Gilmore's Albums
2001 08 13
|
etc
no date
2024 +
2025
entries
home
Discovering today that my grandmother likes Boy George, was almost as surprising as the time I found out she likes one or two Sex Pistols songs. (That was approximately fifteen years ago, and I'm still surprised by it. Actually, I think I'm still trying to get over it. Next thing you know, she'll be telling me she thinks Al Jorgensen is "keen", or something.)
My grandfather never struck me as one for too much music, unless it was Stompin' Tom Connors, or came from Cape Breton, even though the radio was always set to the local top 40 station. (COCK - We're comin' at ya! Local joke, don't ask.) Yet every Sunday afternoon he'd have Clyde Gilmore on the CBC. Clyde Gilmore had possibly the most astounding collection of music ever assembled by any man ever. He seemed to have everything, from the popular to the rare and obscure. I'm sure, if you wanted to be material about it, what he had could have amounted to a worth of six digits.
It was Clyde Gilmore who first introduced me to Billie Holiday whom I still adore. (Oh, and to the supposed lover of jazz I spoke to a few years ago; Billie Holiday is not a 'he'. Thank you. That is all.)
I can still hear his voice, too; I could pick it out in a crowd of thousands if he were actually alive to be in that crowd of thousands. He's missed by me. he was a reminder of good things from childhood, and one of the few things I can associate with nothing bad. Not directly.
He's also, I'm certain, indirectly responsible for my love of the Ode To Joy; considering it was through him that I had my first taste of classical music.
... and speaking also of my grandfather, I've recently rediscovered my love of Bugle chips. He used to bring a bag from the bar when he'd come home. I loved them. It seems, though, that I have bought the local variety store out of house and Bugle chips. Their supply is dry. Either I shop elsewhere, or go without. Decisions, decisions.