Lost and Found

On Sunday morning, I spent a couple of hours poking through the bins at CDepot in College Park, Md. It was a lot like many, many Sundays I've spent bumming around used CD stores, with only slight variations on that theme. The first Tracy Chapman CD was playing on the house system. That hasn't been a common selection for record-store play in at least 15 years. It took me back to my brief, unproductive stay in college. I hadn't had my own copy of the disc out for quite some time, so I was enjoying hearing it with relatively fresh ears. It also brought back a lot of the unpleasantness in my life back then and the comfort I found in countless hours of listening to Chapman sing about people who had it much worse. All these years later, I was able to really appreciate the songs without having them filtered through my drama.

I had picked over the Country, Bluegrass and Folk sections without making any earth-shattering discoveries. I turned the new Vince Gill set over in my hands a few times before deciding to leave it for a bargain hunter who was a bigger Gill fan and would appreciate it more. By the time I reached Blues, I had only two discs in my hand: "Blake & Rice 2" and Rice, Rice, Hillman & Pedersen's "Out of the Woodwork." There was a lot of store left, so I wasn't sure what the final tally would look like. It could go either way.

As I started into Rock, I fell into my usual patterns. In "A," I took a peek for some oddball Ryan Adams stuff, though I rarely find anything of the sort. Adams creates such a buzz on the Internet every time he buys a pair of jeans that he doesn't stand much chance of releasing music without me catching wind of it. I've found import CD singles in the past, though, and those singles contained the requisite bonus tracks, so I did the due diligence. Alas, there were no Adams goodies to be found. I took a flip behind the "Dave Alvin" card on the chance that I'd find his live Yep Roc release, but found only common catalog stuff.

I worked my way up the alphabet with similar results. "The Band" yielded a couple of discs by a latter-day lineup of the group, but nothing that enticed me to part with my Christmas money. Gram would probably want me to be more selective. Actually, she would just want me to be happy, but I didn't sense that these discs would get me there. Down in "C," there were a few copies of the new J.J. Cale-Eric Clapton collaboration, "The Road to Escondido." Unfortunately, all three bore the record-company stamp on the front of the liner notes that said they were promo copies. I know it shouldn't matter, but it does. This disc would turn up again, and probably for a buck or two less than the $8.99 they were asking.

There were no used copies of The Clash's "Sandinista" or Elvis Costello's "Armed Forces." A tour through the Dylan discs turned up no copies of the Christian-era "Saved" nor any other of the few Dylan albums I don't have. Even the artists whose catalogs I own inspire me to take a look. Going through Steve Earle was like standing in front of my own CD shelves: "Copperhead Road," "El Corazon," "Guitar Town" and more.

John Hiatt: "Slow Turning" ... check. "Bring the Family" ... check. "Perfectly Good Guitar" ... check. "Love Gets Strange: The Songs of John Hiatt" ...

Wait just a minute.

A through G had been the equivalent of a major leaguer running out grounders. It was done out of habit, because once in a while the shortstop is going to boot the ball. Now, staring back out of the bin, was the equivalent of a hustled-out hit. Released in 1993 by Rhino, "Love Gets Strange" was a tribute disc that collected versions of Hiatt songs by artists such as Don Dixon, The Neville Brothers, Marshall Crenshaw, Rosanne Cash, Emmylou Harris, Kelly Willis, Jeff Healy, Mitch Ryder (minus The Detroit Wheels) and many more. It seemed like it was out of print by 1994. By 1996, I wish I had grabbed it the day it came out. For the past decade, every time I was in an establishment where records were sold, I checked the Hiatt section on the chance that I would turn one up. I could have picked up a used copy on Amazon along the way, but it's about the thrill of the chase. Until Sunday, that is.

After roughly 10 years, here it was. Suddenly I forgot how Tracy Chapman had been a band-aid on a teenager's broken heart. Turning over one disc instantly turned me back into an 8-year-old, chewing a godawful piece of gum but not even noticing how bad it tasted when I found a Carlton Fisk in a pack of Topps baseball cards.

It sounds silly for a grown man to feel that way. That's because it is. I can't help it, and I won't apologize. Nostalgia can come easy when you realize that the yellow Tower bag in your hand is the last one you'll ever hold. Or that the rise of new formats will ultimately be the fall of your friendly, neighborhood record store. Or that digital distribution in theory gives everyone access to everything as long as they have a major credit card and an Internet connection.

At least for now, this Hiatt tribute isn't on iTunes. It was a tremendous find (and a steal at $7.99). It's never been about the size of the collection for me. The real joy always has come from unexpectedly finding music. As the outlets dry up, I hope I won't be feeling too lost when there's little to be found.