sort of information he’d find interesting, and I suppose that he would welcome this information since it was related to him finally selling this record. And for just the briefest of moments I saw something pass over his face, and I wondered for that moment and many times after what I saw there. It seemed a little bit like a kind of distaste, or even contempt, or maybe just a sort of resigned confusion. I think I was embarrassed, even then, of how completely Pitchfork was dictating my purchasing habits, and indeed my music exploration and taste generally, and maybe I was projecting a bit of that onto him? Whatever feeling or thought the look came from, on him, I had a distinct sense as I left the shop, my new record in hand, of having disappointed him, of having done something bad or wrong.