MY RHYTHM & BLUES BOOK was first conceived in 1986, but a book that combined r&b and blues record didn’t occur to me until the early ’90s. My first and only choice for co-author was the legendary Val Shively: his store, R&B Records, had been a fixture in the Philadelphia area for decades; customers came from all over the world to get lost in the back rooms filled with little records with big holes.
His knowledge of the rhythm & blues field was legendary! I had already called him from Seattle—his rejoinder was, “You have a really crappy baseball team”—and would be in his neck of the woods in a few weeks. I asked if I could visit him at his store and have a few words.
“You’d be wasting your time,” he said.
I said I didn’t mind.
“You’d be wasting my time,” he countered.
I said I didn’t mind.
I drove 476 from Wilkes-Barre (the city where I was born) down to Upper Darby and (eventually) found R&B Records. It was lavishly arrayed with super-rare collectables: including a rare twig from a tree, hanging from the ceiling, with a note stating it had been taken from the grounds of Graceland.
I knew I was gonna like this guy …
For those of us who grew up in the ’60s, the word ‘twig’ will often bring up an image at odds with a tree. Of course, the likelihood of finding anything remotely associated with British models in R&B Records was nigh on impossible.
You’re wasting your time
The whole thing was as beautiful as the chance encounter of a sewing machine and an umbrella on an operating table. I was moved, and exclaimed, “Wow! This is, like, as close to Elvis as I’m ever gonna get.”
Val looked at me quizzically.
“Until I die, of course,” I added.
Val ignored me.
Also hanging from that ceiling was a pair of black plastic shades with a note telling me that they had belonged to Stevie Wonder.
I was moved again and asked, “Are these the ones he wore in Muscle Beach Party?”
Val ignored me.
After hanging around for an hour or so, a couple of Val’s local regulars came in and started talking about the Phillies’ prospects over the next few seasons. This I also knew, and as someone who had been reading Bill James for several years, I usually added observations to baseball conversations most fans of the game had never heard before.
At this, Val glanced in my direction.
Photo lifted from the 1973 interview with Rolling Stone magazine, when Wonder was making his most wondrous music and was at the height if his fame and popularity. These glasses could have found their way to Upper Darby—you never know.
You’re wasting my time
After talking baseball for an hour or so, Val looked at over at me and said, “Alright. You! Wise-guy. Who are you and wuddaya want?”
I turned and my right hand slid off the handle of my .45 and down the side of my holster. It was an autonomic response, something you’d expect from a knee-jerk liberal like myself. It had saved my hide more times than I could count. But it was the wrong move at this moment.
“Uh uh,” he shook his head. “There’s a Colt S-double-A Peacemaker pointing at your gizzard under this counter.” He nodded his chin down.
I didn’t doubt him.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Habit.”
My hand moved away from my leather.
“How big’s yours,” I queried.
“Seven and a half,” he responded. “Yours?”
“Five and a half,” I smiled. “I can get it out faster.”
Everyone laughed the kind of laugh you laugh when you know spilt blood’s been avoided. Guys comparing the size of their gun’s barrel was a time-honored rite of passage from enemies to not-enemies.
I relaxed.
Fortunately, he did, too.
He brought both his hands above the counter, smiled, and pulled a bottle from the shelf on the wall behind him. Layfrog—my favorite single-malt.
He poured for both of us and things looked a little brighter.
“I prefer the 10-year-old to the 12,” I offered.
“Same here,” he nodded.
I introduced myself.
“Oh! Right. The guy from the city with the crap baseball team,” he noted as he sipped his drink. “You’re wasting your time.”
I said I didn’t mind.
“You’re wasting my time,” he said.
I said I didn’t mind.
Eventually, I told him that I was also from Pee-Ay and was visiting family.
“No wonder you don’t act like a lot of those guys from the West Coast,” he nodded.
The man: Val Shively. The store: R&B Records. The inventory: Priceless …
You don’t want me any way
I relayed my plans for the R&B book and my hopes that he’d come aboard. We took our conversation to a little diner he favored. Val told me flatly that he wasn’t interested in co-authoring a book with me or anyone else. Then he gave me the best advice of my nascent career:
“You don’t want me any way,” he said.
I didn’t?
“No,” he sipped his water.
“You want Tefteller …”
FEATURED IMAGE: Despite the many, many stoopit things said by tasteless people about Elvis and his life, Graceland remains a beautiful house on a beautiful property. More than twenty species of trees can be found at Graceland, including Southern Magnolia, American Elm, Willow Oak, Red Maple, Pecan, American Holly, Tulip Poplar and Black Cherry. And a fallen twig from any one of them could have found their way to Upper Darby—you never know.
This piece is high-larious! Question: Who said: “little records with the _ig hole” first? (The letter _ is fried in my computer).
G
Thankee kindlee, sir. And it’s almost 100% true!
I do not know who first said “little records with the _ig hole” …
N
Neal - The first time that I heard the phrase was from the old “Discoveries” mag. days. It was from the late Cu_ Koda, referring to 45’s. I never forgot it. This was around 1989, I think. The little records with the _ig hole. I love the in your face sound of them.
G
Cub was a hoot! We corresponded a few times about articles in Goldmine and I finally met him at one of Doug Hanners’ conventions in Austin and we hit it off immediately.
I don’t know where the phrase comes from but I think it predates Cub by decades.
Keep on keepin’ on!
N