My back is killing me and it’s all Harry Smith’s fault.
Last week I received my copy of Mississippi Records’ limited edition vinyl box set containing all four volumes of the Anthology of American Folk Music (the three volumes originally released in the 1952 box, plus Vol. 4, planned by Smith but not released until 2000). That’s eight slabs of 200 gram vinyl, four heavy-duty gatefolds with thick cardboard and a canvas cover, all inserted into a wooden box. Needless to say, it’s heavy. I carried it home in my laptop bag the day it arrived and tweaked my lower back shifting my position on the train, trying to avoid fracturing the skull of a fellow subway commuter whose head was at bag-level. The pain has not subsided.
But I don’t mind. I’ve been waiting so long for a vinyl re-issue of the Anthology, it’s worth a little back pain. Today we posted an excerpt fromDo Not Sell at Any Price, a new book about 78 collectors by Pitchfork contributor Amanda Petrusich, and the chapter we posted details her experience with the Anthology and her attempt to track down some of Harry Smith’s original records, which were said to be bequeathed to the New York Public Library. The Anthology is a funny subject for music writers because so much has been written about it by so many smart people, but there always seems to be more to say. The set, compiled by mystic scholar Harry Smith from his extensive collection of 78 records in 1952, never stops giving.
When a generation encounters the Anthology, it takes something new from it; in the 1950s, it kickstarted the national interest in folk that would eventually shape the consciousness of the 1960s. On a smaller scale, while I’ve never been able to prove this, I suspect that the 1997 CD reissue of the Anthology and subsequent publication of Greil Marcus’ Invisible Republic/The Old, Weird America had something to do with the early 2000s turn toward weird/freak/free folk music. I remember interviewing Tim Rutili from Califone in 1999 and him saying that he’d latched on to the Anthology and for a while he didn’t feel like he could listen to anything else. Califone had a song called “Dock Boggs”, which was sort of a cover of Dock Boggs’ “Sugar Baby”, which was on the Anthology. It was in the air.
But this is all speculation, of course, a few observations based on what I was seeing; who really knows how and when influence works. It’s easy to say that more than any single thing the Anthology“invented the sixties” and I kind of believe that, but at the same time, the very notion of such a thing is ridiculous. What I can say is that it invented the idea that a mixtape, that one could express something by selecting music and presenting it in a certain way. As Amanda writes in her book:
Previously, these tracks were islands, isolated platters of shellac that existed independently of anything else: even flipping over a 78 required disruptive action. Shifting the medium from the one-song-per-side 78 to the long-playing vinyl album allowed, finally, for songs to be juxtaposed in deliberate ways. It’s possible now, of course, to dump all eighty-four tracks onto one digital playlist and experience the entire Anthology uninterrupted, but I still prefer to acknowledge the demarcations between its three sections—to play it as Smith did.
The key thing about the Anthology is that it was one person’s take. It was not definitive. He picked music from his collection and organized and presented it in a certain way to say specific things. To use a word that is in constant use today, to the point of annoyance, he “curated” it. Because of what he chose and how he put it together, the music in effect became his. And the fact that the Anthology was a physical artifact mattered, because the artwork and Smith’s highly unusual and poetic notes were meant to be viewed in a certain way. And if it’s going to be an object, it’s impossible to imagine one as sturdy and impressive as this Mississippi Records box, which I imagine is the least portable record I’ve ever owned or ever will own. I hope to never carry it anywhere again.
But as I’m hobbling around here, I can’t help but feel a little like Harry Smith in his frail old age, climbing on to the stage to accept a Lifetime Achievement Grammy. As hey did so, he offered a word of gratitude that also acknowledged just how important the work he put into this set was: “I’m glad to say that my dreams came true, that I saw America changed through music.”