By Tom Jardine
IF WALLS could talk, Jasmine Wright muttered, these ones would have all the stories. She was in a sketchy antique record shop called I Love Vinyl on a back street in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco.
It was late afternoon on a Saturday in mid-December, and it had been raining steadily for the past three days. She had just entered the small building, dashing from the cab that dropped her off a block from her destination due to a shortage of parking spaces.
I Love Vinyl had six twelve-foot aisles of used albums from every possible genre that took up most of I Love Vinyl’s available space. They were categorized in groups ranging from Broadway Hits to Retro Rock. When her eyes had first spotted the Santana Abraxas album at the front of the 70s Rock grouping, she was hooked. She had eagerly begun to flip through the surprisingly well-kept albums.
Jasmine had only come here out of sheer boredom because for the past two days, it had been raining in torrents, with high winds loudly driving against the bay windows of her small three-room apartment. A dour mood had been created in a city that was not accustomed to receiving such wet weather.
Ever since the deluge started last Thursday, she watched the weather guy on her new 56-inch LG plasma in her tiny abode. Every day he seemed to display a “sorry for your troubles” look that had not changed one iota in the past three days. It was as if he felt responsible for the stretch of weather that he said was probably going to be around for the next ten days. Ten days, minimum.
He called it an atmospheric river that had formed in the Pacific during mid-week. It was throwing all previous averages into the ocean, promising record-breaking floods and mudslides in higher elevations. For the third time that afternoon, she looked out her beautiful floor-to-ceiling oriel windows and tried again to see the iconic Golden Gate Bridge, but she could not.
Ah, the hell with this! It was 3:25 on a Saturday afternoon and she was developing cabin fever. On an impulse, she decided to take a cab and check out one or two of the ubiquitous antique record shops that flourished in the city.
Jazz had obtained the apartment in the Nob Hill area of San Francisco, only after her father had reluctantly agreed to help her out by giving her a healthy increase in her salary as Marketing Manager of Wright's Sea Foods Inc. The business was a wholly-owned subsidiary retail arm of her father’s larger company, Wright Foods Ltd. with its headquarters in Ca nada.
As the son of a successful lobster fisherman in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, Jonathan Wright managed to grow a fledgling business into the largest import/export seafood company on the East Coast. Two years ago, he took his daughter with him on a business trip to California. He returned to Halifax, and here she stayed.
A ‘graduation gift’ was what her father called it. Jazz had completed her Masters in Business from Dalhousie University in Halifax with honors. Three summers as a student intern at the company’s head office in Halifax provided her with an excellent overview of all facets of the business. Wright Foods Ltd. now had a new office only a block from Fisherman's Wharf, and it was making headway into the West Coast markets as customers immediately fell in love with their fresh fish, such as Atlantic salmon and neatly packed live lobster from Nova Scotia. And Jazz too had fallen in love with San Francisco. She was immediately enamored with everything; the laid-back lifestyle, the people, the architecture, but mainly, the weather. At least until this morning’s deluge.
Back in the shop, Jazz looked around for Rick, the young shop manager she met earlier today on her first trip to I Love Vinyl. Rick Jordan, the cutie. She spotted him sorting old LPs in one of the aisles. He was a lean, twenty-something guy dressed in raggedy jeans and a Metallica tee shirt that had seen better days. He had that California beach look, similar to half of the white-male population under twenty-five in the city. Blue, half-lidded eyes, dirty blond hair, and a well-tanned face.
She checked her jacket pocket to ensure she still had the item, then approached him while he continued to file several albums in their appropriate slots.
“Hey Rick, it’s Jazz!” she exclaimed, extending her hand to the young manager. “I was in here earlier, remember? I picked up this item,” she said, pulling a cassette recording she had purchased only a few hours ago from her jacket. It was a track by The Mamas & The Papas, the iconic rock foursome that were so popular in the 1960s. The cassette, 16 of Their Greatest Hits, included Jazz’s favorites by that group: California Dreamin’ and Monday, Monday.
The young manager smiled, shook her hand, and examined the track she was holding. “Hey Jazz, nice to see you again. Still rainin’ I see. Got your ark built yet?”
She sensed Rick was about to hit on her, just by how he gave her that crooked Owen Wilson smile as he studied her. Jazz knew she was attractive, a trait her dad taught her how to fully utilize. “Always look people in the eye, Jasmine. And smile!” he’d say. Her beautiful green eyes and sparkling white teeth would make anyone melt. But at this moment, she had other things on her mind.
“Yeah, no kidding. So, Rick, I wonder if you can help me with something? It’s about this tape.” Jazz felt Rick’s attitude shift, like he knew that he’d probably have to explain the store’s return policy to her: “All Sales Final / Products Sold As Is.
