House Calls (Part 2)

Pete The Greek

In what is perhaps the greatest story of record collecting of the past twenty years, I quote friend and scholar Dante Carfagna on his telling of the Mighty Greg Surek Soul 45 collection on his Dogpatch podcast episode: “Surek.” He spoke in bold terms early in: “Perhaps the greatest generator of records hitting the streets is unfortunately…Death.”

The act of obtaining records for resale in a “house call” setting is an entirely unique skill set. It is nuanced. Every situation is different. An assessment, and the exchange that follows can, and will go in either direction very quickly. Anybody can do this, but only about 5% do the job well, and get it right. Thankfully, early on, I learned from some of the best (and worst) around me, taking in from either side. Lessons learned did not always come from record dealers. The passing of an individual often generates the acceleration of record collections going back into immediate circulation and public consumption. Within this immediate aftermath is when I’m usually contacted.

In the 32 years that I have been at the helm of Groove Merchant, somewhere around year 15 I came to the realization that “this” place is where I was supposed to be. More or less, my calling in life. I understood that I was actually cut out for this business. Running a retail brick and mortar record shop is not rocket science. However, a specific temperment must be in place for longevity and for sanity’s sake. Retail burnout in this trade is most certainly real, and working a street such as the Haight at times has a way of stoking this fire and adding to that burn. A very particular armor should be in place. A way of letting things roll off you, which took awhile to learn.

It was early January 2016 when I got the call. The caller ID on my cellphone said “Pete the Greek.” I hadn’t spoken to Pete for at least a year. I heard through the flea market grapevine that Pete hadn’t been around much, and word on the street was that he might be in poor health. Pete confirmed this in the first 10 seconds of our phone conversation. He spoke flatly, and in no uncertain terms. “I am dying man.” He followed with a deep breath and a bleak timeline. “They say I most likely have 1-2 months tops. I need to talk to you ASAP.” I responded with the only thing I thought I could say, “I’m really sorry Peter. I’ll be by your place tomorrow.”

The next two weeks would come to be a deeply harrowing and altogether miserably dark succession of days. Certainly something I wasn’t mentally prepared for. I’d for sure never dealt with a house call that came with this degree of baggage. The emotional weight of this baggage carried a toll. I could feel it as soon as I left his place. The toll, if I was honest, felt like it shaved a year off my life spiritually when all was said and done. The armor I spoke of was clearly penetrated. In hindsight, the invitation was one I’d have probably passed on had I known.

But… let’s go back a bit. I need to explain Pete the Greek a little, and provide some context and insight into his character. Here are two personal interactions that speak volumes about the man.

I met Peter in the late 90’s at The Coliseum or Laney College flea markets in Oakland, or at the KUSF Rock and Swap record fair in San Francisco. All were places where he peddled his wares. I bought records periodically from Peter direct and on occasion he’d call to move an entire collection for quick cash. In spring 2006 I received a call to look at a large Hip Hop collection. It was actually quite good. Heavy on in-demand Bay Rap rarities of the moment, The Click, early Mac Dre, with some sought after key pieces, all in sharp shape - about 1000 LP’s & 12” singles. I spent about an hour surveying its contents and landed on a number. “How does five grand for the collection sound Peter?” Without a second hesitation, he said, “Deal” and cracked a smile. This reaction was rarely part of any exchange with Peter. I realized immediately, I could’ve offered him half that and gotten the same response. He was elated. I was happy with the collection regardless, I paid him, and loaded the collection into my Cherokee.

About two weeks later, I ran into Peter at the KUSF record swap on the campus of SF State University early in the morning at 6 AM. The early morning rush of fanatical record collectors at a record fair setting is not for the faint of heart. Suffering a hangover from a previous night of DJing, I was forced to succumb to the odor and personal hygiene shrapnel hitting me from every direction compliments of the morning early birds. For the dealers, and early birds, the University record swap staff are kind enough to donate to the cause a table with free bagels and cream cheese at 5 AM. Some of these savages immediately swarm the bagels and what is a large Yule log hunk of cream cheese the size of a loaf of bread. Applied like war paint for a battle, a number of these morning fair zombies unknowingly apply the facial make-up of cream cheese lavishly caked and slathered on their beards and faces.

