Charles Pearlman

Since I was old enough to be one, I have been a collector. My obsession began with baseball cards when I was 6 years old, scouring the couch and car seats, sweeping the floors, looking behind the dryer, trying to find enough change to buy a pack of cards, the ones that came with a stale stick of bubble gum, in the hopes of finding a gem. I likely inherited the collector gene from my father, who had enough books to collapse a floor. They took up so much room in our house- every floor and every room had a shelf of books, some stood alone, some mounted to the wall.

I collected baseball and basketball cards until I was 13, and then pot smoking and BMX biking became my new obsessions. Collecting took a back burner for a few years, probably due to a lack of money, as weed was not cheap in Kansas. Then when I moved in with an older (30 year old) guy when I was 19, I found my new passion which hasn’t changed since then, records.

I took to records like a fish to water: we had an instant connection, and I loved them. Ian’s records were mostly the classics, Zeppelin, Hendrix, Stones etc. Even though I was beginning to develop my own taste at this time, which gravitated towards jazz and blues, I loved going through his collection. I remember grabbing his records by the grooves, until he spotted me handling them like an idiot, and showed me the proper way to take a record from the jacket to the turntable, and how to slip it safely back home. I spent a lot of time exploring his collection, which introduced me to Santana, Bill Withers, Old and In The Way, and Oysterhead, among many others. Having as much fun as I had digging through Ian’s stacks, I knew it was necessary to build a collection of my own.

Fast forward 10 years. Shortly before my 30th birthday, I had a collection to envy. I had around 1000 records, many original pressings and a few “holy grail” jazz and blues albums. I bought at an obsessive pace and had just begun selling them online, a sort of side hustle to support the habit. I was very good at what I did. I would scour Ebay frequently looking for improperly listed items that would slip through the cracks, and I would find them with regularity. When I found a seller that slipped up, I’d stalk them like a cheetah does a wounded gazelle, bleeding em’ nice and slow and getting all that I could get.

One day a seller fell into my trap, spelling Art Blakey “Art Blakley” and not putting Blue Note in the headline. Jackpot! I won a 1st pressing of “A Night In Tunisia” and 3 other Blakey’s for pennies on the dollar. He had many more jazz albums, all were original pressings. You could tell he barely knew how to use a computer, and his photos were awful. This guy was probably 99 years old and had bought these as they were issued, or at least that was my fantasy.

After winning a few more albums, I did what I always do, I wrote him and asked if he had more. Later that day he replied “I just bought a collection with 20,000 albums and 13,000 45’s, at least 7,000 of them are jazz!” Well, he likely wasn’t 99 years old but this might be even better than my wildest dreams! I of course ask, “Can we work privately? Outside of Ebay?” He says “Yes, we can definitely work something out.” I then tried to get him my contact info, but of course Ebay snatched my message out of the air like a center fielder denying a home run. Hmmmm… how am I going to get outside the black hole that is Ebay? I had his return address on a box that I had received with my first shipment. I decided to write him a heartfelt letter, choosing my words as carefully as Poe, trying to win his 99 year old heart, and convince him that this 29 year old was the perfect home for his records. It would be a few long days in the mail, and likely he would take a few more to reply, if he chose to reply at all.

Three days later my phone rings. It’s a California area code, immediately I knew it was him.

“Hello”

“Yeah is this Charles?”

“Yes”

“Hi this is Larry, you wrote me about the albums.”

Success! I was so anxious to ask him a thousand questions! How did you find this collection? Did you see these guys live? What is your story man!!???

To my surprise he says he doesn’t listen to jazz, and that he’s a die hard rock’n’roll fan.

“I was raised on LSD and headphones!” he says. It turns out he is 60 years old, and growing up in the bay area in the late 60’s and 70’s, there were countless shows to see every week. His days of eating acid and live music started while other kids were still playing tag. When he was 15 he saw Creedence Clearwater Revival, Iron Butterfly, and Albert King all on the same bill. He explained how the first licks off Albert King’s guitar were a life changing experience, and sent him down his path of a rock’n’roll junkie.

He saw Led Zeppelin in 1969 on their second U.S. tour when he was 16 years old. Their first album was a hit, but this is long before they had become the immortal idols they are today. The following year he saw Jimi Hendrix on June 20th, 1970. Without hesitation he recalled the exact date of the show at the Swing Auditorium in San Bernadino. That venue would later be struck by an airplane, closing it’s doors permanently. His stories were fascinating- this was all during the first conversation over the phone!

