More Blood... More Tracks

“Me, I’m still on the road, heading for another joint.”

I got to spend my birthday with the person I most wanted to spend my birthday with. Marisa sang happy birthday to me with a goofy grin on her face and it was the most fantastic version ever. She knew my birthday gift to myself was a trip to Richmond, Kentucky to see Bob Dylan. When Marisa and I met five years ago, she didn’t know who Bob Dylan was (part her generation, part her parents not letting her listen to music). But over the years she has tried to understand why Dylan’s music means so much to me.

I’ve never been able to fully explain it to her. His songwriting is at a level that has no peers; his singing and performing skills are extraordinary and wholly unique; his live by his own code to the extreme is one I have tried to do on a much lower scale. Asked to pick out my favorite Dylan songs, it depends on the day, my mood, what’s going on in my life, and what version of the song I have access to at the moment (with so many great live performances available).

If asked my favorite Dylan concert I’ve attended I would have an impossible time deciding. Was it the 1993 Minneapolis Orpheum show when he sang “Idiot Wind “ for the last time live? The 2005 London concert where he did “Million Dollar Bash” for the one and only time? How about that crazy harmonica solo he did on “Mr. Tambourine Man” at the Target Center in 1995?

I’ve seen Dylan in many different parts of the country (and five shows in London) with many different people. The ritual used to add to the excitement- trying to score a good ticket by calling Ticketmaster over and over the moment tickets went on sale only to get that blasted busy signal (kids today don’t realize what a big advancement speed dial was). Counting the days to the concert, and if general admission, trying to figure out how early to arrive to get as close to the stage as possible. Then the thrill of getting settled into the venue, when the lights drop and you knew he was taking the stage with his band and not knowing what songs he’d pull out of his hat, nor what version of the song you might get to hear. Maybe it would be a disaster with the band not being able to follow his idiosyncrasy but more likely he’d do something that would leave you feeling like you just heard the most original and amazing thing ever.

Some of that excitement has gone away the past few years. Maybe because seeing him 48 times has taken away the unpredicatability and Christmas Day like excitement, but more likely because the setlists have become pretty much the same night after night with a few variations.

Marisa knew how much I was looking forward to this trip. How much I needed this trip. I was coming off a week where my work hours were far too many, and the stress far too great. I had pneumonia but that’s no excuse for not getting my city through another election. It’s not as if the voters wouldn’t care that their chief election official with terribly sick, but the show had to go on. We couldn’t hold the election in a week or two. The Monday before Election Day I got to take a nap in the middle of the afternoon over in our fire department. I was dead out when they got a medical call and the room lit up and the radios buzzed. I nearly hit the roof, but the bit of sleep did me good.

She knew I was looking forward to this trip because it’s been a difficult few years and it had been far too long since I afforded myself such a trip. One of my doctors diagnosed me with “existential angst” the most accurate diagnosis that’s ever been recorded. Dylan has been opening his concerts with “Things Have Changed” and there couldn’t be a more apt song for me with its chorus of “I used to care, but things have changed...” My physical health took a nose dive this year as well as I met my annual insurance deductible in February trying to alleviate pain and weakness in my neck, shoulders and arms. And then my cat died.

My trip got off to an ominous start with me parking at the wrong terminal (1, 2, Humphrey, Lindbergh... I was throwing darts in the dark). I took the light rail to the other terminal and did the miserable airport thing of getting through the security line (got scolded for only taking off my outer jacket and not the hoody underneath). Marisa emailed me and encouraged me to enjoy myself. And so I did.

The drive from the Lexington Blue Grass Airport to my hotel was pretty. Rolling hills, horse farms and lots of trees. I asked my Lyft driver where I could see the blue grass and he laughed and said everyone asked him that. Turns out the seeds look blue but once the grass grows it’s green. 

Cut now to the concert. I had splurged and paid mega bucks for a third row center seat. The guy in front of me in line was disappointed he couldn’t afford the $20 souvenir t-shirt. He was determined he was going to get Bob’s autograph. I was glad to hear the two times he had seen Dylan before was during the “Under the Red Sky” tour. That’s a fun fact.

The venue was at the arts center of the East Kentucky University campus. The center was less than ten years old and reminded me of St. Kate’s O’Shaughnessy Auditorium back home. My seat was center stage but as it turned out, I was a little too close because when Bob sat down at his piano I could only see the top of his hair, with the baby grand blocking out his face. He only sat for some of the songs though and it’s always nice being able to see his facial expressions. 