I approached Peter’s table which had about 10 boxes, nearly all Rap music and 500 records with record pool stickers indicating they had come from the same collection I had just bought from Peter one week prior. I chuckled, and said to myself, “Typical.” I pulled about 30 records and brought them up to Peter amidst the checkout mayhem that generally occurs in the early-bird morning rush. I thought to myself, Peter would either give me a big discount or just hand them back to me and say something to the effect of, “Sorry, these should’ve been with your collection.” After the five grand cash that I had just given him, this most definitely should have been the response. Instead, he moved close to my face, his singular New Yawkah caricature of an accent spit dryly, “NO DEALS TO DEALAAAHS.” Puzzled, I laughed awkwardly. I thought, without a doubt, he must be fucking with me, having a laugh at my expense. He was not - not even a little. I reluctantly paid him again and thought to myself, “What a fucking asshole.” I trodded onward to the next table of records shaking my head in annoyed disbelief, reminding myself that it’s far too early for this kinda bullshit.

The phrase “No Deals to Dealers” spoken in Pete’s regionally thick accent was one I filed away and jokingly repeated to friends over the years. The phrase has taken on a life of its own. At least, thanks for that Pete.

Peter was also the manager and caretaker of a large storage unit facility. His apartment was above the front office and entrance gate. It was set up so whomever the manager/gatekeeper that occupied the space could keep an eye on all the outdoor activity surrounding the “Load-In” storage units. The arrangement somehow reminded me of a prison guard tower overlooking a prison yard. Like I said, Pete would call periodically to have me come over to look at stuff, this particular time he called because in addition to records, Pete knew I collected vernacular photography. He said, “Come ovahh, wait til ya see what I gaaaaht.” I carved out half my Thursday, paid the bridge toll and headed down the 880 towards Hayward, a forty minute drive. He was waiting out front and waved me through the gate. He walked next to my car ushering me towards one of his personal units. In addition to his apartment above the facility, he kept 4-5 storage units for himself. I got out and cordially said “What’s hapnin’ Pete?” As always, “Same old shit” was his reply. He lifted the storage unit door and I was shocked to see only one massive plastic tub sitting in the middle of an otherwise empty room, which was atypical compared to Pete’s other packed storage units. “You're gonna like this,” came out Pete’s mouth just as he lifted the lid off the tub. Inside were hundreds and hundreds of rolls of film negatives, contact sheets and also custom prints and loose leaves of ephemera. I pulled out some prints and recognized straight away the familiar faces of many great Reggae acts. In my hands were great black and white portraits of Burning Spear, Horace Andy, The Wailing Souls, Gregory Isaacs and more. Everything I pulled out was a noteworthy Reggae act going back to the 1970’s, an extensive archive. Shocked and impressed, I immediately said “Yeah, this is most definitely my cup of tea. You know me well! What are you going to do with it Pete?” Peter slammed the lid down almost crushing my finger and said “Wouldn't yooooou like to know.” Puzzled, I said “What? C’mon…Not for sale? Really Pete?”

“Naw, you can’t afford it!”

“Jesus Pete, I drove all the way out here and wasted half the day for your dumb little blue balls prank? You just wanted a read on my reaction? That how it is Pete?”

So….I think maybe by now, you might have an inkling of an idea about how the mind of “Pete the Greek” operated. An opportunist of shrewd tactics and maneuvering, he held his cards very close to his chest. He was paranoid and he had a short fuse. He was salty, and grizzled as fuck. Most kids living nowadays would refer to him as a “hater.” Believe me, I generally never speak ill of the dead which is why some context is necessary here, and despite his thorny demeanor, I still liked him a lot. He certainly was not without his own peculiar charm. He knew a lot about music from an era of NYC that was dear to me. He was supremely funny, a true character with an almost Joe Pesci level ball-breaking cunning. Topical chitchat was always peppered with his barbed and pointed wit, mixed with a lot of shit-talking aimed at every mutual acquaintance. To be honest, in my 30+ years doing this work I’ve dealt with many people this prickly. You just play their game, and treat it as such. A game. With patience, they usually come around. A tough nut for sure, but I dug him.

