by Hari Kunzru
JumpJim at 20—- 07-01 20:11 EST:
WHO SOLD THIS TO YOU DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DO YOU YOU MUST CONTACT ME !!! IMMEDIATELY!!! VERY IMPORTANT INFORMATION WE HAVE TO TALK
—Who’s that?
—I don’t know. Some retard. Dude’s posted the same stuff everywhere I uploaded the song. Every single thread. He’s obsessed.
—What does he actually want?
—How should I know?
He smiled.
—Why don’t you ask him?
—Me?
I tapped out a question.
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-02 22:32 EST:
what u want JumpJim?
He came back almost at once.
JumpJim at 20—- 07-02 22:34 EST:
WHO ARE YOU
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-02 22:35 EST:
my record
JumpJim at 20—- 07-02 22:35 EST:
WHERE DID YOU GET IT
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-02 22:36 EST:
thriftstore pls turn off all caps = shouting
JumpJim at 20—- 07-02 22:36 EST:
SOrry where?
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-02 22:36 EST:
nyc ftw
JumpJim at 20—- 07-02 22:37 EST:
bullshit I live east side nothing worthwhile in those places since 1950s
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-02 22:37 EST:
ORLY
JumpJim at 20—- 07-02 22:38 EST:
?
JumpJim at 20—- 07-02 22:39 EST:
dont understand
Carter nudged me away from the keyboard.
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-02 22:41 EST:
ur such a loser
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-02 22:41 EST:
such a lil bitch u been pwnd
JumpJim at 20—- 07-02 22:42 EST:
dont understand
Carter started messing with him, claiming to be offended, issuing ridiculous rap-battle threats. It was dumb, but funny. I began to offer suggestions.
—Tell him we’re going to find him, fuck him in the ass.
After a few posts JumpJim went offline. I thought we’d frightened him away, but when I checked out the thread the next day, he’d been leaving conciliatory messages. He must have been old. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t understand half of what we said or the weird mention of thrift store record shopping in the fifties, which had to be bullshit. He just sounded cranky, irritated by having to type his questions, like an old man who has given up trying to understand new things. I almost felt sorry for him. We’d been saying nasty stuff, how we were going to rip his head off, pull his tongue out a hole in his throat. We probably went over the top. I posted once more, just in case.
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-03 23:11 EST:
you still there JumpJim?
I made coffee. When I came back and refreshed the thread, he was online.
JumpJim at 20—- 07-03 23:18 EST:
please don’t want to do this on the computer much better talk like human beings
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-03 23:19 EST:
what about? you want to buy the record
JumpJim at 20—- 07-03 23:20 EST:
you selling. how much?
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-03 23:20 EST:
$$$ its rare I want $50k for it.
JumpJim at 20—- 07-03 23:21 EST:
maybe someone will give you that not me though
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-03 23:22 EST:
so why are we talking
JumpJim at 20—- 07-03 23:23 EST:
what do you know about Charlie Shaw
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-03 23:23 EST:
not much
JumpJim at 20—- 07-03 23:24 EST:
you got other KG 25 series
This foxed me. I called in Carter and he took over the account, diving into a conversation about catalog numbers, session dates, the various qualities of Vocalion, Electrobeam Gennett and Victor pressings, how Paramount cuts got clearer as the tracks went on, that kind of thing. Collectors are like dogs. They have to sniff each other’s scent, establish bona fides.
JumpJim at 20—- 07-04 00:04 EST:
ok so you are not total amateur
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-04 00:05 EST:
true
JumpJim at 20—- 07-04 00:06 EST
? does it say SJH anywhere on the label anything else
—Carter?
—No idea.
—But he seems convinced by the label.
—I don’t know why. I just found an image on the net and Photoshopped it.
—Really? I didn’t know you knew how to do that.
—I’m not a moron. Say something or he’ll get bored and go offline. Answer his question.
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-04 00:07 EST:
No SJH or anything just serial number keep saying
JumpJim at 20—- 07-04 00:07 EST:
b/w
JumpJim at 20—- 07-04 00:08 EST:
WHAT’S ON THE OTHER SIDE
That, neither of us could answer. Carter shrugged.
—It’s kind of an obvious question, I suppose.
—Should I make it up?
—Give me a moment.
We stalled.
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-04 00:09 EST:
Do you know what’s on other side?
JumpJim at 20—- 07-04 00:10 EST:
Your record you tell me.
That was stalemate.
—I’m too stoned to think of anything. Tell him we’ll meet him.
—Really?
—Why not?
—Well, you know. The internet. We don’t know anything about him.
—What’s he going to do to us? Maybe he’ll have records to sell. He seems to know a lot about Paramount pressings. I’d pay good money for high-numbered Paramounts, better than he knows.
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-04 00:11 EST:
Let’s talk
JumpJim at 20—- 07-04 00:11 EST:
Great. Will you bring record
I couldn’t exactly refuse, so I just lied.
EVP_Seth at 20—- 07-04 00:11 EST:
OK
He named an Irish bar on 14th Street, almost at the East River, a spot I’d never heard of. Streetview showed a windowless joint wedged between a dry cleaner and a dollar store, the kind of place you could walk past twenty times and still miss. He wanted to meet there at eight-thirty in the morning. What kind of bar was open before nine in the morning? We told him that was too early. He wanted a morning meeting. He was very insistent. We settled on ten.
