For some, it is the legend of the immaculate find. My roommate, as he begian selling off his collection (some of which has become mine in the process) discovered that the copy of Songs the Lord Taught Us by The Cramps he bought at a flea market for two dollars is in fact, a pressing that was pulled from the shelves and routinely sells between 50-100 hundred dollars on eBay and Discogs! Theswe things have happened to all collectors. My pal Jay Aymar recently bought a stack of jazz vinyl for about 50 dollars that he has had appraised for $800. One copy of Die Kunst der Fugue, performed by one Helmut Walcha that I bought in Montreal for a dollar is selling for around 80 dollars on Discogs right now. But rarely do we get so lucky.

For me it is not the idea of value, of flipping those diamond in the rough albums, but of finding those rare moments of beauty in records that you would never expect. But in pursuing the pure record buyers’ experience, I have been burned. This is why I started this blog.

In July of 2011 I was blessed with opportunity to pull double duty at the Mariposa Folk Festival with The Rucksack Willies and Kirsten Scholte. It was an experience that my less mature self valued for, what else, the partying ,the drinking, the drugs, the jumping off a 20-foot balcony into a pool at the hotel. But now, I remember it as one of the biggest record buying burns of my life.

There we several record store under a tent in the middle of the beautiful grounds right off lake Simcoe. It was bright, I was hungover, but there were records and I has just gotten paid. One seller had a glut of folk albums. I mean REAL folk albums, not the cheesy Canadiana, Americana Pete Seeger stuff that’s been coated in sugar. But the more academic albums that I have come to love. Field recordings along the lines of Ocora, Nonesuch and Folkways. Two large crates he had were dedicated to the music of Quebec.

I’ve always loved Quebec and had a fascination with its people, culture and history, though I have spent remarkably little time there and have never even been to Quebec City! But I love their beer and their music.

The albums belonged to two seperate series by different record labels. The first series I noticed was simply titled Musique de Quebec. And they were beautiful. 

Graced with an elegant font, each record had a square die-cut cover showing a small portion of a painting a different Quebecois painter. This particular example showing a work by Marc-Aurèle Fortin from 1923. This particular image evoking childhood memories of the crude Tolkien paintings contained in the book Roverandum. I was captivated by their beauty, by the idea of how these black pines would look in a row when placed inside my humble expedit. 

The other series, at the time, looked less impressive to me. 

Too stuffy, too academic. But interesting, perhaps for a listen. There were about 8 of the former and 5 of the latter. What was I to do?

I decided to go with the flashier looking records. I bought a stack of them for $40 dollars and the lone Géographie Sonore du Quebec for $5, knowing that I made the right choice.

Returning home from my wild weekend (where I got to see Emmylou Harris perform). I excitedly opened up the first record of the series and placed it on my turntable. Standing over my player, I don’t think I have ever felt rage come quicker and course all through my body.

It was Muzak.

Muzak arrangements of Quebecois folk songs. Eight LPs of elevator music.

I was in disbelief. How could something so beautiful be so rotten on the inside? I felt like I had brought home the most gorgeously nerdy girl at the indie rock concert only to find out she was a vapid racist with bad breath. 

I piled them under my bed. For shame.

I reluctantly turned to the lone record I had bought. pulled off the plastic sleeve for the first time and heard something fall on the floor.

It was the liner notes. A newsprint publication. 32 pages of information on Charlevoix. Its history, its people, its music, even its geology for god’s sake! Along with this was a map of the region and a table of contents.

I was dumbfounded. This was truly a find. And for five dollars?! I slowly turned to the record player and placed the album on the turntable.

The album consists of both traditional Charlevoix songs and fiddle tunes. The songs are mostly a cappella, sung by Jacques Labecque. Initially, he betrays a kind of stuffy Canadianism, a CBC style operatic voice, an overbearing low tenor. But his performance quickly opens up. On the first track. “Dans la Vill’ de Paris,” he begins a phrase giving a growl, destroying the line between classical formality and folk skill. He begins the performance with confidence, catching your attention then coming down to a delicate softness, sounding at times like his voice might falter and then bringing it right back up when confidently speaks of three beautiful women back in Paris.

Immediately after this wide display of emotion, we meet Remi Brouillard playing fiddle while accompanying himself with his feet. While not completely submerged in fiddle music, I do enjoy it and these melodies carry a distinctly rustic character, but betraying a free-wheeling joy that I so often associate with the Quebecois. These artists trade songs back and forth, Labrecque mostly a cappella, sometimes accompanied by a dulcimer and a jaw harp, or like the song “Isabeau se Promène (ti-la-di-di-li)” he is joined by the sound of the waves and birds from the wide St Lawrence river.

On the flip side, Labracque sings “La Vielle Fille,” pulling out his acting skills. He crafts a performance reminiscent of Japanese Banraku singers, playing the role of the old woman by crying and even covering his teeth to sound as though he is singing with only his gums. It’s a rare bit of theatre in the world of a cappella music.

The record, is brilliant. As a document album, like so many others in my collection, it stands out for its diversity, its stark atmosphere and its emotional depth. 

And I am kicking myself to this day with these 8 silly records piled under my bed. I still listen to The Géographie Sonore du Quebec. Had I had access to the internet at the time I could have looked up this fact, but I didn’t. So, lesson learned. For now.