You may be onto something, Andrew.
Another wunderkind I knew, at seventeen went into the woods with his
flintlock, shot a deer, and made a tunic from the skin. His
particular fancy
was George Rodgers Clark, and the French and Indian War. He grew
up in
Oregon, no less. Go figure. Every generation produces a rare few
who are
special. Some of them most certainly advance the reach of the
Human Race, and
the rest at least enhance our quality of life.
There's a ten year-old I know now who was so enthralled by my
phonographs
that his mom bought him a Victrola 50 I'd just restored. While on
their
summer vacation last month, his mom sent an e-mail with young Benjamin
listening to his phonograph set up at a Colorado campground picnic
table! Now,
have we identified the next generation of hobbyist? <chuckles>
: )
Edward
In a message dated 8/5/2012 2:25:31 P.M. Pacific Daylight Time,
[email protected] writes:
Hi Edward ~
Like you, my folks had no particular affection for old things or
machines.
They've also both been relatively helpless with mechanical
challenges of
the most basic variety.
Though we can never know it all, I think past-life influences and
cumulative gifts thus derived are as likely to influence our
current affinities and
skills as are environmental and familial connections. It's a
common story
that the children of collectors have no particular interest in
enjoying
(let alone maintaining) even the most humble collection.
As for influencing factors, mentors can certainly play a vital role
if one
is fortunate enough to have them, but if that spark wasn't there to
begin
with, we wouldn't likely have drawn the mentors into our lives to
begin
with. Those connections simply would not have been made for us.
I like the sound of the highschool boy you knew and his
individuality.
The clothing alone makes one imagine the machine shop culture of
the late
19th century.
Best,
Andrew Baron
Santa Fe
On Aug 2, 2012, at 2:25 PM, [email protected] wrote:
I love wunderkinds and their stories, n' enjoyed yours, Andrew! It
reminded me of a mechanically talented HS boy I knew a few years
ago
who asked
everybody he ran into if they had any broken lawnmowers or
chainsaws.
He'd
usually get 'em for free, and then repaired and sold them.
Needless-to-say,
he wasn't a Goth, or a Bagger, a Stoner or a Preppie, but he wore
faded
overalls and a tam cap! Ha!
Does anyone think our passion for antiques hearkens to a previous
life,
or
is it a kind of genetic affinity, or what? My mom disdained
anything
old. When I was a boy, she had barely pointed out a cabinet we
had in
the
basement that came over from Italy with great-grand parents in the
1840s, and
then coming home from school I saw it on the curb for the trash
collectors!
I reacted with horror, and squirreled it away to my clubhouse in the
backyard. Though Mom called everything that played a record a
Victrola, do I
need to say the actual Victrola was long gone by the time I was old
enough
to save it?
: )
Edward
In a message dated 8/2/2012 8:10:07 A.M. Pacific Daylight Time,
[email protected] writes:
Glad you enjoyed it.
Taking the time to type out these remembrances brought out some old
memories. The only thing of real importance that I omitted, was
that
the
waitresses at Flynns would now and then offer me a tall, icy Coca
Cola
for free
while I worked on reviving the machines; a tremendous and always
unexpected
perk. I got to work on phonographs AND got free soft drinks.
So, to the list of those who've been generous and supportive must
be
added
the waitresses of Flynn's Dixie Ribs of the mid 1970s.
Andrew
On Aug 2, 2012, at 3:50 AM, john robles wrote:
Great story, Andrew! I am loving reading all these histories!
John Robles
________________________________
From: Andrew Baron <[email protected]>
To: Antique Phonograph List <[email protected]>
Sent: Wed, August 1, 2012 9:09:01 PM
Subject: Re: [Phono-L] How it Started
Great to hear everyone's stories. Here's mine.
I've had an affinity for history, machines and the phonograph
for as
long as I
can remember, and recall creating a paper model of an upright
phonograph
before
I ever had a real one. I also remember standing in utter awe,
in the
Edison
Winter Home and Museum in Fort Myers (now the Edison-Ford
estates),
gazing at
the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling display of cylinder players
sprouting
morning
glory horns in such profusion that it looked like a massive,
enchanted
garden.
I have to admit reaching out to touch some of the uprights and
consoles
there,
lined up behind velvet barrier rails, just so I could feel the
history.
In 1974 when I was 12 my family moved, and within bike-riding
distance
of our
new home was a restaurant called "Flynn's Dixie Ribs". For
ambience,
it
was
decorated with old relics, including Singer sewing machines and
several
mostly
1920s phonographs. I don't recall if they were for sale, but my
first
phonograph, a "Berg-Artone" portable, was procured from there. The
management
was very kind, letting me tinker with the machines in the off
hours,
and
it was
there that I got my first hands-on phonograph mechanism
education. I
recall
that I paid for the Berg-Artone with a fine Morgan silver dollar
and
$5.00
hard-earned from mowing ten lawns in the Florida heat. That
portable
had a
broken mainspring, a punctured, wrinkled aluminum diaphragm and a
dangling
needle chuck. You might say that the management got the better
end of
the deal,
but for me it was a major coup to get the solid makings of a
viable
machine. I
got two records with it; a tired copy of Jimmie Lunceford's "R
hythm is Our Business" on Decca, and "Till We Meet Again" (paired
with
"Have a
Smile") on Victor.
