He Called Me Michael - Remembering Jerry Weber

Sweatshirt from Jerry's Records, circa early 2000s. Note the records in the pile -
all but Herb Alpert would probably sell quickly these days. 

Shootout at the Fantasy Factory by Traffic.

If memory serves, that album was my first purchase at Garbage Records, a used record store that sat one flight up from Forbes Avenue in Oakland and was run by a mailman named Jerry Weber. I bought it somewhere between late 1981 and early 1982. My friend Gene had loaned me a copy of it  during 8th grade and, though it wasn't a great album, I couldn't pass up the price, $2.83 - or $3, when tax was figured in. 

Like many people in Pittsburgh, the memories of Jerry have come flooding back because he passed away on Friday, January 28. He was 73. 

The memories have a similar pattern. You shopped at Jerry's (a few years after opening the store he changed the name from "Garbage Records" to the more palatable "Jerry's Records."). Jerry got to know you. Eventually, he would start finding albums that he thought you'd like and would put them aside for you. If you ask him for something unusual, it's possible that he'd find it, even if it took a year. Short of cash? He'd give you a good deal for records you needed to unload in order to make rent. You're putting out a record? Congratulations. He'd buy it from you and sell it for that price, profit be damned. Not buying anything today? Jerry might still have a good story for you about a customer or an album that came in which he'd never seen before.  The man loved his work. And he loved people. Even the ones that drove him crazy.

Customers at Jerry's Records - which moved from Oakland to Squirrel Hill around 1994 - weren't always limited in musical interests or backgrounds. A female friend said that she never felt like the guys at Jerry's talked down to her, thinking that a girl didn't know about music. If you bought music, you knew your stuff. Businessman from Japan would visit a few times a year and buy up an armful of albums. I'm pretty sure Jerry told me a lot of them bought easy listening albums back in the '90s, which he was more than happy to unload. (On that subject, he once joked that he could build a house out of all the copies of Herb Alpert's Whipped Cream and Other Delights which lined his overstock shelves.) 

Young DJs worked for him, bringing in their musical knowledge and swapping it with the older crew that worked there and with customers. Next thing you knew, everybody was fluent in a whole range of musical styles. 

It's hard to think about it now without sounding maudlin or too wistful, but Jerry represents a kind of shop keeper that doesn't quite exist anymore. Of course the store itself still exists in Squirrel Hill, under the management of Chris Grauzer. The warehouse-sized shop still has a magical quality to it as you walk through. Pittsburgh also has several other independent shops in town that can satiate the desires of music fans, like the Attic, Eide's (still going strong after the passing of its namesake) and Government Center.

But there was something about Jerry himself that was unique. My mother, who had never been in the Oakland store, ventured up the rickety steps one weekend, looking for a copy of Ray Anthony's version of "The Bunny Hop" to play for her elementary school class. One of the guys who worked there found it for her. I always wished I had time to stop in on Christmas Eve to imbibe in a shot of liquor along with the crew. (Their staff holiday parties were the stuff of legends.) If the tributes I've seen online are true, you didn't always have until Christmas Eve for a nip either.

The empty album covers that lined the wall at the Oakland store always left me in awe. Especially the cover of the Monkees' Head which, unlike the dime-as-dozen status of the first couple Monkees albums, was next to impossible to find. Every time I went in the store I'd look at it with musical lust. Every so often, my timing was right and I'd come across something that qualifies as a treasure. In the Oakland store, I found original pressings of John Coltrane's Ballads and Ornette Coleman's Free Jazz on the same day. The latter turned out to be a mono copy, which didn't divide the octet between two channels, like the stereo version. Neither Jerry nor I even noticed that during our exchange. He just made me feel lucky that I got it.

