One man's trash ...

Late last night, as I wearily scanned the blogosphere, my roommate entered my open bedroom door carrying a milkcrate.  As he set it next to me, I could tell that the uniformly similar objects contained within were collectively heavy.  And considering that my roommate had just come from a chilly walk outside, I had the strong sense that a pile of junk had just been deposited on my floor.

It took me all of a second to realize that he’d found a second-hand collection of two dozen vinyl albums—and nearly all of them in Spanish!


As I began to examine through this bizarre collection, I recognized the title of a song on the very first record and immediately played it on my turntable.  As “Los 3 Paraguayos" (a trio straight out of a Canadian world music festival) played in the background, I flipped through my new—and wholly unexpected—treasure trove.

Although this may not hold true with books any longer (you know, with the digital age upon us), with vinyl, eye-catching cover art remains essential.  And let me tell you, Spanish albums from the 1960s are particularly hilarious to see several decades and a language removed:

from serious portraits of male singers featuring their impressive guitars and/or facial hair,

to ensembles in native garb;

whether the Simon & Garfunkel of northern Brazil,

or the eight albums by famed Chicano singer Trini Lopez.

Apparently, the former owner is a big fan of TL—but now I assume he has the collected works on his iPod.

And there’s even a cover featuring a rotund Latino man in sombrero and bandoliers slouching next to a bottle of tequila—an album appropriately called Mexican Joe.   

Oh the hilarity!  I couldn't help but chuckle as I put on record after record, read aloud from the few English album descriptions, and attempted to decipher just what any of this milkcrate meant.  All I know is that I have some rather strange and enjoyable hours of music ahead of me (perhaps I’ll even pick up some Espanol.)  Now that I can entertain with style, I just wish I could host a swinging Sixties cocktail party, throw on a Trini Lopez record (they’re all good—especially The F**k Album), and dance about my apartment full of urbane, witty guests with a highball in hand. 



(By the way, did you know that Mr. Peabody went through a lengthy legal process to possess his boy, Sherman?  That’s right—he owns him.  Get on Netflix, grab a bottle of hooch, and watch a few episodes of Rocky & Bullwinkle—you’ll see what I mean.)