Frank Gutch Jr: Thompson’s and Chrystalship: The Changing of the Guard; A Video Guide to Boulder’s Zephyr; and A Short String of Notes

The first record store I ever frequented was in Eugene, Oregon— Thompson’s.  I wanted to put “Record Mart” behind it but I am not sure how they labeled themselves.  A building on the north end of the city, not too far from Skinner’s Butte, it was small, square and as I remember it, white, with large storefront windows behind which racks of records were displayed, mostly 45s, a small wall of listening booths, and stereo equipment— lots of it.  I have no idea how I found out about it, being a small town boy who hardly ever visited the big city (and to me Eugene was big and a city), but I found myself one day, after much begging and emotional pyrotechnics, entering this Taj Mahal of vinyl.  I remember it like it was yesterday.

Frank Gutch Jr: My Morbid Yet Sanguine World

Someone once told me I was eccentric.  I laughed out loud because I am the least eccentric of any people I know.  I am, in fact, so normal and middle-of-the-road that I occasionally label myself boring.  I am.  Boring, that is.  I am a puddle of mediocrity in a pool of ordinary.  The jack of all trades and master of none.  Neither the dimmest bulb nor the brightest.  Plain yogurt.  A one dollar bill.  I am as exciting as baseball in the off-season and Christmas in July.  I have been the second choice of too many girls to recount (Gosh, Frank, if it wasn’t for— insert name here— it would be you) and the tenth choice on a team of nine.  I write because I have no other talent.  I am the sponge which lives vicariously.  Even the kids who love me abandon me when they are old enough to realize…

Frank Gutch Jr: RIP – Pocahontas Illinois Cloud (Plus a Retrospective of Maggi, Pierce & EJ and Hymn For Her), and That Elusive Research Turtles Release Becomes Imminent….

Yesterday was rough.  What should have been a fantastic day, one heralding the release of the long-awaited Research Turtles‘ Mankiller Pt. 2 EP, turned incredibly somber when I stumbled upon a post by Hymn For Her‘s Lucy Tight that Pokey had tripped off this mortal coil, and if that sounds a bit flippant, I assure you that it’s not.  Pokey was a dog, mind you, but not just any dog.  A very human dog.  Though I had only met him twice and only for short periods, we were friends.