1947 Northern Electric Baby Champ

In the fall of 1977 I drove from Montreal to Toronto in my father’s hand-me-down Chevy Impala in order to start my first year of university.

The car was given to me with the very small caveat that its maiden voyage would also include the body and possessions of a woman by the name of Isabelle Goldberg. The body was very much alive but we had not driven very far before I wished it were not. Isabelle was the daughter of a woman my mother played cards with. We were, Isabelle and I, not her mother, the same age but did not run in the same circles. Isabelle had, since our paths would cross from time to time, made it clear that she thought my circles were a little too square.

Which was fair enough.

Isabelle was going to Toronto to attend OCA - the Ontario College of Art. My friend Bernie Good would say she was more than a little artsy-fartsy. It was hard to disagree.

But Isabelle needed a ride and my mother needed a card partner so it came to be that I went, in the opposite direction of Toronto mind you, to pick her up at her parents’ tony house in TMR.

Isabelle was waiting for me at the curb. By her side were Mr. and Mrs. Goldberg, two large Samsonite suitcases, a suit bag, a small duffle bag, and 8 red plastic milk crates filled with what appeared to be her entire record collection. These milk crates were the perfect size and shape for record albums, and I’m quite sure every teen in the 70s used them to store their records.

Now I’m not entirely sure what I said when I saw these 8 milk crates but I’m going to guess that since Mr. and Mrs. Goldberg were standing right there I did not say, “are you kidding me!” It is more likely that I said, “I’m not sure those are going to fit.” Or something along those lines. Mr. Goldberg said, “oh, it will fit,” with the determination of someone who was sure as hell going to get those 8 milk crates of records out of his house.

I’m not sure how, but Mr. Goldberg and I managed to squeeze everything in, although I had to eventually decide to relinquish the spare tire in order to make more room, with Isabelle really sealing her fate by stating, “I’ve never even heard of anyone getting a flat tire.”

I guess not in TMR.

At some point I am going to have to come clean and say that those 8 milk crates contained what could have been the finest collection of Jazz and Blues albums - I think she had all of the Blue Note label - ever amassed: one that today I would likely give my proverbial left arm for. But, at the time, I was living on a steady diet of Frampton Comes Alive and Bob Seger and did not know the difference between Sonny Rollins and Sonny McGee.

Like I said, Mr. Goldberg and I got everything in and they all said their goodbyes with interminable hugs and accompanying tears - it was Toronto, not the Vietnam War - and we were all ready to go when Isabelle shrieked, “wait, I forgot Poppy’s radio.”

Poppy, it turned out, was Mrs. Goldberg’s father. Isabelle ran into the house and came back cradling, no joke, a pink baby blanket, which was wrapped around what was presumably Poppy’s radio.

The trunk and back seat were already teeming with her possessions - I could not see out the rear-view mirror, and so, after a little bit of hemming and quite a lot of hawing, I resignedly tucked the pink blanket-covered radio next to my feet on the floor. Not exactly safe but it was too late for that now.

The fight began before we got to the Décarie Expressway. It started, as you might imagine, rather innocuously. “You have a lot of records,” I said.

And she said “Thanks.” Although I had not exactly meant it as a compliment. “You had to take them all?” This is me clarifying the ambiguity.

“I just never know what I will be in the mood for,” she countered. “Could be Getz, could be Ellington, it could be Miles.”

“Jazz, eh?” I said.

“The salve of all wounds,” she replied. “I couldn't imagine living without it.” Then I said, “I dunno, doesn't it all kinda sound the same?”

Now, she could have laughed. Because, although I wasn't entirely joking, we both knew I was. She instead swiveled 90 degrees in her seat, looked directly at me and said “Well, what kind of music do you like?”

My answer was a lie. But I knew it would piss her off. “I really like disco,” I replied with a straight face.

And then it got a little ugly. Names were called. Lineages were questioned. Neither of us wanting to relent. At one point I might have said, “who the hell says salve!!”

Then, we did not speak for four hours. Not true.

Twice Isabelle turned to me and quietly said, “I have to pee.”

Here’s the other thing I'm going to come clean about. I knew the radio was lying on the floor on the driver’s side. Knew it when I unloaded her Samsonite suitcases, her suit bag. Knew it when I unloaded her small duffle and knew it when I unloaded all 8 of the milk crates.

I knew it the entire time. But didn't say anything.

My roommate, and soon to become lifelong friend, David Hoffman, said, “should I be concerned that you brought a pink baby blanket, or worse, a baby?”

I shrugged my shoulders and said, “my grandpa’s radio. Has sentimental value.”

Then I unwrapped it and saw the 1947 Northern Electric with its classic art deco design and four tube chassis for the first time.

“She’s a beauty,” said David, “does it work?”

“Damn straight!” I replied, although I had no idea. I didn't even know it was a Northern Electric.

We plugged it in and, not knowing it took the tubes about thirty seconds to warm up, assumed it was not working until we heard some static. I fiddled with the dial until I came across the dulcet sounds of a saxophone.

“Very cool,” said David. “Yes,” I said. “Very cool.”

Three days later, my conscience got the better of me, and I tracked her down and returned the radio. I handed it to her and told her the coordinates for the jazz station, and she said, “ok, thanks.”

And that was that.

Then, only 40 years later, I bought one of my own.

I had acquired this mini transmitter which allowed me to play music from my phone through a certain station on the radio.

First song I picked was Staying Alive by the Bee Gees.

But even though the radio sounded great, no hum at all, I couldn't make it past thirty seconds of listening. And then I put on Miles.

The End.