The House Call

Day 1

I arrived at the storage facility Wednesday morning. It was late January in 2016. Pete opened the door to his apartment above the front gate just as I pulled up. We exchanged small talk for about two minutes. Pete started slowly and somberly with a timeline of his illness - Stage 4 throat cancer. He then went immediately into his stuff and why I was there. Confused, I stopped him for a minute. I said “Peter, I appreciate you having me here. We have always been cool. There’s never been any real static between us. I’m just a little puzzled why some of your old friends haven’t been contacted first? Gene the Postman, or Osamu for instance. You were very close to them for years before we even met. They have been wondering how you’re doing.”

Pete stopped me. He got real close to my face, then exploded, clearly physically challenging for him to yell, but he did anyway, “I would rather take all my shit down stairs, pile it up in the parking lot, and make a fucking bonfire. Burn it all. Do you understand me?”

I didn’t. “Even Gene?” I inquired. He’s the biggest sweetheart in the world I thought to myself.

“All those guys were calling me. They know what the fuck is going on. Fucking vultures. All of them.” Clear indication Pete’s paranoia was running rampant isolating him from his closest friends.

“Pete, you don’t think they were just worried, and wanted to see how you were doing, or if you needed anything?” He got up, frustrated and ranting, he stormed off into his kitchen.

I wasn’t even in his place ten minutes. I was expecting this to be rough, but this was a fucking brutal start. I quickly realized, the lack of a phone call from me for what Pete considered some sort of acquisition pitch is exactly what placed me in the pole position. After about 10 minutes, he settled down a bit and returned to his living room. I tried to keep the mood light. For about an hour we talked about Latin music and his connection to it going back to his twenties in NYC, something he knew quite a bit about. Then he showed me a few neat and rare 78s, one of which was a prized Mambo by Sabu Martinez on the SMC label. By then I could tell he was getting tired from his exertions, so I told him I’d come by the same time tomorrow morning.

Day 2

I arrived in the morning after sitting in some commuter freeway traffic on the 880. Pete seemed in a better mood and head space, a little more relaxed. He had four modest stacks of his 78s laid out on the coffee table. I normally stay away from 78s, mostly because I have a limited clientele for them and I rarely see 78s of interest. They are beyond fragile, and hard to display for a record browser. If I do see them, I generally send them around the corner to Jack’s Record Cellar, the local authority on all matters 78 RPM.

After talking about a couple specific 78s in detail, he handed me one, his hands shaking as he clutched it. He said, “Go ovah to the player, and play this one for me.” The record was a Doo Wop 78 that he purchased in the early 60’s when he was a young teen in New York City. The song played for about 40 seconds before he abruptly told me to turn the record off. I lifted the tone arm, and handed the 78 back to him. He lifted another record, and handed it to me. “Play It.” Same thing, about half a minute worth of rotations before he said “That’s enough, take the record off.” This back and forth went on for about 30 minutes which became a mentally exhausting listening experience. I told him in a relaxed way, “Let’s go outside and get some fresh air for a minute.” I didn’t smoke, but if he wasn’t suffering from throat cancer, I’d ask for a cigarette. After a break, we went back inside and sat on his couch. In much the same manner a mechanic might hand you the correct wrench for the job, Peter again started shakily clutching 78s and passing them to me, his eyes fixed straight on mine but with a convincingly determined, manic authority. “Play this,” immediately followed by “That’s enough. Take it off!” Over and over again. I made an excuse that I had to get back home for a family situation concerning my kids. I told him I’d see him the day after tomorrow and we would continue. He said “OK, I’ll see you then.” I got in my car and began my drive back into the city.

As I drove back home, frustrated with the day a bolt of clarity came to me. A “fuck me” jolt dominated my head space as I sat behind a semi in evening traffic. I was there to play Peter his records for the last time. The final spin.

I have spent hours thinking about this day. Being dealt the blow of a thin personal timeline is perhaps the most extremely dire existential impasse you could be handed. The space in time, where the clarity and forced reckoning of one’s mortality comes to the surface was an immensely brief chapter for Peter. I was present for this moment, almost solely on my own, unwillingly tasked as a steward as he neared the other side. This was undoubtedly a first for me, and as I said, an experience that I was not completely equipped or prepared for. The records chosen by Peter were of personal significance and kept multiple decades for good reason. The keepers. A distillation of personal taste purified to the rawest ingredients. These records tend to elicit 100% pure emotion. These sacred discs are why myself, and everyone else I know got into collecting them to begin with. In addition, when played, these 78s were an emotional mainline to Pete’s memory recall and the effect was astonishing and immediate.

