Ry Cooder

 

Fifty years ago, a massive, turn-of-the -century brick and wood building on the main drag in Georgetown, DC, was home to the hippest record store on the planet.

I was just passing by, minding my own business, when suddenly mugged, dragged helplessly inside by the sounds of Ry Cooder’s self-named first album,  playing on four huge speakers tucked into high corners overhead. It was back when quadraphonic sound was a thing. That cavernous shop, its rows of waist-high wooden bins packed tightly, overflowing with vinyl possibilities, reverberated and quivered Ry’s masterful guitar work, putting me inside of his guitar itself…mesmerized.

“Boomer’s Story”, “Paradise and Lunch”, “Chicken Skin Music”, “Borderline”, “Little Sister” …all of it spawns colorful memories of where, when, and who I was, and who I was with. I still listen, frequently. Even as I get old, Ry’s music doesn’t.

Very early yesterday morning, I walked into the kitchen for coffee, telling Alexa to play some of his “Buena Vista Social Club” stuff, reminiscent of the afternoon street sounds in Medellin while visiting with my daughter some years ago.

I’m hard pressed to think of anything better than sipping a scalding cup of jet-fuel Columbian coffee while listening to Ry Cooder, tucked comfortably into my nest of mismatched pillows out in the weathered Adirondack chair, as dawn’s first sun begins to play peek-a-boo from behind a tree line on the other side of the lake.  

A peak moment, now 50 years since Ry first ambushed me on that street in Georgetown, pulled me once again into his world of musical genius, while simultaneously running a filmstrip featuring much of my adult life.

His music was always there, and so was I.