December 5, 2025

A new record store has opened recently in our county, bringing the whopping total of record stores in Cass County, Michigan (unless I am mistaken) to one! It sells a lot of "new" (repackaged and remastered) vinyl and used CDs. The cost of the vinyl shocks me (cheaper ones are in the $30 range), but I have to admit I haven't figured out the math to account for inflation of records I purchased for less than $10.

I mention this store because a compulsion passed onto my son is music acquisition, an inevitability, I suppose, given that I own over 400 albums (with nothing anymore to play them on) and about 1000 CDs (with a system to still play them on), even though I mostly listen to music now through my phone (loaded via iTunes from my computer). My son owns a basic turntable and CD player, so he knows this entire collection of 1400 music media is available to him and ultimately his when I die.

Given that, explain to me why last Christmas, I bought him a "new" vinyl of The Clash's London Calling, something I own in both vinyl and CD. Even more perplexing, explain why he walked through the door a few weeks ago clutching a CD (used!) of The Cars debut album, resulting in the fifth copy of that masterpiece now in the house:

• my original album, purchased in 1978 (which is permanently up in his room, beat up as the record sleeve may be);
• my first CD purchase of the album, probably as part of a surge to restock essentials of my record collection via BMG or Columbia House in the early 1990s;
• a burnt copy of the CD given to me by one of my oldest friends, which included burnt copies of all The Cars releases at that point (piracy? Hey, he isn't The Dangerous Type for nothing);
• and my CD re-release of the album, which includes the main record remastered and then a second CD with the songs in their original demo versions (including a pretty nifty "All Mixed Up" with guitar solo instead of saxophone solo).

Again, all of these are available for him 24/7 and will be part of the nightmare that is his inheritance. What compelled him to get another copy that he sees exclusively as his own?

I can't feign surprise that Lincoln's gravitated so much to my music. It was the soundtrack to his childhood and over the next few blogs, I will dedicate space to individual artists that he (and I) cling to passionately, maybe even unreasonably. And, no, none of them will be The Cars, believe it or not. My wife and I didn't listen to The Cars that much as the 21st Century descended upon us. Somehow, through all the Blue Aeroplanes, Aimee Mann, and Cowboy Junkies that played in our cars and our house, one man, whether solo or with his old band, most penetrated Lincoln's psyche: the one, the only (in many ways, thank goodness), Morrissey.  Little did I know how much a pre-teen's personality could be cemented by a reclusive, irascible, imperious voice.

We owned "Who Put The 'M' in Manchester," the 2005 Morrissey concert DVD, released on the heels of his successful "rediscovery" through You Are The Quarry. And our wee 7-year old watched that with more intensity than I did, famously arranging his own little concert stage in our t.v. room, replete with makeshift drum set. I am sure I have written about this before, but the highlight of us watching him watching Morrissey was Lincoln ripping off his shirt like Morrissey does at the end of "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out," racing down the narrow hallway out of our sight, much like Morrissey does behind his band playing the instrumental outro.

His love of Morrissey (and The Smiths) only grew as he got older, almost certainly surpassing my love for the cranky, often unreasonable, not-pop star. As we have discussed him over the years (and Lincoln will bring him up in conversations often), we both admire the man's integrity to what he believes, even if that integrity only isolates him more and more from a world that won't listen to him. We admire his vegan stance to food, but still eat our meat. We wait with great hesitation for tour cancellations every time we purchase tickets to see him (we might have had three concerts cancelled before we were finally able to see him a few years before the pandemic). We have no doubt that Johnny Marr, let alone Mike Joyce and Andy Rourke, suffered greatly by trying to be in a band with Morrissey. We can see why Robert Smith almost certainly can't stand him.

Morrissey is a difficult star to admire. But, we both do, almost stubbornly at this point. Thanks to Lincoln, I probably now own everything he's released (for years I couldn't generate interest in buying Bona Drag or Kill Uncle). We wonder if and when his more recent recordings will ever be released. We read of Morrissey berating the record companies or the music industry for these non-releases, never doubting that we are not hearing half of the story. That doesn't change that it feels like we are sometimes anchoring to a dead weight.  We are true to a man who, with little sarcasm, writes "I know I'm unloveable."

So I now have a son who as a young man is fiercely loyal to people who stick through tough times with him, but also stubbornly loyal to ideals that may only intensify his core introverted personality. On the one hand, that personality, that idealism, that comfort sought via obstinate rock star, have traces to both of his parents. On the other hand, that young man, barely 16 years old, stood up at his grandparents' (my parents) funeral and cited what is probably Morrissey's most famous line: "to die by your side/is such a heavenly way to die." I still wondered what most of the attendees in that small rural church in Pennsylvania must have thought when they heard him say those words. I suppose in our own ways, as is the case with most of Morrissey's fans, we are willing to die by his metaphorical side.

Passions for the Green Bay Packers may come and go, but at this point I believe nothing will erode his affiliation with The Smiths and Morrissey. And with all due respect to Ric Ocasek, Morrissey does present a bit more meat, however great that irony. It takes incredible self-awareness to identify with "a crack on the head is what you get/Why?/because of who you are." I am proud of who Lincoln is; let's just hope the rest of that lyric stays figurative.