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My Gouldian Angel by Daria Wells It happened on a soft, warm Sunday morning. After paying the small cover of $3, I entered my favorite record/collectible show for the umpteenth time. For any one in the know, collecting vinyl is a better high that any drug can give. I was riding that high as I entered the small door to destiny--the lobby of the Lion's Club. I had been searching fruitlessly for a blue vinyl copy of The Division Bell. From the mailing list, Echoes, I had heard prices ranging from $12 to $40, but I wasn't daunted. When you really want a piece of vinyl, money is no option. Forty dollars may sound like pittance to hardcore collectors, but to a University student with no means of income but a part-time job answering phones at a courier company, it's a bundle.
Waiting in line, I had a little obsessive ritual I would perform--to find the vinyl I was after, I would not think of it. Time after time, if I thought about it in line, I would inevitably leave empty handed and disappointed. Obsessive compulsive? Yes. But it worked. So I tried not to get too excited about locating a copy of the aforementioned, and thought about anything else, even the essay I had abandoned to take my mom's car and have a chance at bliss amidst the vinyl. By mid-afternoon, I was walking around the tables, already clutching my beautiful British pressing of Magical Mystery Tour begot with my feminine wiles from an unsuspecting middle-aged dealer. Near the door, I found a rather scruffy pot headed dealer and his fat counterpart. Their selection was incredible, but also incredibly overpriced. The moment the scruffy one found out I was interested in Pink Floyd, he related a rather wild story about the infamous "sea monster" at one of the 1970s Pink Floyd shows. "Man, I heard it was Syd under that costume!" he exclaimed. I assured him Syd was happily eating porkchops at home whilst this concert was occurring, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. Flipping through the Floyd section of their table, I found a lovely copy of The Division Bell, but alas, it was not blue vinyl! It was a gorgeous, thick British pressing, but something was awry. It had very clearly been waxed! The scratches were small but evident, and the dealers were visibly crooked. I was also pretty disappointed that I had scoured the whole show for a blue vinyl copy, and hadn't even thought about it in line once and the search had still come up fruitless! I was beginning to think my "spell" had not worked. The pothead continued to try and cajole me into buying the altered copy and I was getting desperate.
He was tall, and even though it was the middle of summer, he was in a thick black overcoat. A ghost of Glenn Gould. "Miss!" he called to me from another dealer's table across the way, "there's a blue vinyl Division Bell over here!" I couldn't believe my ears. I dashed over, leaving the two dealers shaking their heads and yelling that I'd never find a better deal. But I did. There, in Mr. Gould Incarnate's hand was my prize--a sealed blue vinyl copy of The Division Bell with a price tag of $12! So there are vinyl gods out there after all! It came as no surprise that my "vinyl angel" came in the form of Glenn Gould, who is another obsession of mine. Gleefully, I took my prizes home in my mom's red Toyota. I had foiled the record demons and dealers and this time, I had help. Daria Wells is a staff writer for Spare Bricks.
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Then
something very curious happened.