Featured Essay: Jarrod

by James Ziegenfus

“Do you know Jarrod?” I didn’t. There have been days when I wish I never did. But how could I have known what was to come?

Jarrod was introduced by my friend Mark, a lawyer who seemed picky about his social circle. He had many acquaintances, few friends. By choice, it seemed. 

So, I had no reservations about Jarrod when Mark introduced him as a “friend.” For many months after that, the three of us met up a few times a week almost always at shows. We were in our mid-20s with voracious appetites for music. We had an ear to the ground on local bands and flavor of the week indie rockers. There was never a lack of options.

Mark eventually saw the bright lights blinking “Partner” and the path he’d need to take to get there. Priorities shifted. Jarrod and I would keep up the lifestyle.

Besides, Jarrod and I had something in common that Mark couldn’t wrap his head around. We were into records. Mark eschewed physical media as soon as he got a taste for Napster and its successors. That wasn’t for me and Jarrod.

We loved records. (Maybe still do; I certainly do.) His father supposedly spoke about record collecting with such reverence that Jarrod was inspired to buy LPs instead of CDs as a teenager in the 90s. I got into records because the punk bands in my hometown scene often only released 7”s. We’d go to record stores, flea markets, used book shops with one crate in the back, estate sales, etc. Were there records somewhere? We’d find them.

We saw a lot of shows. But it was record shopping where we bonded. Flipping through old bins, holding up records with interesting covers asking “Know anything about this?”, haggling with sellers who overvalued anything by the Beatles and Stones but might let Eno or XTC albums go for peanuts. 

After every spree, we talked about our grips. There was a reason why we’d grabbed everything, even the dollar bin gambles. Sometimes it had nothing to do with the music. The chairs on the cover of Neil Young’s On the Beach reminded him of ones his grandparents had on their patio. I picked up a couple Doug Sahm albums solely because I’d heard he didn’t tour in October so he could watch the World Series.

The size of my collection exploded.

The B-side

Fast forward a year and a half. I was living with Jarrod for two months between leases. I knew we couldn’t be long-term roommates. But I needed to live somewhere. At least the apartment would have an amazing record collection for a while.

Two weeks into it, Jarrod’s arrested. The next day he’s bailed out. We sat in the living room while he explained things. Of course, to him it’s all a big misunderstanding. I still had unpacked boxes in a corner. While he talked, I wondered how quickly I could pack up everything else.

Then he hit me with “Can you do me a favor?” I had a hunch he didn’t want money, which would have been an automatic no. So I shrugged. He walked to his room and came back with a bowling ball bag. In it were old 45s. He flipped through, put a few to the side, and then asked, “Can you check what these go for on eBay? I’m going to need some money.” And then he walked out the door.

Now I flipped through. They were indistinguishable from thousands I’d seen at thrift stores for a dollar or less over the years. I didn’t recognize any of the artists. I didn’t even know most of the labels. What were these?? I knew people overvalued their own collections. How could you not? But to think that a bag of random 45s would bring in anything substantial? He must’ve been delusional.

I looked up the first one. Tarheel Slim’s “Wildcat Tamer” b/w “Number 9 Train” on Fury Records. $40?!? Really? The next several I checked were in a similar range or not listed. And then there was the Vondells’ “Soldier Boy” b/w “Hey Girl You’ve Changed” at over $500 with two days left on the auction.

At that point, I had to listen to these. I sat on the floor next to the stereo and searched eBay while listening to each record. Almost all were R&B and soul. Many were tagged on eBay as “northern soul.” Northern soul? So now not only did I not know the songs, artists, or labels, I didn’t even know the genre.

My head was spinning. For years I’d considered myself pretty knowledgeable about record collecting. People knew I scavenged on weekends and went to a lot of shows. Anyone I’d dated was drowned in mixes, not to mention the anecdotes about bands, songs, a funny message in a matrix runout. Music was a prominent part of my identity. Yet here were almost 50 singles that I’d never heard of selling for more than probably any record in my collection. 

How could I have had such a significant knowledge gap? And how could Jarrod have never mentioned these? We talked about music all the time and he never brought up that he owned these little goldmines. What else was he hiding?

Later that evening I looked up northern soul and felt marginally better to discover it wasn’t an actual music genre but instead a name for a northern England scene devoted to overlooked songs and rare records. However, I enjoyed the music, so I also felt worse because I couldn’t help but wonder how many of these records I’d ignored in dusty bins.

Over the next few days, I texted with Jarrod several times but didn’t see him even though a couple days it was clear he’d been at the apartment while I was at work. Then Friday afternoon I came home to find his mother and brothers packing his belongings. His mother, who I’d never met, caught me up. Jarrod had taken a plea for probation and he’d move in with her after completing rehab. “You didn’t know, did you?” My face must’ve made that obvious.

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in my room contemplating the recent whirlwind. His mother knocked on the door. She looked exhausted, “We’re just about done. It was nice to meet you. By the way, do you have a bowling ball bag with some records?” I handed it to her. She smiled and said I should come out to see Jarrod in a few months once things settled down. It never happened.

The next time I went record shopping felt awkward. I hadn’t dug through records without him in almost a year. I flipped through crates alone and silent. I didn’t have anyone to immediately talk to about my grip, no one to point out a sneaky cover song or someone notable in the credits. But I had crammed for northern soul beforehand and left with a few finds that’d lead to a new niche obsession.

Twenty years later, I haven’t seen Jarrod since the day he showed me the bowling ball bag. I’ve looked him up several times in the last decade and it seems he has no online presence but also that he’s stayed out of trouble. And yet he pops in my head almost every time I walk into a record store, especially because for the last two decades I always pick through the soul 7”s. Who knows what I might find?

James wrote for several now-defunct music and film publications. Now he writes in an industry unrelated to his hobbies. He lives with his family in the midwest. You can find him on social media at https://bsky.app/profile/jcz7.bsky.social