Then I asked him about the collection he bought. “Oh man it’s unreal! So many Blue Note, Prestige, Savoy, there’s all the jazz you’re looking for! Basically every other genre too, music from around the world, even soundtracks.” I couldn’t contain my excitement, nor did I really need to, he knew what he had and there was no need for a poker face. Then I asked the million dollar question, “Can I come visit you and check these out???” Larry lived about 9 hours south of me, in Northern California.

“I knew you were gonna ask that. Sure, what the hell- come on down. Do you like to smoke pot, drink beer?”

“I’m a big fan of both!”

“Well ok, I guess we can hang out then.”

Yes! I was thrilled! This guy was such a trip! And this collection sounded like my wet dream come true! We chatted for about an hour, and before signing off he says, “And if you’re into posters, bring some down here to trade!” I replied that posters aren’t my thing, and that I don’t have any. “Okay” he said, and in the 3 seconds of silence that followed, I could tell that another hour long conversation was just avoided. “Goodbye Larry, thank you so much for inviting me and I’ll stay in touch about coming down!”

The hard part was done, but I had another major hurdle. I didn’t have a car, and even worse, I didn’t have a drivers license. My Kansas drivers license had been good for the last 10 years, and I let it expire. I failed the written test a few weeks earlier trying to get a Oregon license, left disgusted and hadn’t returned. Larry was selling albums by the score on Ebay, and now my little secret was a secret no longer, and his records were selling far higher than the Art Blakley did. I had to get there soon, I didn’t have time to memorize how far behind railroad tracks I needed stop, the shape of a merging lane sign, or any other bullshit question that had caused me to fail the test the first time. This was urgent and I was hell bent on leaving ASAP. It was a Friday we spoke, my goal was to leave Monday, which he said would be fine. I had one ace in the hole, and hopefully he would be on board.

My friend Zac didn’t have a job, he had a minivan which could hold a lot of records, and he is always up for an adventure. I was going to see him in a few hours anyways, at our favorite local band which played the first Friday of every month. I explained the situation to him, told him the crazy stories Larry had shared with me earlier, and expressed that I thought this would be a wild experience we will always cherish. I also told him I’d pay for all the gas, every meal and drink, and give him a couple hundred bucks when it’s all said and done. “I think this will take about a week.” With a big grin, and without hesitation, Zac said, “Let’s do it.”

I called Larry back Saturday morning, and he agreed for us both to come visit and stay with him. He explained he didn’t have much space, but thankfully Zac had slept in the minivan many times, so he would still be comfortable. “Great, we will see you Tuesday.” We had friends in Arcata to stay with Monday night, and would meet the mystery man on Tuesday.

We arrived in Arcata to a proper Humboldt greeting, a bong hit and Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. It was good to see our friends, but I couldn’t keep my mind off of tomorrows meeting. Soon the morning arrived, and I called him to meet. He lived a bit out of town, and said we would get lost if we tried to find it. We agreed to meet in the parking lot of a grocery store, and he would take us to his house. “Great, I’m with the 6’6″ Jesus, you can’t miss us.” Jesus (Zac) and I are waiting outside the van when a beat up Toyota truck drives close and the guy says, “Charles.” This was our man! He didn’t look anything like I pictured. His face was leathery and spoke of great life experience. There was certainly hardship in those lines, but as well had a compassionate side, and an aura of happiness and content. He had a long, pointy beard reminiscent of Z.Z. Top. Standing about 5’5″, he resembled a yard gnome, and after seeing several yard gnomes at his house that were given to him as gifts, it was evident I wasn’t the first one to make this observation. This was going to be interesting!

We get in the car, and follow him to where we planned to spend the next week. His home wasn’t a house, it’s a two room shack, off to the side of his ex wife’s house. Now I had pictured a man with some wealth, a nice house and a fly whip of a car. By now he had easily sold $15K worth of albums in the last 30 days I had been stalking him, including Marty Paich with Art Pepper on red wax for just under a grand. What greeted us was a Toyota truck that needed bungee to keep the door shut, and a dwelling with no stove, heat or cooling.

When we entered his shack, it was obvious he was spiritually a billionaire, but monetarily speaking there was little to brag about. Lining every inch of his walls were posters and flyers from the golden era of rock and roll psychedelia. Beautifully curated, Fillmore flyers with such wild lineups, Roland Kirk playing with Paul Butterfield, or 3 super bands that if still together today would command well over $100 a ticket, all on the same bill for $4. His curtains here Jimi Hendrix, in fact it was obvious Hendrix was his hero, with at least 30 pieces of paraphernalia from posters to bobble heads. There were psychedelic drawings with bright, vivid colors bursting with life. These were all black and white drawings done by other artists, until he colored them in while under the influence of one tiny drop of mind expanding liquid.