“Ah, yeah, okay. What’s the problem?” he said in a more subdued tone.
“I’m just wondering. I don’t suppose you recall how this came into your shop, do you? I like it, and, you know, I was thinking there might be the odd chance that the owner has more similar tapes?” With Jazz’s question out in the open, Rick relaxed. It was as if he were thinking this might work out, and maybe they could get to know each other a bit better, after all.
While she studied him, he looked closer at the tape and sure enough, it was in the bottom right-hand corner on the back of the plastic cartridge: he had written the numbers 11/22/22 …the inventory date.
“Cool! The dates are still on it. See right here, we got it on November 22nd. Let’s see what else we got that day.”
Rick gave her a big smile, and gestured toward a rear door. Jazz figured he had been waiting to say that to her all day. She followed him to a back room and he opened a cabinet drawer and pulled out a file while Jazz sat in a metal folding chair in front of a dilapidated desk.
“Voila!” Rick said, only he pronounced it Voyla. Jazz had to struggle to keep from grimacing and rolling her eyes.
“Got it only a month ago,” he said, showing her the date he had inscribed on the cartridge. Looking down at his paperwork, his face assumed a gratified expression, then suddenly changed to one of those Aha! Moments.
“Hey, I remember this dude. He said he had about six or eight other tapes and he’d be back.”
“And…?” Jazz prompted.
“Well, that’s the thing. He never came back.”
“Don’t you have a name, an address, or anything that might help me reach out to him?”
“He signed our receipt form for the cash I gave him. Have a look.” Rick turned the book around to her side of the desk and Jazz read the seller’s signature. But just as Rick said, there was no address, email, or telephone number, only a hastily scrawled name which read “Denny Doherty”.
“That can’t be right. His name isn’t Denny Doherty. You gotta be kidding me!”
“If that’s what it says, that’s the dude’s name. What’s the big deal?”
“Denny Doherty passed away in 2007. You know, almost sixteen years ago.”
Rick simply returned her gaze with that half-lidded vacant stare and said nothing. But Jazz was set on finding this guy and the more the mystery eluded her, the more she wanted answers. She realized there was just one more place to look. Security footage. But when Jazz asked Rick if they had a security camera for the building entrance, Rick waved her off and left the office. It was obvious to Jazz she would not get anything else from him.
When she returned to her flat from Haight-Ashbury, she was exhausted. It was now early evening and still raining, and despite the weather, the area was trying to look seasonally festive. Many of the buildings, including her condo, had been decked out in miniature white LED lighting. Artificial fir trees had been strategically placed along sidewalks, and although it was nice, it was a far cry from her hometown.
With nostalgia creeping into her head, she went to her fridge and pulled out a bottle of a local Cabernet Sauvignon and yesterday’s leftover quiche that she now placed in her microwave. While waiting for her supper to warm, she replayed the tape she had purchased at I Love Vinyl.
One more time.
This is crazy! Jazz thought as she placed the cartridge in the slot of her 8-track player. Jazz was an audiophile who had developed a specific fondness for the sound of the 60’s when it was in vogue to use magnetic tape. She was trying to build up a respectable collection of tapes, a benefit that San Francisco afforded her over her hometown. Perhaps she would ultimately convert the analog recordings to digital format. But for now, all she wanted to do was get lost in the sound and she lay back on her sofa to enjoy the vocal intro, .
Bah da, bah da dah dah
Bah da, bah da dah dah,
Ba____
The opening refrain of Monday, Monday was rudely cut short and replaced by white noise. Jazz sat up annoyed, and listened as there was the sound of the reel turning, then a quiet cough in the background, before a male voice came on to give the band a count-in. “Ready lads? One, two, three…” Had she stumbled upon some local band’s demo? Jazz wondered, as the sound of an acoustic guitar picked up the cadence to play four very distinct, iconic notes:
Da da da, dah… the four notes were followed immediately by another acoustic rhythm guitar delivered in the minor C#, which, together with congos gave the tune a moderately brisk Latin four/four beat. She realized at that point that claves and bass had probably been dubbed into the final version before publication to a market that could not get enough of their sound in the day.
What immediately stood out to Jazz was the knowledge that she was listening to something very rare. The vocals began . . .
I give her all my love
That’ s all I do
And if you saw my love
You’d love her too.
It had to be them! she screamed to herself. Paul singing “And if you sahr my love”...that British inflection. It had to be him. Using the stub of an HB pencil, she rewound the cassette to the start with his vocal count-in and once again she was enthralled .
By ten o’clock she had played the recording at least a dozen times, mesmerized by her great fortune in coming across what was a rough, draft version of one of The Beatles’ hits, sung by Paul McCartney, written primarily by him but credited to the Lennon-McCartney duo. It was released in July 1964 and rose to No.12 on Billboard’s Hot 100 list.
