John Fahey and Me... — Vinyl Magic

For nearly ten years, I have been posting vignettes to my friends and colleagues on my insane record collection and the attendant autographs/interactions with the artists (some 200+ so far in total). It has been a labor of love, and, hopefully, as informative and entertaining for my readers as it has been for me. Everyone from Sinatra to the Sex Pistols, Sonny Rollins to Johnny Cash, The Grateful Dead to Lou Reed, no one has been spared in my dogged pursuit.

The genesis started innocently. In my never ending and insatiable search for music in all genres, I read a lot of blogs. A couple of years ago, I came across a not particularly well written John Fahey post. I thought three things: I can write better, I have better stories, and my kids see all this junk in our music room and they have no idea who many of these artists are, and the album artwork is as compelling as some of the back stories are interesting.

So, blame it all on John Fahey. In his incandescent memory, here's the first post which I ever sent, along with some Holiday tunes (and vinyl artwork!)....

**When I play, I very quickly put myself into a light hypnotic trance and compose while playing, drawing directly from the emotions.**

**John Fahey (1939-2001)**

John Fahey, an American guitarist, composer and savant, is so wide ranging in his material, from blues to folk to avant garde, that his music is beyond category. John also released a series of instrumental Christmas albums which have been holiday staples in my house since the late 1970s. "Silent Night,” "Joy To The World,” and "O Holy Night" have never sounded better. I was lucky to see Fahey several times over the years, and I was always struck by a man who looked so menacing, yet created such tender and exquisite melodies.

***The New Possibility (1968) unsigned***

One night, back in December 1983, Erin and I went to see him perform at the Birchmere, a small club in Alexandria, Virginia. The Birchmere then was in a converted used furniture store and it retained a similar, decaying ambience: picnic tables with naugahyde chairs stuck to a filthy linoleum floor, the aroma of stale beer, cheap wine and unfiltered cigarettes hung heavy in the still, acrid air. John was playing his usual eclectic set when he stopped and asked the audience for a drink, "Not beer or wine," like the Birchmere served, "but a real drink. Someone must have something in their car," he implored. One audience member volunteered that he had something in his car. John said he would wait. We did. When the audience member returned, he went onstage and handed John a bottle of brandy, which he chugged to the delight of the audience. John resumed playing flawlessly.

After the show, I went backstage to get an album signed. The dressing room door was slightly ajar so I went in. There was a bathroom in the dressing room and that door was wide open. John had his back to me, and he was unleashing a furious torrent. He turned and said he’d be done in a minute. I said I didn’t mean to bother him, I could see he had his hands full. He laughed, finished his business, wheeled around and stuck out a big unwashed paw. I told him how great the show was and asked him to sign an album. He happily obliged, then asked, "Where do you live? Do you have anything to drink in your house?" I thought about this. It would be awesome to bring John Fahey back to my house and play records, stay up and drink all night. But what if it went wrong? John was a big man, and I knew I could be belligerent when I got over served, what if Fahey and I broke bad? 'No, I don’t really have anything,' I sheepishly told him. I thanked him and left.

When I returned to my table, I told Erin that Fahey wanted to come home with us. I explained my misgivings. She said I should have said yes. That wasn’t the last time I was wrong about something….