Long before Napster reared its ugly head and opened the floodgates to music-sharing sites, before iTunes, and before the Feds, RIAA, MPAA, FBI, CIA, or any other acronym-heavy organizations started nosing around our computers, we had Columbia House and BMG music clubs to "devalue" the music industry. When I say "devalue," I mean it in a humorous way, not an offensive one. I believe these companies must have made legitimate profits; otherwise, they wouldn't have lasted as long as they did. Over the years, I came to realize the true value of media but back in the day, free stuff clouded my mind.
I was a creative and somewhat deprived child. My mom's idea of getting that hot new tape all the other kids were listening to was taping it off the radio, which entailed holding an old cassette tape recorder up to a radio speaker—or better yet, the TV and recording it onto a cheap Certron, Laser or of I was lucky Memorex or Sony branded tape. My copy of the "The Sound of Music" soundtrack was one of a kind. Just under Julie Andrews singing "My Favorite Things," you could hear my dad in the background proclaiming, "The Sound of Music is the BEST movie ever made!" and my mom screaming from another room, "Turn that shit down!!!" My bootlegged "Like a Virgin" tape wasn't much better, thanks to Mom's voice chiming in with "Tell that whore to shut up and dress herself up!" during "Dress You Up." Not exactly playlist-worthy recordings.
So, back to devaluing the music industry pre-internet. How did Columbia House or BMG ever make money? Picture it: you're flipping through Seventeen magazine, and out pops a postcard reading, "12 Tapes for a Penny." IN-TER-EST-ING! How many more issues of Seventeen are in the house? Four to six weeks later, four boxes arrive in the mail addressed to variants of my name. Forty-eight tapes, all for free! No more smokers' cough and banging on my door followed by a voice telling me to turn that shit down. Four weeks later, four different bills arrive. Bills? For free tapes? Must be a mistake. We'll just file that under "86." Bill, bill, bill, garbage, garbage, garbage.
Eight weeks later, the novelty of my 48 tapes had long since worn off. Need more tapes...Damn, I can only find two order cards. Six weeks later, 24 more tapes arrive in the mail. Four weeks later, six bills arrive addressed to my clones. My mom asks, "What are all these bills coming to you for?" My reply: "Dunno!" Then came the final notices, times six. Shortly after, a collection agency called North Shore started sending bills and demands for payment. What ever will I do? I know—I’ll fix it so no one will ever find out. Change of address...Family moved to New Hampshire. No one lives there, so who would ever tell?
My parents never caught onto my early life as a mail fraudster, nor do I think they understood why their mail seemed to have been redirected and lost for over six months when the forward request expired. Those were the days when getting music was an adventure, and each tape came with its own little drama. When I shared this story with a friend, he one-upped me with his own Columbia House/BMG Music Club tale, which I’ll be sharing in the future with his permission. Looking back, it’s amazing how a penny could buy so much...chaos and creativity. And speaking of pennies, thoughtful comments or whatever from my readers are always appreciated!
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