When I had to write a feature-length piece (called a Take Out) for my newswriting class in early 1993, I decided to profile Jerry. (The article is posted below.) Reading it again, it proves to be quite a time capsule. CDs were taking over for records. Keeping track of them was "too much like work," Jerry groused. In sticking to his vinyl guns, Jerry seemed like a bit of eccentric at that time. Within a year, he would move all the records from Oakland to Squirrel Hill, up yet another flight of stairs, which made me realize yesterday why he probably needed double-knee replacements when he retired in 2017. The Oakland shop became CD only, eventually turning into Dave's Music Mine. Squirrel Hill was all records (though the occasional CD did pop up over the years.)

But as time went on, what was antiquated and novel became a valuable resource. For some of us, it always was, but for others who didn't grow up with records, or got rid of them and started to regret it, Jerry's was the place to rediscover them. All those classic rock albums that he stocked in his short-lived dollar store were now in demand. It was typical for whoever worked the counter to knock a buck or two off the final price too.

It wasn't just the locals or the Japanese businessmen stopping by either. Jerry once introduced me one of the founders of Rhino Records, who grew up not too far from the store. The story of Robert Plant stopping by has been repeated lately but little mention has been made of what albums sat on top of the stack that he bought - lounge singer Jack Jones (best known as the vocalist of The Love Boat theme and the horribly offensive Bacharach/David tune "Wives and Lovers.") Jerry told me with amusement that Plant confessed, "My mum always wanted me to sing like Jack Jones." If Bob ever does an American Songbook album, we know who to thank.

I last saw Jerry in June of 2021. It was Saturday and I had the day off so it was time to visit Vinyl Man's Clubhouse. That was the name the now-retired fellow gave his Swissvale warehouse, where he sold the massive stock that hadn't gone to the store. Everything had old-school prices ($5-$7). You had to walk around the back of the building, following the arrows, entering through a dank basement with piles of records in various states. Some 78s, many with no covers. Albums you had seen before that weren't yet "extremely clean," as many clear sleeves would state after they were polished up. These were all records that somebody thought could be a hit, or deserves to be unleashed on the listening public. If there was a real record graveyard (to borrow the name of the first store that Jerry had), this might be it. 

But down the hall, through another door, there were racks of albums to explore in some slightly cramped aisles. A few tables sat at an awkward angle, since they were on the ramp that lead to the garage door just a few feet away. To the left of the entrance, Jerry always sat, near the turntable, always pricing another stack of records. There were always more. Some people might go crazy with a never-ending task like that, but Jerry seemed to love it. He was only open once a week, so could work at his own pace.

On one visit, he threw an original Savoy pressing of  Introducing Lee Morgan on the turntable. He probably knew he'd get a rise out of me because I love Lee Morgan. Maybe he was hoping I'd beg him to sell it to me, so he could play coy. You see, while he could make recommendations, Jerry could also keep you in suspense. This happened at the Squirrel Hill store once when I spied a copy of Thelonious Monk's Complete Black Lion and Vogue sessions on Mosaic Records. It's a limited edition that was long out of print and coveted by jazz collectors, as nearly all Mosaic sets are. One copy had gone for $400 in an eBay auction. (Someone made out and someone got suckered in that case.) After telling me that this set wasn't going to be cheap, he sold it to me for $50. Actually I think I traded him back a Sidney Bechet Mosaic set and paid the difference in cash.

That day I wasn't feeling like buying an album I already had either on disc or in a reissue. (I couldn't remember which.) The typical inventory didn't yield much on the level of the Lee Morgan record. It was more like common stuff priced at levels that make you want to buy them. 

On that June visit, I knew there were plenty of things to listen to at home, albums with which I'd like to spend time and review on this blog. But I couldn't walk out empty handed. No, I didn't need a Jimmy Durante album, but why not. I love the Schnoz. Rusty Warren had just died, so why not grab a copy of Rusty Rides Again. It's probably funny in a bawdy, outdated kind of way (my favorite kind of humor). Plus that cover shot of her on a motorcycle in a sparkly jumper was worth the price. 

And there was one album among that batch which I never bought during my pre-punk days that I decided it was time to own - Traffic's Welcome to the Canteen. So the very first album and the very last album I bought from Jerry were by the same band - Traffic. 

Thanks for everything, Jerry. I have a story for almost every album I've bought, just like you.