JumpJim at 20—- 07-04 00:12 EST:
Deal. Now I will tell you something. Before you posted that song, I had not heard Charlie Shaw since 1959.
I showed the screen to Carter, who made crazy person circles with his finger against his temple.
AT NINE THE NEXT MORNING I was showered, dressed and working my way through a cafetière of strong coffee, trying to stop checking the time on my phone. Carter still hadn’t come home. Even though he couldn’t be bothered to make the meeting, I knew he’d be angry if I missed it, because it was a collecting connection and—as he often reminded me—there weren’t so many people who were in it at his level. Maybe fifty worldwide, was his estimate. I don’t know if that was boasting. He said you couldn’t be choosy about who you dealt with. People didn’t put together serious collections by being nice and well adjusted. So I felt obliged to go. I sent him a final where-are-you text and got on my bike.
It was already hot. I pumped up onto the bridge, standing up on the pedals and telling myself I had options, promising myself that I wouldn’t get drawn in to anything. Then I freewheeled down into the smell of gasoline and uncollected garbage. Delancey Street in summer: light particulates, the tar spongy at the crosswalks. I turned north and rode through the projects towards the white chimneys of the power station. Locking the bike to a street sign on 14th, I chugged some water, toweled off and changed my shirt, which was soaked in sweat. I walked along until I found the doorway between the
dry cleaner and the dollar store and stepped down a flight of stairs into darkness and air-conditioning and a long skinny bar lined with alcoholics of various ages and professions, steeling themselves to go outside to smoke.
I was wearing a cap pulled down low over my eyes. My plan was to blend in and watch for a while before I identified myself, in case JumpJim looked threatening or insane. I admit I was curious to see this man who was so convinced by Carter’s fiction. Some loser collector, no doubt. They all had that look, that basement-dwelling look. I didn’t know what to have so I ordered bourbon. I didn’t want a bourbon, it was ten in the morning. The crinkled bills on the counter, the Irish tchotchkes, the bartender’s halter top and shitty Chinese character tattoo; the whole place was marinated in sadness. Ten in the fucking morning. You could feel the furred carpet making its way up the legs of your stool, seeking to become one with your ankles.
A candidate came in. Dressed in regular old-guy clothes. Slacks, a dress shirt, everything comfort fit. Good thick rubber soles on those sneakers, sir. Good grip. I started the recorder in my pocket, assuming this was him, but he took a stool and started talking to the bartender in Russian and I got bored and looked down the row into the dark colon of the bar only to realize that the guy, the real guy, had been there all along, watching me from a booth. Shock of white hair, thick black eyeglasses that scanned as fashion until you checked the raincoat with the grubby collar, the unpleasant-looking scab on his forehead. Exactly who I did not want to meet. Very slowly, he raised an index finger and pointed to me, a gesture like firing a gun. Carefully positioning a coaster on top of his drink, he eased himself off the vinyl bench and hobbled my way.
I need a cigarette, he said, and crooked that long nicotine-yellow finger. Follow. How old was he? Eighty? Older? He looked embalmed. I got off my stool and we went upstairs. We stood there on the street watching the traffic, me sweating in the heat, him wrapped up in his long coat like a man expecting bad weather, a man prepared for the worst. Certain other peculiarities of dress: hiking sandals over some kind of orthotic socks, polaroid lenses on the glasses. In the July sunlight it was like two security gates dropping down, twin black screens. He procured a tin from his coat pocket, rolled and lit a cigarette. Then he came right up to me, toe-to-toe like a boxer, and jabbed the cigarette at my face, holding it between thumb and forefinger and using it as a pointer. You, he said.
I took a step back. He took one forward.
—I don’t see any record.
It seemed the cigarette had played its part. He flicked it at a passing dog walker (“fuckin’ yuppies”) and headed back inside. I followed. I didn’t know what else to do. The carpet in his booth was sticky underfoot. He pointedly emptied the slush from his glass, his hands trembling.
—Why don’t you get us two more of these? Then we can talk about why you didn’t bring the record.
—I’m not sure this place takes cards.
—Young man, I am wrestling with my disappointment.
—Take my drink. I haven’t touched it.
—The hell I will.
Chastened, I went to the bar and bought him a whiskey. He flexed his hands and cracked his knuckles as I returned to the booth.
—That is more like it. And you are?
I didn’t want to give my real name.
—Dan Smith.
—I just can’t believe you didn’t bring the record, Dan Smith. It is a blow, I don’t mind saying. It shakes my confidence in you.
—Well, what about my confidence in you?
—Don’t you worry about that. I’m kosher. Genuine certified.
—You haven’t brought any records with you either.
—Whenever did I say I’d bring records? To a bar, are you out of your mind? Think of the environmental hazards. The stuff they use to clean these tables is highly alkaline. Put a disk down and straightaway that’d be the surface gone.
I switched on the recorder in my pocket.
—So you must have a great collection, right?