DAY 3

I returned Thursday morning. Pete answered the door. Calm, quieter and a bit more somber. A quick scan of the room revealed new 78s and a grouping of 45 RPM records laid out on the coffee table for listening. “Here we go again,” I thought to myself. There wasn’t much small talk. He started handing me records straight off. “Play this.” After the two or three abruptly stopped plays we landed on a special one. The first one he allowed to play out to completion, The Five Royales’ “With All Your Heart” on Apollo. This one hit him differently. Surprised, I glanced over at him inquisitively witnessing his reaction. He paused for a bit expressionless and said plainly, “It was a different time.”

“Oh yeah? In what way?” I asked

“Well, if you went to a neighborhood dance…And you heard this music being played. It was just different.” It was clear the 78 had taken him back to a specific place and time, a lucid recollection. He closed his eyes and explained. “Back then, if you saw a girl at a dance, it was a beautiful thing. You might stare for awhile…mustering the courage to ask for a dance. If you got the dance, you might get to hold her close. A slow dance. It was beautiful. It was innocent. Nobody was thinking about anything dirty. It was about the dance and the song. If you were really lucky you might get a kiss at the end of the night. There wasn’t any talk about sex. None of that shit.” He started to smile for a second.

He really took me with him. I was immersed in his telling. He paused for about twenty seconds. We both listened to the music. A momentary respite. His eyes still closed, I watched his face. Suddenly, the facial expression turned bitter. A frown replaced what was a brief charge of luminous reminiscence. Then it all went to shit.

“The fucking Pill! It all changed in a flash. All that innocence was lost with that fucking Pill. Women would leave with just any swinging dick. It was gone. All gone.”

The mood shifted and took a dark, ugly downward spiral. Peter handed me another 78. This one a bit of a dancer. The record did not last too long. A quick removal. Exasperated, I didn’t last much longer either.

I returned again the following Monday. Going deep into another emotional abyss playing the records that would get him agitated was something I wanted to avoid. I wanted to carve out a path to a better understanding of what the destination might be for some of his records and personal artifacts. Were there any particular records he had in mind for specific people? Anyone special? A woman? There was no one. He was incensed that I even brought it up.

We started talking about some group harmony singles that sat in a 45 box on his lap, when we got a knock on the door from a visitor. This was a first. He had spoken quite gravely, that he didn’t want anybody around him. He went as far as to say that he didn’t even want family around, of which there was nobody in the vicinity. Peter had a mother he seemed to care about, and one sibling, a brother both of whom lived on the East Coast. He was pretty clear about it. Nobody was welcome. Peter answered the door and said hello to a man whose voice I did not recognize. He left me in the living room, and the two men talked in the kitchen. The conversation from the other man carried a rigid candor like he might be a sponsor of Peter’s from a 12-step program, or possibly a member of a local congregation from his community church. I didn’t even know if Pete was religous. Pete started to speak with personal conviction that approached what sounded like confessional dialogue, deeply introspective and cathartic. A stream of consciousness verbal bloodletting followed, delivering deep-seated anguish. Buried, festering wounds came blistering outward but lacked context for me to grasp. A feverish rant that led Peter to a full throaty sobbing. He’d momentarily paused to catch his breath, clearly strained from his throat cancer, then would start all over again.

All I wanted to do was leave. I needed to give them both whatever space to work through what Peter was conveying and emoting without interuption, however I needed to pass through the kitchen to get to the front door. I was momentarily confined, my wits and conscience shackled to Pete’s sofa. This far exceeded anything I signed on for. Unyielding sullen mental extremities requiring care well beyond my pay grade. At this point, Peter was screaming with everything he had. “I am a bad, bad man.” A morose chant that surpassed a confessional tone. It was starting to sound like an exorcism. From where I sat, this was a personal roadblock impossible for me to breach. Impeding in any way felt impossibly out of line. Who was the gentle soul on the receiving end in the kitchen I thought to myself? A guardian angel, or just someone like myself caught in the emotional cross-fire. I sat in limbo for a good part of the afternoon letting it play out. When I got back home, my wife said flatly as someone who knows me well, “You look rough.” She was right. She fixed me a drink and I went to bed.