But how and why did this end up in an old shop in Haight-Ashbury? Could she prove it was a valid tape? In fact, should she even try to validate it? God knows how many people would want to get involved once she allowed the word to get out.
Jazz realized she’d need to be very careful how she approached the situation. She lay in bed, listening to the rain beating against her window, she began to formulate an idea.
The next morning, she arose to another dreary day. She realized it was Sunday and wondered if I Love Vinyl would be open. She Googled the name and was surprised to find that it was. Their hours of business were ten to five, Tuesdays through Sundays. She guessed Rick was probably on the water on Mondays. He seemed like a surfer. She immediately recognized his laid-back drawl when he answered. “Uh, yo, this is Rick at the Vinyl. S’up?”
For a second, she almost commented on his casual management style, but quickly, she let it go as there were more important things to talk about.
“Rick, sorry to bother you again. It’s Jazz, you know, from yesterday.”
“Uh, yeah. The Denny Doherty fan. What’s happening Jazz?”
“I’m curious, Rick. The building where you’re working. Do you know about its history?”
“Oh, I get it. You wanna find out if Doherty used to hang around here back in his day, don’tcha?”
“Ya got me,” Jazz replied, feigning relief at Rick’s imaginative, but erroneous answer. “See, I’m from Nova Scotia, the same place where Denny was born and it’s pretty cool to find things out about the man, ya know?”
Rick replied “Sure Jazz, I get it.” Was there sarcasm in his reply? She decided to continue with her own agenda, and she set her doubts aside.
Jazz, getting into it now, on a roll with the lie. “I’m putting together an article on this, Rick. I don’t suppose I could run into the shop today, maybe take a few shots of the building, inside and out?”
“Don’t see a problem there. Say around three? Give me some time to make a call or two, see if I can dig up some data for you?”
As Jazz was on her way to the shop, an announcement over the cab’s radio warned the public that another five inches of rain had fallen on an already-soaked surface of the Bay Area cityscapes. Flash flooding was imminent, residents were advised to stay off certain highways. The announcer indicated that the system threatened to bring an additional ten inches of rain to the area.
As she arrived at the shop, Jazz was forced to run from her cab into I Love Vinyl.
Again, she was the only customer in the shop, maybe the only person, since Rick was not at the front counter and he was nowhere to be seen. Then she heard a familiar voice coming from the rear of the shop. “Hey Jazz, come on down!”
She saw him in front of an open door, and behind him, she could make out a staircase that led to the second floor. Jazz approached Rick and she gave him her winning smile, like her Dad taught her to do. Rick returned his own smile, but it failed to reach his eyes. This caused Jazz to sense something was amiss, maybe bothering him.
“Nice to see you again,” he said. “Come on. I think you’ll want to check this out.”
Jazz was curious, and she followed the young manager up the stairs. At the same time, she became mindful of the change in Rick’s voice. Gone was the laidback California accent…he was now a more serious guy. Rick started chatting as they climbed the worn stairs. “I was talking with my boss after you called. Randall Jones. He lives in L.A. He comes up once or twice a month to go over things. He has another gig in the City…a music equipment rental business up in Pacific Heights.” Now Jazz took note of the rambling manner in Rick’s dialogue.
At the top of the stairs there was another door which opened to a hallway. Jazz realized she was doing something that was against everything her father had earlier warned her about: beware of strange men, seedy places, never travel alone. She began to fear for her safety, but again, her curiosity trumped her fear, so she continued to follow Rick along the dark hallway.
Several old wall lamps had burned out long ago, and a single ceiling light provided glimpses of a stained floor, writing over much of the walls. She did not want to look closely at the cause of the stains nor the content of the wall graffiti. Rick was continuing with his chaotic rambling. “Randall is a cool guy. A left-over hippie, treats me good, you know, and I do okay. I mean, who couldn’t use more money and a spot by the ocean? Anyway, I mentioned your interest in this building to him. He told me he bought it from a friend-of-a-friend kind of thing in the early nineties. Said it used to be an actual recording studio back in the day, can you believe it?”
“Wow! That’s cool, Rick.” They had reached the end of the hallway to yet another door, and they were now in what Jazz assumed to be the back end of the second story of the building. Rick opened the door. “Have a look….” he said, beckoning her inside.
She entered and was amazed at what she saw. “Wow!” Jazz exclaimed. She quickly took off her nap-sack and retrieved her Leica 35 mm camera. “Mind if I take a few shots?”
“Fill your boots. I doubt though, if you’ll find anything around here now related to your homie, Doherty.” She was looking at a large dust-filled room, probably twelve hundred feet square. Jazz estimated the room constituted most of the entire second floor of the building. At the rear of the area, was a separate glass-fronted room which she surmised had been used to accommodate bands. Larger groups like orchestras and choirs would have probably been recorded in the main room where they stood. She immediately began shooting the whole area, excited, like a kid at Christmas. There was a door at the back.