—Slow down, jitterbug. We’ll get to what I’ve got and what I’ve not in due time. I’m more concerned with what you got. You do have a copy, correct? KG 25806, Charlie Shaw, “Graveyard Blues.” You must have, unless you’re not the one who put it out there. You are the one with whom I’ve been conversating?
—Yes. I am.
—Good. And you know what you have?
—Sure.
—Sure is not what I would call an encouraging word, son. Sure is not what you should be, because right now you are out on a limb.
—I have no idea what you’re talking about.
—And that’s not so good either. Not that I can solve anything. I make no claims for myself. You only have to look at me to know I’m not a powerful person.
He appraised me again from behind his smudged lenses.
—Oh, I see now. I see how it is. Fuck. He made the word into a long lizardy croak. You actually have no goddamn clue. That—He trailed away into a sigh, rubbed his palms wearily over his face. That is really not encouraging. The name Bly mean anything to you at all?
—No.
—Chester Bly?
—No.
—And you’re supposed to be a goddamn collector?
—Well, to be honest, there’s two of us. There were two of us online.
—And you’re the other one.
—That’s right.
—You’re shitting me.
He banged the table with his fist, suddenly furious.
—So why the fuck am I talking to the other one? Jesus Christ, what a mess. What a goddamn mess!
—Hey, calm down. I don’t know, OK? I don’t even know why I’m here. Look, I’m sorry I wasted your time.
I got up to leave. I really did want to leave. He didn’t have anything for Carter and I needed to be outside in the open air, under the sun.
—Hold on!
He spread his hands, and for a fleeting moment I saw a tell. Of what, I wasn’t sure. Something about those trembling, beseeching hands.
—Please. Take a seat. I believe you. You represent whoever you represent. I’m not here to pry into your business. If you’ve got the record, you’ll know what I’m talking about. I’m not a powerful man. I was just a kid who liked to listen to old music.
—Honestly, I’ve got to go. I’m meeting someone.
—Look, I’m not involved, and I don’t want to be. In fact, I’m not a collector at all anymore. Not the kind of collector who would want that record. But I do have questions. I’m curious. Surely that’s forgivable.
—Come on. You want the record.
—Oh no. I’d never want to own that record. No thank you. All I’m asking is that you sit down and tell me about it. Just for five minutes. Tell me where you got it. I won’t ask anything personal. I won’t pry into areas that aren’t my concern. Look, you didn’t even drink your drink. I’ll get you another. Something different, perhaps? Lyuba’s piña coladas are famous.
All I wanted was to leave. I knew Carter would press for his joke to go on as long as possible, to run through as many losers and suckers as it could, but I didn’t have the heart for it. There seemed no point, nothing to be gained. What fun was there in messing with a semi-homeless old man?
—Look, sir. I’m sorry to say this, but you made a mistake. It’s all a joke. A hoax. Whatever record you heard back in the day, this wasn’t it, because my partner and I—we put it together literally last week. It’s just field recordings and some surface noise. That’s all. I’m sorry, but you wasted your time.
His pleading expression became a snarl.
—Stop lying to me! I’m trying to help you out here. It’s obvious you know nothing, less than nothing. What is in play here is highly, and I mean highly, complex. You may think you’re still moving forward, right now. You may feel safe.
—I’m sorry. We made it up, the whole thing.
—You’re a bad liar. You’re already slipping, you don’t even know it.
—L
ook, I’m going to go now, but just in case—do you own and if so do you wish to sell any high-numbered Paramounts?
—Why?
—My friend wants to buy 12900 and up. He’ll pay for anything in good condition. That’s the only reason I came.
—This being your partner, the one who is a real collector but sadly can’t be here with us today? Does your collector friend mean good as in generically good or specifically good as in G condition or higher on the VJM scale?
—I have no idea.
—Tell him I have what he wants, many E, even E+. A few unplayed. Not a complete run but near as makes no difference. Tell him 13099, Willie Brown, “Window Blues” and “Kicking In My Sleep Blues.” That’ll get his attention.
—So you have records.
—I have records. Repeat it. I want to check you have it correctly.
—Willie Brown, “Window Blues.”
—13099, Willie Brown, “Window Blues” and “Kicking In My Sleep Blues”
—13099, Willie Brown, “Window Blues” and “Kicking In My Sleep Blues”
—But he has to come in person. And he has to bring the Charlie Shaw record.
—Come where?
—Here. If I’m not around, Lyuba will know where to find me.
I left him in his booth and half-ran up the stairs, back out into the light.
IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE to get Carter to listen. I tried to describe it, the bar full of sad morning drinkers, the smudged fingerprints on the man’s filthy eyeglasses, but the only thing he seemed able to hear was thirteen thousand ninety-nine Willie Brown. Did the guy really say thirteen thousand ninety-nine? Yes he did. Definitely that serial number. Yes, I could prove it. I’d been recording. He wanted to hear the whole conversation, spinning round impatiently on the control room chair as I scrolled through, looking for the file. I must have screwed up, because all I had was some audio I’d made a few days earlier, out in Queens, walking through one of the cemeteries in Ridgewood. I was angry at myself for making a mistake. I was usually very careful.
