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One of the things I enjoy most about this series is following the thread that connects the records.

Choosing a prompt may seem easy at first, but soon you realise it lays the foundation for everything else.

Having hosted and played myself many times, I can tell you that choosing a good prompt is even more crucial than choosing the actual records.

This is something I didn’t have to explain to today’s guest. She knew.

They say that to be a good writer you first have to be a good reader, and Emm clearly knows how to read between the lines. Rather than simply picking three records, she chose a thread that reveals something much deeper.

Her brilliant Substack, Emm as in Music, is an absolute must-read for me every week. She writes wittily, honestly, fearlessly. Not yet subscribed? How dare you.

I was over at Emm’s recently for her Five for Friday series, and it was one of the most beautiful collaborations I’ve ever done.

Today, Emm will discuss three records she associates with three people she once called her best friend. But the plot thickens as she tells a story about friendship, change, values, and the people who shape us long after they leave our lives.

I’ll now leave you in her capable hands.

Enjoy 📀

I am Emm. I am a writer by trade and I guess by necessity. I am also a lifelong music fanatic who is working toward a more ethical record collection, which is hard given the nature of the artists who made music. But it is rewarding, and kind of necessary, at least for me, based on lived experiences.

My prompt is three records that I associate with the three people I have called my best friend at some point in life. One I will never talk to again, one I should talk to more, and one who wears the crown of bestie, now and always. There are deeper and more profound stories to tell about each, and I will one day, but here’s the essential what and why…

Click on the record covers (thank you, Emm, for the fabulous pics!) to stream the albums on your preferred platform. Hopefully you’ll be adding them to your collection soon!

My first best friend broke my heart. Not because of something he did to me. But something he did to someone that has haunted me for years, in part because I believed him over what my gut and lived experience told me.

Marillion was his favorite band. I want to say I introduced him to them. Because I am certain I did. He bought everything he could get his hands on by them. He always taped his records so he wouldn’t have to play them and when I bought this first, he asked me to do that for him. Which I did because he was my friend.

I thought I grew out of Marillion and prog in the 90s. But I bought a copy for a dollar in the aughts. I played it now and then, just like I saw him occasionally. This despite the fact that my conscience kept nagging at me.

A few years ago, I sent a direct message to clear my conscience and cut him off. I don’t regret it and it is part of why I have been moving toward a more ethical record collection.

I nearly parted with “Misplaced Childhood” again, not for ethical reasons, but because I associated it with him. And yet, the album tells aspects of my own story. First crushes. Lost relationships. Awkward life transitions. It is an emotionally charged album. And cathartic.

Essentially, I realized it existed apart from him and our friendship. It reminds me of the first time in my life when I felt a sense of belonging. It is also tied to an emerging narrative of healing, of embracing my own childhood, my former, somewhat self, the budding femme who just wanted to love and be loved in return. That and “Kayleigh” is an all-timer.

Another story I will tell in more detail is my wild years in college radio. I was impossible, at least in my first go-round. I had been infected by late-night talk show humor, and had a chip on my shoulder from being bullied as a kid, which, merged with my mercurial nature, meant some self-sabotage.

For example, my second best friend came into the campus radio station one day with some hand scribbled notes for a review of Waits’ “Frank’s Wild Years” and I made a quip about Moses coming down from the mountain with his tablets. Oddly, he didn’t punch me, which he should have. Instead, I think he recognized another sarcastic, slightly misguided soul. And we bonded.

“Frank’s Wild Years” was an album I struggled with at first. I was certain Waits, who I had very limited knowledge of, was engaging in musical Blackface based on his singing. I realized quickly that wasn’t the case. And I became besot, in part because I heard aspects of my own eccentricity in his work and because I envied how he wrote. I still do. That and the otherworldly quality of Waits’ fractured but lovely melodies. They are like curio shop finds that repel with their weirdness even as they fascinate you with their craftwork.

I sometimes think my friend is responsible for my turn from AOR like Boston and Bon Jovi to alt rock. But I think he just expedited that journey. He also introduced me to directors like David Lynch and Stuart Gordon. Ultimately, he was a wonderful corrupting force in my life and I wouldn’t be the odd duck I am today without his diabolical influence.

I told this story a bit in a Five for Friday, but I met my bestie Judy through twitter and then became friends with her through Tumblr back when it was wild and wooly and I was a bit more of a contrarian than I am now. I know, how could I possibly be?

There was a tweetup planned for Chicago, which was where Judy lived at the time. Despite being a recluse and introvert, I decided to go because I had grown a community through social media. I reached out to Judy, and we made plans to hang.

Around this time, I also fell out with my father and decided to be more self-sufficient. For some reason, this became the soundtrack for that journey and my preparations for Chicago. I played it every day to the extent that I felt like it was rearranging my DNA.

On the day I was scheduled to fly to Chicago, I heard “Down by the Water” playing over the airport PA, so I figured that was good omen, even if I had to scramble to book an alternative flight. After all, Judy was a Decemberists fan too.

I made a few return trips for tweetups, mainly to hang with Judy, tour the city, and eat ridiculous food items. “The King is Dead” was a frequent soundtrack. Which is funny because it has no connective tissue with the city. And yet, it is as Chicago to me as Chess Records and deep-dish pizza. When I play it now, it reaffirms my bond with her and the one I repaired with my dad. For these reasons, its reminder not to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders is invaluable, and bittersweet.

All these albums and the stories related to them deserve more detailed essays. They may not have saved my life, like albums by CMAT or Scott Walker, but they are foundational to changes I went through that made me a better person. In that way they are not only vital but also beloved.

Thank you, Emm, for your fantastic contribution. What began as a reflection on friendship gradually became something much bigger: a meditation on growth, conscience, loyalty, being faithful to our values, and how music can outlive the moments that first gave it meaning.

Thank you, vinyl lovers, for joining us. Were you familiar with these records? Any interesting stories to share? See you in the comments.

Thanks for reading. Happy spinning!

Vital Records #26: New Beginnings

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