“Where does this lead?” she asked.
“Uh, I think that’s just another bathroom,” he said, opening the door. It was indeed a washroom. A huge old-style washroom. The walls were all tiled, and the floor was ceramic.
“Whattya think?” Rick shouted, his voice resonating in the confined room, as he began running through the scale.
“Do, re, mi . . .” His voice had a slight vibrato quality to it, not unpleasant.
“Nice!”, she replied. “Sing me a song!” she added, the Leica working quickly in her out-held hands, pointing the lens at him. “Let me hear something by The Beatles. Try And I Love Her. She was laughing, urging him on, and Rick picked up on the enjoyment of the moment, acting out.
They were working like a team…she the professional photographer, he the male model both getting into it. He seems nice, Jazz thought. Maybe his work ethic could use improvement, but, hey, everybody couldn’t be a nerd like her! And maybe all that other weirdness she had been thinking about him was bogus.
She acted on impulse and made her decision. “Can I let you in on something Rick?”
“What’s up?”
“It’s all on this,” and with that, she showed him the Mamas & Papas tape.
“You must have a cassette player somewhere here?”
Once she had finished playing the whole tape for him downstairs, she couldn’t contain her excitement any longer. “This is the real deal, Rick.”
Rick removed the tape from the cassette deck, handling it gently, but he didn’t say a word. Had she rendered Rick, the nice-guy surfer, silent with her discovery?
“They made that rough draft right here, Rick. Can’t you just imagine it? McCartney ran through these lyrics with Lennon. Lennon suggested they try it in the washroom. ‘The acoustics are fantastic there, Paul!’ Paul said, ‘Well boys, let’s just use this,’ and here Jazz mimed McCartney pulling the mobile cassette recorder from his jacket, and continued her impression of the famous Beatle. ‘No need for amps and mics. Right, somebody got a spare tape?’ ‘Sure lads,’ George says, ‘use this one’ and she holds up her copy of the Mamas and Papas tape. ‘Ringo,’ Paul says, ‘grab a couple claves and we’ll dub in some bass lines later.’
“Boom! Done! After playing it for their producer, the boys laid down another hit, and somebody forgets the cassette here. It gets filed away somewhere after the master recording is finished, then eventually into your tape aisle down here, to me, to us, right now!” Jazz finishes.
“I guess that could be true…but how does the ‘Denny Doherty’ guy who signed our receipt come into play? And why would he return something that could easily return a cool million at auction?”
“Maybe the guy just never realized what he had . . . just thought he was returning a cassette that someone had stupidly taped over, ruining a great Mama Cass Eliot tune, you know.”
“I guess, Jazz,” Rick said. But his entire tone had now changed, prompting Jazz to look up at him. Rick continued.
“When I talked with Randall, the owner, I also told him about the track you bought. I figured there was something important about it from all the questions you asked me regarding Denny. So, Randall checked with his friend in London, and somebody heard from someone else that a certain cassette tape has been missing over the years.”
“What are you saying, Rick?”
Jazz did not want to hear any more of what Rick was saying. She suddenly felt very alone and afraid. Thoughts of her home in Nova Scotia passed fleetingly through her mind.
“So yeah, it’s the real deal, Jazz,” Rick said pulling out a pocket knife and moving closer to her. “Unfortunately, he somehow figured out how some poor schmuck came across it and very stupidly returned it to us. I am sorry about this, Jazz.”
*
Jazz was reminiscing on the past week’s events, was lying out on her balcony on a blissfully sunny day in her bikini on her newly purchased chaise lounge. She had arranged a small table near her which held a chilled glass of Pinot Gris and her new MP-3 Player.
She was thankful she had taken her dad’s advice last year. “Take a Self Defense class or a Jiu Jitsu class. Something, kid! This isn’t Nova Scotia.” She had enrolled in a Karate club a block away from her condo and she had achieved her 5th Dan level. Rick had not been much of a match for her. Nevertheless, she finally realized she had gotten in way over her head with that whole million-dollar find, so she left the whole sordid business to an unconscious Rick, lying on the floor of I Love Vinyl, the valuable tape-recording laying on his chest.
She had met a lovely young woman at Best Buy who helped her pick out an MP3 and had even set her up with a tech visit to properly connect all her new gear so she could hear it from anywhere in her condo. After test-driving the system all week, Jazz decided digital was here to stay… she liked what she was hearing.
Tom Jardine is a retired professional from the financial services industry, a part-time musician, and an author of several novels the latest of which were published in August 2024 by Rogue Phoenix Press. He lives in the beautiful Annapolis Valley of Nova Scotia where he is working on his third novel.