Over the course of the next week I visited Peter’s place two or three more times. I tried to provide what little I could as far as support. Bullshit small talk, and playing records to keep his mind off the imminent. The following week he went into hospice care and died shortly after.

He gave me the number to a flea market friend he was close to, a real sweet guy. Like myself, he was tasked to deal with the aftermath of Peter’s belongings. Strangely, we didn’t meet until after Peter had passed. He handled Peter’s extensive storage unit holdings, and things that were not music oriented. I asked him about a large tub of photos Pete had shown me in one of his units. He opened up the same storage unit. The tub was still there, completely intact just how I saw it years earlier. With enough on his plate to deal with, he kindly said, “Be my guest.”

I took the tub home that night, poured myself a glass of wine, and got lost in this very personal and immense archive of photography. The work was outstanding, which I already knew, but much deeper than I originally comprehended. After spending a couple days, I came to the conclusion this archive wasn’t mine to keep, it was the hard work of one person. Basically, a good portion of an individual’s life documenting an obsession that was near and dear. Thankfully, I found a recurring name that popped up on multiple contact sheets. Through the shop, I know nearly all the cities DJ’s and promoters. I made some calls, and almost immediately, I found a connection through my friend Sep of the mighty Dubmission Soundsystem. She pointed me straight to his Facebook profile and I left him a DM inquiry about his photographs. I got him on the phone and asked about his photographic background and if he documented the Bay Area Reggae scene of the 1970’s through the 1990’s. He paused for a minute and said “Yes, why are you asking?”

“Did you lose a storage unit with a career’s worth of negatives, slides and photos?” I asked.

Shocked and still confused, he paused again and said “Yes, as a matter of fact I did.” He had lost the unit over a decade earlier after he had fallen on some hard times.

“Well, I think I have some good news. I believe I have all your negatives, contact sheets, prints, and some other stuff.”

Shocked and not able to trust what’d he just heard, he said “I don’t understand, what are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you matter of factly, I have all your stuff at my shop in the Haight. Come pick it up!”

“YOU ARE SHITTING ME! What do you need?”

Thinking of Peter, and what I had just gone through with him I said, “Nothing. It’s here for you.”

He came the next day. Speechless at first, he was overcome with joy upon being reunited with his work. He thanked me and was on his way as quick as he came in.

A little bit of Karmic restoration… for Pete’s sake.

I only kept one record that belonged to Peter. For more than a few months, the record sat along with a number of his 45s on the floor of my shop. Someone could have easily picked it up at any point and purchased it for one dollar. Out of boredom one day, I grabbed a clutch of them off the floor and began to play a few that were new to me. This song was one of them and has grown to be my favorite gospel single from the Bay Area, and without question my wife’s favorite single we own. We’ve played it about 300 times since that day.

The Gospel Corinthians with Willie Myers “How Great Thou Art!” (Skylark)

In record collecting circles, and amongst close friends, a popular phrase exists when referring to all time favorites, personal grails, desert island discs. The ones you would never trade or sell. The phrase goes, “I’m taking THAT to the grave.” I’ve heard this particular phrase spoken hundreds of times in three decades and has since gone on to have new meaning for me personally.

Through later reflection I gleaned why Peter might’ve stopped me from playing records to the end, or what is referred to as the dead wax. The call to abruptly stop the record was because he loved the songs THAT much. Cut into these records, were memories, colors, scents, upheaval, triumphs, heartbreak, joy. The visceral memory mainline locked inside these most personal records. I think that some were just too impactful, and just too much.

Time was fleeting. He knew this, and this was perhaps the only control he had over matters of time. In cutting me off from letting the record play out, he could suspend time just a little further. He could grasp the pleasure and the excitement he felt hearing the record for the first time, one last time. It’s hard to know what he was feeling for certain. Peter had a large number of records to move through. There was a feeling for me when revisiting these songs with him for the last time that he was searching. As soon as he tapped into the memory, and found whatever he was chasing…It was onto the next one. Time was not on his side.

The overall experience was tough, and carried with it a psychological toll lacking any kind of closure. There was no graceful goodbye. On a human and personal level Peter’s story was a cautionary tale for me. He died alone. That was his choice. Everybody deals with death differently. Records and music were the common thread that Peter and I shared, but little else.

When it’s my time, I just want to be with the people that I Love, and play my favorite records to the very end.

.