We were in his bedroom. The compound consisted of this, a tiny bathroom, and one more small room. All three combined couldn’t be more than 300 sq feet. Where are all the records??? He said he just bought 20,000 of them? One thing I knew for sure, no ex-wife in the world that relegated you to the two room shack is gonna let you store 20,000 records on her turf. All I could see in this room was one small shelf with 100 records max, all rock’n’roll.

Zac and I took a seat on his bed and he sat on the only chair in the room. He lights up a joint, rolled before we got there and says, “They’re about to build a bridge from Japan to my front door!” He explains how the majority of the jazz he’s selling goes overseas, and how blown away he is by the international market. His quick wit and sharp tongue were immediately noticed, he had us cracking up before he passed the joint. I knew soon after meeting him what I now know far better, that this is one of the most charismatic individuals I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.



But as much as I loved listening to him talk, I was still a bit fixated on the collection. Impatiently I asked, “So, where are all the records?” “Hold your horses there Charles, I’ll show you the records” He began joking with Zac, mocking me for the letter I wrote, understanding perfectly the mentality of an obsessed record junkie, because of course he’s one as well. “Um, Mr. Larry, if you could find it in your heart to sell me some records, I would make a good home, I promise” he says in a embarrassingly sarcastic tone, even taking out the note written, on a 12″ blank inner sleeve with a hole in the center, and dangling it in front of me like you would a piece of steak to a dog. He’s so damn funny! And he knew my next move before I made it, because he’s been playing the same game way longer than I have. In fact, he was the professor and I was still a student.

After feeling us out a bit and realizing we truly were decent kids and not out to rob or steal, he invited us into the other room. Just before opening the door, he told me he really did like my letter, and that I wasn’t the only one that asked to come dig through the collection. He told me he admired my sincerity, my choice of words, and my zeal to acquire records. My Ebay user name (Strictlyheadies) also won points, because being lifelong stoner, he recognized the marijuana reference. Though we had just met, I had a great deal of respect for this man, and I was quite flattered by his compliments.

Just outside the door of the second room is a stolen road sign that reads “Speed Limit 45”. So clever, the perfect sign for a record room! He opens the door, and the tiny room is full of records. To the right is a shelf the length of the wall, maybe 12 feet long, full of 45’s, floor till nearly the ceiling. This must be the 13,000 45’s he spoke of. Lining the floor at the base of the shelf are stacks of albums. There is a cabinet straight ahead with a record player, records all around it, below and to the side. To the left is shorter built in cabinet and table with as many records on top as can fit, and below at the base are more boxes of albums. There are far, far fewer than 20,000 but there are at least 1500 in the room. He explains this is his personal collection and a few stacks from the new one, and the 45’s are from the collection he bought. The rest of the collection is still stored at the house where they are being bought from, and it’s a slow acquisition. They were owned by a former San Francisco record shop owner who passed away, and his son was selling them. Sympathetic to Larry’s lack of space, and happy to hang onto the memories of his father, he agreed to store them as they were being sold.

I looked all around the room. At this time, this was the largest collection I had seen. I looked at one of the boxes on the ground, and could see from the top edge that there were at least 8 or 9 copies of the same album, and the bright psychedelic colors appeared to be Cream “Disraeli Gears”. Another box had equally as many of a different album. The brown and orange stripes on the top seams, made me think this was Canned Heat, self titled. I asked, “Is that Disraeli Gears, and Canned Heat?”

This piqued his curiosity. “You can tell just by the top seam?”

“Yeah, but why so many of them?” I might have had one or two duplicates in my collection at this point, but never did it occur to me to have 9 copies of the same album.

“Well, let me show you, they’re all different!” He reaches for the massive stack of Disraeli Gears. There’s a mono, a stereo, one in shrink, one sealed, one with hype stickers, U.K., Japan, Korea, one with price tags still affixed, and probably two or three other variations, all slightly different. He explained that he bought all the classics he needed, so the new challenge was to buy every variation of them he could find! This blew my young mind.

