Rock And Roll Killing Machine (Waiting For The Mail To Come)

I pulled into the driveway the other night, and there it was.

Behind the snow-covered landscaping, leaning against the garage.

I turned off the headlights, unbuckled my seat belt, a little gasp escaping me, hands flexing and stretching in nervous anticipation.

The package.

The package had arrived.

I calmly brought the garbage can and recycling bins back to the house from the side of the road, checked the mail box for bills and the like, shouldered my work bags, then snatched up that big brown box, ran into the house, up to the coffee table, and tore into it.

Oh, these little bits and pieces of heaven!

Drowningman. Ignite. Himsa. Blood For Blood. Bright Eyes split with Neva Devina. Battery. Terror. The Plot to Blow Up the Eiffel Tower. Gracer. End of a Year.

Some of the cases were cracked (not just cracked, really, but obliterated), and that was disappointing. But it only took a few minutes in the basement to do some surgery, to replace them, to find some blanks with good cases and make the switch.

And then it was just a matter of going through that stack, one beautiful anthem at a time.

Oh, how I do love mail order music.

The whole big bundle came from Revelation Records.

Revelation, for those who don't know, was a powerhouse of awesome, world-class hardcore in the late eighties and early nineties. I mean the really, really good stuff. If a band was great, there was a good chance they put out at least a record or two with Revelation. Legendary bands like Gorilla Biscuits, Youth of Today, Sick of It All, Inside Out, Judge, Bold, Quicksand. Even Rage Against the Machine did a vinyl release. And Vision of Disorder. There were releases from Sensefield and Shelter and Better Than A Thousand and Burn and Orange 9mm.

The label isn't quite what it once was-- hell, hardcore isn't quite what it once was-- but it's still a good label. And their distro arm is still fantastic.

Sitting there at the coffee table, going through the pile, finding the little freebies (a cd from This Time Next Year, which I discovered that I don't like at all, and a bunch of stickers), I couldn't help but be nostalgic.

As wonderful as it was to paw through those great discs, the memories of mail order past were even stronger.

When I was younger. When enthusiasm-- for just about anything-- was boiling over.

When there was no internet. When payment was made with a check. When the order was made on a paper form. When bands were discovered by poring over catalogs with a couple of buddies, or sitting in my apartment alone with a glossy distro book, listening to music, trying to figure out how far I could make that twenty dollars stretch.

Because it was hardcore, because it was punk, that twenty dollars could usually go a long way.

And then waiting. And waiting. Wondering when the package might arrive. There was no email to notify you of shipment. There was no instant gratification. No advance copy of your receipt. No notice that something was out of stock. If something was out of stock, you hoped that you got some of your money back-- just as likely, you'd get a promise ("hey, that's out of print, but next time we run some new copies, we'll mail one to you," then a month later the company goes under-- Striving For Togetherness owes me $4! So does New Eden!). Or you'd get something else entirely ("hey man, all out of that, but check these guys out, you'll love 'em.") And that was okay. That was totally fine.

And, always, the freebies. The stickers. The updated catalog. Once, a hat. Usually (especially from Revelation) a few extra cds, things that were lying around (that's how I discovered the band Sevens; I love that disc-- they sing the best song you've ever heard about Vitamin D).

And the letters. The notes.

Because most of these distro places and little labels were run by young punk and hardcore people, just getting by, in it for something other than money. I remember being thrilled that "Amy" at Dischord Records (home of the legendary bands Fugazi, Minor Threat, Embrace, etc) wrote a quick little note every time she put stuff in the mail to me. That the guy who ran Immigrant Sun told me, after my first order, that in the future he'd appreciate hearing a little bit about where I was from and what I was into, then proceeded to take a few pages to tell me about his own life, how the label was started, where he lived.

Victory Records (best hardcore label of the late nineties, with Earth Crisis, Strife, Snapcase, and others, now a bit of a cheese factory with lots of glossy emo pop). Immigrant Sun (Homesick for Space, Joshua, Elad Love Affair, Cable Car Theory; now out of business, or at least no longer anywhere on the web or my local record store). Revelation Records. Trustkill (gone now, though the owner has a new label). Very Distribution (the absolute best distro, fantastic in the days before you could click a button to get whatever you wanted; sadly no longer out there).

I sort of wish I'd saved those catalogs. Those quirky books with pictures of album covers, long lists of bands, and something to set them apart from the others (I remember one distro had two categories that everything in their collection fell into: Q= "sounds like Quicksand," S= "sounds like Slayer") (and Victory Records used to sell hot sauce!) (and Striving For Togetherness featured a vegetarian recipe). I'd love to curl up now, flip through them, daydream.

While listening to Battery.

While listening to Blood For Blood.