That the mighty continue to fall with clock-like regularity is just another hint that things haven't really changed that much in the last two thousand years or so*. Plummeting to their graves, the sound of their dying sighs are echoed and eclipsed by the celebratory cheers of those they exploited or the woeful wails of the ones they had served.
Let us wail now, and loudly (at least we few iPodless, Internetless, PC-less renegades of an age killed too quickly) while we witness the tortured final agonies of Tower Records - the demise of this charismatic, regal alien who stood among the most magical, bountiful friends we've ever known.
Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
And that's just for starters.
Wasn't it around 1972 that San Diego's one-stop, shop-til-you-pop audio-visual Taj Mahal brought her delightful bouquet to Sports Aroma Boulevard? Suddenly, all of our eight-track, cassette, and vinyl needs were right there, in one place. Tower immediately became the Elder of the Tribe and, over decades, would bravely branch out throughout the county, her boughs yielding books, magazine, videotapes, CDs, laserdisks, DVDs, and toys.
Regular sales events would generally undercut just about every place else, at least in the early years. But always - if you wanted something in print that, amazingly, wasn't in stock, Tower would find it for you quickly and with a genuine smile.
As noble competitors like Licorice Pizza or Classic Encounters emerged and retreated, there weren't any victory celebrations; Tower Records was unlikely to have even noticed them, instead spending all her attention serving her patrons and continuously striving to become an even better Tower.
When you learned that an album or movie you'd been awaiting for years was finally going to be released on Tuesday, Tower would stay open so you could go home with it at 12:01am. (If only Tower herself could have gone home with you, too!)
If I occasionally happened upon an obscure Georges Delerue album or Peter Cushing movie somewhere else, Tower didn't mind at all, knowing she would quickly find something for me even more obscure and precious. And she did, again and again. Knowing someone who worked at Tower Records could offer benefits to make one feel blessed . . . and I was, many times.
Oh, let us not forget the brief existence of her outlet wings (eventually becoming stores) in the College/Grossmont areas, where the deals were so exquisite that they now seem impossible. Visiting other Tower branches in New York or D.C. or San Francisco or L.A. was, despite the variant building layouts, as warm and familiar as burrowing in the trunk within your regular store's garden. Inside all the Towers was an atmosphere of inviting, playful seriousness: you could almost hear a voice, whispering from the walls or from the ceiling that said, "Thanks for coming, for being here. I've missed you. Take your time; I promise you'll find something to make you, or someone you love, very happy."
But recently, the surprises stopped (along with any new stock) and the whispers choked into silence. The End of the World as We Know It say the signs, and a more apt or profound sentiment I shouldn't attempt, knowing that I'd end up choking, myself.
It's an added shame that Tower's racks won't ever feel the golden, glistening weight of Darryl Monroe's remarkable new CD, Conflictions And/Or (darrylmonroe@sbcglobal.net). Self-produced in his own living room on Adams Avenue, this one-man show is many things, including something of a masterpiece.
There's punk, poetry, philosophy, self-pity, anger, humor, and enough flashes of tenderness to render the whole immense work an indescribable, quivering dream. Still, I've gotta try:
There's a lot here that recalls Zappa's early Mothers of Invention; while perhaps lacking the technical polish, there's poetry here that the Mothers couldn't touch; sonic tripping with fine musicianship, along with some sort of dignity that surprises and humbles. Buddy Blue would have adored it (I'm pretty sure he does), but it may be too complex or insane or insanely logical for the modern masses. Believe this: they would do well to open their lives a bit (while wearing headphones) and click it on for several rewarding listenings as they rut contentedly in their pens.
That'll be my only randy allusion this time, folks, believe it or not. Unless you'd like to consider just one other single word, in reference to the mighty giant whose death rattle should haunt us forever. . . .
Cavernous.
As in vast and empty. A dead chasm that once served as an oasis for the delirious last-second Christmas shopper. A Towering void that has reluctantly taken in, and taken away, much of what we've been.
The Hose's latest column, "Falling Behind," can be read again in its entirety by going back and starting with the first paragraph.