First I sorted out the reproducer and for a time I just spun the
records
by
finger-on-the-label, enthralled at how so much sound could come
out of
a
purely
mechanical device. I was already into electronics and had built
some
kits and a
little transistorized amplifier, so discovering that acoustic
reproduction could
yield such bold volume and detail was a revelation. I also
learned
that
the
motor's centrifugal governor worked quite well to regulate my
hand-driving of
the platter, and that in its own right was an education.
Eventually
I
got
brave, liberated the mainspring and repaired it, and from that
point
forward the
Berg-Artone was capable of playing records without human
intervention,
once set
in motion. Well-meaning adults would ask how I knew what to do,
which
I
always
thought was some kind of trick question. It never occurred to
me that
they
wouldn't necessarily know a lot more than I did about that sort of
thing.
For needles, I used whatever was in the little spring-lidded
needle
cup
and
found that the pointy ones sounded better than the blunted ones,
and
resulted in
less black powdery buildup on the needle tip. After that, I
scrounged
through
the needle bins of the other phonographs in the restaurant, weeding
out
the
obviously worn ones. In search of more, an experiment of
cutting the
heads off
of little brads from the local hardware store yielded poor
results,
but
added to
my evolving education. I remember the great moment when at a hi-
fi
store, I
found several new blister packs of 25 needles for 25 cents each,
and
bought them
all. They must have been old stock then, as none further
appeared to
replace
them.
The big event when I was 13, was the acquisition from the same
restaurant, of a
"Cecilian Melophonic" upright model; something of an Orthophonic
wannabe, but in
fine condition with attractive burl overlay accents. I derived
hours
of
pleasure listening to that machine and its comparatively full-
bodied
tone. The
record I played most often on it was a cornet solo of Carry Me
Back to
Ole
Virginny on a blue-label Columbia. It had a mournful quality,
and a
perceived
richness that seemed to also carry me back in time. The
performer's
name
remains embedded in my memory; Nellie Hoone Wetmore. Guess I
was an
odd
kid.
At 14 I worked for a time at a low-level antique store cleaning up
things in the
back, and arranged to trade my time for a tantalizing Edison
Home with
a
brightly repainted red MG horn. With heavy heart I terminated my
employment
when they sold this treasure to a cash buyer. Later that year
came
the
next
milestone, when I managed to buy my first Edison phonograph, a
near-mint
BC-34
console, from a phonograph enthusiast named Mark Stark whom I
met at
the
Miami
Tropicaire Flea Market. Two weeks prior, Mark had sold me some
Diamond
Disc
records, but I quickly realized I was doing them harm,
attempting play
with a
steel needle. Mark had the BC-34 across the back end of his
pickup
truck when I
bought the records. The following week I went back, and running
through
the
aisles soon found Mark and his pickup truck, but no BC-34. He
told me
that he
just hadn't brought it out that day. I don't recall what I did to
raise
the
$135.00 for that machine, but it must have taxed every
horse-trading avenue I had at the time. I used to collect
coins, and
it's
likely I turned in some of the collection. The big bonus for me,
however, was
going to Mark's house to pick up the machine (with much arm-
twisting
of
my
new-driver older brother). There, my host provided us with a
guided
tour of his
phonograph collection. My eyes must have been big as saucers,
and my
ears
standing at attention to pick up every sound.
My first cylinder phonograph finally came to hand about two years
later
around
1978, courtesy of Les Goldberg at his store "Everything Audio".
This
shop was
clear across the city, a harrowing drive on three expressways to
the
unknown
treasures that lay at the other end of the journey. Everything
Audio
inspired
me endlessly with the restored radios, phonographs and occasional
Jukebox in its
little front showroom, while Les toiled in back, dealing with the
day-to-day
life of TV and tape player repair, and unappreciative
consumer-customers. In
his showroom, however, he had seemingly endless piles of 78's
standing
precariously tall and at an affordable fifty cents each, and I
would
spend hours
sifting through these, hobbling out in the early afternoon with
bent
knees and
numb legs, to get sustenance from the burger joint next door. The
rest
of the
afternoon would be spent sorting the records into the "can live
without",
"maybe" and "have to have" piles. A glance inside my wa
llet would often dictate the final cull, though. One day Les
gave me
the
unexpected, golden opportunity to take my pick of one of two
non-functional
Edison Home phonographs, in exchange for returning one to him
working
and
salable.
These were my phonograph beginnings. I've loved the mechanics
of it,
getting to
know the artists and records, reading the histories and enjoying
the
simple,
aesthetic pleasure of seeing the machines. As time goes on and I
mature, I find
myself feeling less possessive about the machines, and spending
far
more
time
thinking about the generosity and support of the people I've met
over
the years
through this passion, one of whom continues to be a prized
mentor, and
others
whose wisdom I've been privileged to dip into with a dedicated
question
now and
then about a particular machine.
My phonograph collection these days numbers a dozen machines,
which in
the rush
of life tend to fade into the woodwork when left alone, but shine
forth
when
interest from other, and sometimes younger people gives them an
added
reason to
be played. In roughly chronological order they are:
An early Edison banner Triumph improved for performance with a 2/4
setup, a
prized Medved-rebuilt O-reproducer and Gfell Music Master horn; a
Victor
Type E
front mount (Monarch Junior), a Zonophone Grand Opera, Edisons:
maroon
Gem and
Home model D's, early A-250, a Victrola XVIII, a Brunswick 17
with the
dual-diaphragm Ultona, an Amberola 50, a Kameraphone & Thorens
Excelda,
and an
electric-motored Victor Orthophonic Credenza.
Andrew Baron
Santa Fe
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