When I think about my favourite albums of all time--and I do this frequently--I always tend to gravitate towards the same titles. They come from distinct eras: the years between 1969 and 1973, during which arguably the best music of all time was created, the early nineties when the so-called grunge movement threw rock music it's last obvious curve ball, and around the year 2000 curiously enough, as a millenium had dawned and pop music collectively yawned. I could list a hundred different titles with a hundred reasons why they are on my own personal music Dean's List, and typically when I review music or recommend it to people I like to try to give all sorts of important-sounding artistic-integrety driven diatribes about why said title is in fact amazing.
Somehow I always drift back to Burton Cummings' 1977 album "Dream of a Child". Those who know me know that Burton is my favourite singer of all time. I have seen him in concert a total of three times. First, at Moncton High School in 1986 with my parents and my sister. I still remember some of the jokes he told on stage that night. Next, on his 'Up Close and Alone' tour in Moncton, this time at Sweetwaters, which was (is?) a small nightclub, which was not a great venue to be honest, but at least I had a great vantage point. He wore a god-awful red blazer and checkered pants. His performance was nothing short of brilliant. The last time was in 2000 in Saint John, this time at Harbour Station with the Guess Who on their 'Running Back Through Canada' tour. That show was especially cool because Randy Bachman was with him. Wide Mouth Mason was the opening band, and for the daunting task of opening for the greatest Canadian band of all time (yes Hip fans, I said it), they did very well. Memories of growing up listening to Burton's music, either solo or with the Guess Who, are among my most cherished. My mom was in her teens when I was born, so she had a real youthful vitality back then. She used to dance with me in her arms, and she used to spread records out on the floor and play music in the days before I even knew what was going on around me. Reportedly, Kenny Rogers' "Coward of the County" was the first song I ever sang word-for-word, and it is recorded on audiotape somewhere, but Burton's music just found its way into my soul. 'Dream of a Child' really isn't the greatest album ever made. In fact, it has some pretty bland tracks when you sit and dissect it. But that doesn't matter in this case, because the album has a certain intangible quality about it that no one can describe. Even me, and I'm the one touting it as so special.
People attach themselves to things and there is no logical reason why. I have an antique dresser and mirror that belonged to my great-great-aunt, whom I never met, yet that piece of furniture is very important to me. I have my grandfather's engraved cigarette case and Zippo lighter. My great-uncle's watch. A different great-great-uncle's .45. I don't hunt. I was not even ten years old when he died. I don't even have it stored in my own house; it's at mom and dad's with the Dionne Warwick 45 and my Sunday School service bars. But I know it's there, and if I needed to, I could go retrieve it and store it in my own personal Smithsonian of old trinkets, antique yet unremarkable otherwise furniture. Gradually, year after year, I bring stuff from mom and dad's house that I know they never intend to use or even look at again because I find value in preserving it, and half the time I can't even explain why. The teacher of elementary school science that I am, though, I have a hypothesis for your curiosity.
I believe that when I become personally attached to an item or a place, I leave a little piece of myself behind or with that particular item. Not in the sense that I am fractioning myself into ever-smaller bits of my corporeal self, and not even in the sense that I would claim that it's my 'soul', or an essence of me that lingers, but that there is a connection below our consciousness that remains after we're gone. I don't believe in ghosts. I don't think my spirit will float above me when big streaming lights are frying me on an operating table. I've spoken before of Nature as God, to which my body will return when I die. However, I think we do leave a part of us behind when we let go of something. There has to be more to it than sentiment that keeps me holding on to the belongings of people who died before I was born, or when I was too young to have a meaningful bond with them. Otherwise it just doesn't make sense to me. People that uncontrollably hoard things (and I feel bad for those poor folks on those hoarding reality shows, they are just being exploited so other messy people and collectors can feel better about themselves, myself included) are able to latch on to things much quicker than most people. It is more than psychological; they physically feel ill when they need to detach from their stuff. I only keep specific things, and I am very capable of purging unwanted items, but I understand why people hoard. Some folks see value beyond dollars, and the price they pay for their frugality is in unkempt, often unkeepable homes, disorder, and public humiliation.
My collection of old records, which over three generations of collecting has also included cassettes, eight-tracks, and compact discs, is probably my most valuable collection, in terms of personal value in any case. There was a time when each title could sell for upwards of $8-10, depending on what style of music it is, the format, and the condition it's in. Most of them aren't worth that much anymore, individually that is. The collection itself might be worth something, but it's worth will only reveal itself after I'm gone, when my heirs have the unimaginable task of figuring out what the hell to do with it. Neither of my sons seem too interested in my music, which is fine, but I often wonder what my collection will fetch them after my carcass is finally back in the ground, hopefully helping nourish a young sapling in a park somewhere. I recently read an article about the CBC's plans to unload, and even destroy some 100 000-plus titles from it's Vancouver archive in the interest of digitizing it's catalogue and saving on storage rent. You'd figure the government shouldn't have to pay storage fees for stuff like this--how old is the CBC anyway? I likened this to walking into the Lord Beaverbrook Art Gallery, or the Museum of Natural History in Ottawa, taking digital photos of all the art, then throwing the actual pieces out to save on space and utilities. I have a book with the Dead Sea Scrolls transcribed alongside reasonable facsimiles of the actual parchment, but would anyone dream of throwing away the actual scrolls themselves? Most historians would give their eye-teeth and yours to have the Library of Alexandria back, with those countless volumes of now-forgotten human history so we could find out if Atlantis actually was a place, or maybe just a great idea for a dime-store novel.
Artifacts matter. They matter for cultural relevance. They matter for sentiment, whatever that means. They matter for our own personal relevance in the world in which we live, and will one day cease to occupy as we do now. Burton Cummings once wrote in the liner notes of the GuessWho's "Track Record" compilation that one day, someone would dig out a copy of 'Share the Land' from some attic, put the record on, and he would be alive once again. He's right. A few months ago, I had my JVC turntable, rescued from a school trashcan by my father, hooked up to my bookshelf stereo with a half-dozen records spread out on the living room floor. Kieran asked me what I was doing, and I put on 'Dream of a Child' for him. I closed my eyes for a moment, and mom was holding me and dancing again. The sun was setting. "Dream of a child; the song of a man; the key and the time are at his command..."
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