He proceeds to show me at least 8 variations of Let it Bleed, Are You Experienced, and several other quintessential rock albums. We came to Ten Years After, and I explain that I didn’t know them. He looked at me like I was still a virgin. “Really?” Rock’n’Roll has never been my thing, so other than the monsters, I wasn’t especially well versed. I had gotten lucky with Canned Heat because of my love of blues. They had worked with John Lee Hooker, and covered Howlin’ Wolf. “How About Country Joe and the Fish?” “Nope”, I replied. He seemed surprised, and little skeptical that I was a not as much a music lover as I was a record flipper. I could see he began to second guess whether I was truly a worthy heir to his collection. Not only was Larry selling this 20,000 records he just bought, but it was time to part with a lot of his impeccably curated personal collection.

Though Larry was only 60 years old, he has lived with Hepatitis C for 30 of those. He had Stage 4 fibrosis of the liver, just before cirrhosis. Doctors had given him until age 60, and here he was. It was obvious his vitality would take him beyond this diagnosis, but none the less he knew it was time to begin parting with some of his collection. None of his 4 children, all adults by now, were into records. His ex-wife didn’t know and didn’t care enough to sell them properly. He knew that if he died, these would be sold for a buck a piece at a ‘Get Rid of Larry’s Shit’-sale, and he couldn’t bear the thought. This is the only reason he began selling on Ebay, and the only reason I met him. Had any of his children loved records, he would have left the collection to them.

There was no doubt I could learn a lifetime of rock history in between these walls. He had so many albums I had never heard and doubtfully would ever seek out. The first album he played was “Electric Music for the Mind and Body“, by Country Joe and the Fish. He places it on the platter, and some groovy ass music pumped out of his speakers. He starts jumping up and down and belting “I’m stuck on the L.A. Freeway / got rainwater in my boots / my thumb done froze / can’t feel my toes / I’m feeling a little destitute. Wheels throwing water all over my axe / and Mr. Jones won’t lend me a hand / Up comes two cats in a Cadillac / and they say won’t you hop in, man?”

The chorus comes and veins are protruding from his neck and temples. With one arm resembling a wing, he screams “And I went flying! High, all the way!” Right then, I fell in love. I had never met anyone like him, and I pride myself on knowing charismatic crazy old men. I looked at Zac and could tell he too was ecstatic he made the decision to take on this adventure. I put my face in my hands and then looked up towards the sky, thanking my mother, and any higher power that led me to this man. I knew then and there that the records I came to buy would be secondary to the lifelong friendship that was just in it’s infancy.

After showing me a couple more albums, he then said, “So you’re into the blues, right Charles?” That was Larry’s second love behind rock. “Yes, I love the blues” I replied.

“There’s a stack of blues, let me know what you think.” He stood over my shoulder while I flipped, reading my body language and occasionally asking if I was familiar. This was a test, again to see if I was worthy of taking on his collection. I had failed the rock’n’roll test, or maybe gotten a C- at best. A couple records in I came across an album that had a man’s face and at the bottom said “Mr. Shortstuff.”

“Do you know who that is?” I had never seen this album before, but I have a fantastic Big Joe Williams album that’s shared with Shortstuff Macon. I was aware he only has a few recordings, and didn’t know he had an album all to himself. I replied “Shortstuff Macon.” Larry looked at me for a couple seconds, and he walked outside. With a single name, he knew I was the one. Only a true lover of roots blues could have answered that question.

I continued to look through the blues stack, and it was solid gold. Tampa Red on Bluesville, Blind Willie McTell on Belzona, Howlin Wolf, and Lil’ Son Jackson “Rockin’ and Rollin‘” a serious rarity and superb album! I stepped outside and saw him sitting on the grass. I told him how awesome a blues stack that was, and he told me that he was happy that we found each other. He said this is exactly what he had hoped, to find a young kid who was genuinely into the music, and to pass these on to someone who could truly appreciate them. Personally I was ecstatic, being a novice of rock’n’roll, and here I am being gifted decades of knowledge in a week long crash course!

The rest of that day was spent smoking many joints, and listening to album after album. Rock’n’roll had never sounded so good to me, his energy and enthusiasm was infectious. He knew every word to every song he played. He also knew their deeper meaning, because he was alive to experience it all as it was happening. So many songs were metaphors for acid trips, or heroin- since he was an addict for many years, he could explain perfectly every nuance I never would have figured out on my own. At the end of the evening, he gave me a sleeping bag and I slept in that room that we had spent all day in. I was surrounded by thousands of pieces of music, nearly all of which I hadn’t heard, and Larry’s encyclopedic brain knew every lyric and drumbeat they had to offer. I couldn’t wait to see what tomorrow would bring.

by Charles Pearlman

Wanna sell a record collection? Better write Charles! info@vinylwriters.com