[An ongoing series in which I tell you not so much about an album, but its place in my life]
For whatever reason, I distinctly remember buying the 45 single of Fame. It was Modell’s record department, and the 45s were displayed on a wall in metal pockets. I had enough money on me (about 75 cents) to buy one single. It was going to be Fame or War’s Why Can’t We Be Friends? I stood there for about 15 minutes, picking up each 45, putting it back in its pocket, being my usual indecisive self. Eventually, the cashier told me I had to buy something and stop handling the records or he was going to call security on me. I guess he thought I was going to steal something. Sure, a couple of classmates had been caught stealing singles just the week before, but that doesn’t mean I was going to steal. I was insulted enough to just walk out without buying anything, but at the last second, I grabbed the Fame 45 and paid for it with a smug “Here, I’m not stealing it, here’s my money, all in nickels and pennies which I pilfered out of the couch cushions” look. The cashier sneered at me and said “I bet you don’t even know anything else by David Bowie. I hate kids who just buy singles.” I’m sure I turned red, partly with rage and partly with embarrassment.
Of course I knew who David Bowie was Everyone did. Everyone knew Rebel Rebel and Ziggy Stardust and Space Oddity. Well, crap. Maybe I only did know the singles. Maybe the cashier, probably a big Bowie fan, was justified in his hatred toward me. At 13, I was already priding myself on being a music snob, always a step ahead of other kids my age, thanks to older cousins who taught me the finer points of rock and roll. But this guy put me in my place. I made a vow right then to stop buying 45s. I would just buy albums. 45s were for kids!
I went home, listened to Fame about a zillion times and, when I got my allowance that Friday, I marched back into Modell’s record store, made sure the same cashier was at the register, pulled a copy of Young Americans off the wall, and proudly waited for the cashier to say something to me. Something like “Oh, you are not like the other kids! You are buying the whole album! I have completely changed my mind about you, you are obviously a rock and roll intellectual. Why don’t you come over later and we’ll have some beer and listen to my records?” But he didn’t even recognize me. He just rang up my purchase, stuffed it in a bag and turned his back on me.
As it turned out, I only listened to the first and last song on Young Americans. I didn’t much care for the rest of the album. I agonized for a while about this, wondering if the cashier was right and I was just a stupid kid who only liked hit songs. I talked about this with one of my cousins and he gave me a lecture on elitist record store clerks and how little their opinions mattered. I went back to the store the following week and bought that War single, not caring what that smug cashier thought of me.
Eight years later, I got a job in a record store and took special care to make sure I kept my music elitism to myself.
Mostly to myself, anyhow.