Highlights? I liked the two songs from 2001’s “Love and Theft,” “Cry Awhile,” and “Honest with Me,” (two songs I never have particularly liked). I liked how Bob chuckled when he sang the line, “I’m stark naked and I don’t care, I’m going off into the woods and hunting bare/bear.” I liked “Simple Twist of Fate,” although he muffed my favorite line, “People tell me it’s a sin, to feel too much within, I still believe she was my twin...”  I’m going to have to check my spreadsheets but I think I got to hear “When I Paint My Masterpiece” for my first time live ever. It was a lovely version with Bob starting the song almost acappela with just a few chords played on the piano. Similar thing with “Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright” which he crooned the hell out of. And Bob offered his one dance move during “Scarlet Town,” dramatically putting his hand on his hip.

My two favorite moments however were with two songs I never thought I needed to hear again. It was the oddest arrangement of “Like a Rolling Stone” I have ever heard with the band stopping at the last few lines of every stanza, with bassist Tony Garnier grabbing the bow for his standup bass, the tempo slowed down to half time with Bob playing with the phrasing of the words. And then the tempo returned to a faster shuffle for the chorus, “How does it feel?” The effect was like knowing a punch was coming but being unable to defend it nonetheless. It may have been my favorite live version of the song I’ve heard. The other great performance was “Gotta Serve Somebody” that after the first verse featured all new verses. How cool is that?

I planned on getting a Lyft back to my hotel, three miles away. But apparently Richmond Kentucky shuts down Sunday nights and there were no Lyft drivers in the area. So I started calling cab companies. None had drivers available. So I did what anyone suffering from existential angst would do. I started walking. In the dark. In a foreign place. Not being able to gauge the safety or lack of safety with what was in front of me. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere. Maybe even a Dylan lyric that captures that.

Happy Diwali

Thank you all for being here tonight. I think we have a nice program planned this evening. My name is David Maeda and it’s been a great privilege to serve as a board member of the Council of Asian Pacific Minnesotans for the past three years and particularly to be the chair of the board in 2017.

We are here tonight to honor and hear from a great group of leaders in our community. I’m absolutely in awe of their contributions and accomplishments.

We are also here commemorating two significant anniversaries. The first is the 50th anniversary of the Minnesota Department of Human Rights. We are blessed to have here tonight one of the great leaders of our state, Commissioner Kevin Lindsey, who you’ll hear from later. 

We are also recognizing  the 75th anniversary of President Franklin Roosevelt signing an executive order that led to the incarceration of over 120,000 Japanese Americans, including my father’s family,  at the beginning of World War II. Our keynote speaker tonight, the honorable Judge Jamie Cork will share her thoughts and insights and lessons to be learned about this historic event.

The theme of tonight’s dinner is “Toward a more perfect union.” I ask all of you to think what that means to you. All of us in this room want this country, and the state of Minnesota, to be the place where we feel at home. We all have our own personal stories that define how close we are to feeling this sense of union.

I wanted to take a few moments to share a personal story and say a few words about my father, Donald Maeda, who passed away in January at the age of 92. The loss of my dad has weighed heavy on me this year.

 

When I was growing up, dad often talked about life in the internment camp as being like a summer camp. As a teenage boy it was about wasting time with a group of friends. But the thing that stuck with him that made him realize the gravity of the situation was he had just bought his first car. Dad had a lifelong love of cars and driving cars. He was forced to give up his first car because he obviously couldn’t bring it with him to the internment camp. He gave his car to a friend who graciously visited him at camp, but would park dad’s car on the other side of the barbed wire fence. Dad said it made him sad seeing his car, his gateway to freedom within reach but out of his grasp.

Throughout his life dad had a lot of questions about the world around him. In the end the questions became more and more philosophical. They were questions about the promises of our country both delivered and broken, questions about the concepts of freedom and if the place you find yourself in at any given time can truly be called a home.

What is home? Whether you have survived a refugee experience or you are an immigrant or you were born here in the United States, what do you consider your true home? Is it based on geography? Your birthplace? The place you dream of at night? The place where you feel accepted and loved?

This is a question I’ve asked myself ever since my one and only trip to Japan nearly 20 years ago. There was day mid-week when I found myself in the middle of a downtown Tokyo subway station during rush hour with waves and waves of people coming and going and trying to catch the train that would take them home. I’ve never seen so many people in one place at one time. And then I noticed a strange feeling. It was a foreign feeling of calm and peace. If this same scene had played out in a subway station in New York or Chicago or Washington DC I would have freaked out being one who doesn’t do well in large groups of people. Why was I feeling this strange sense of calm? I realized for one of the few times in my life I fit in. I looked like the people around me.  I blended into the mass of humanity. Back home in Minnesota this had seldom been the case. In grade school, junior and senior high, I was one of the few racial minorities. In my workplaces the same is true. I hadn’t realized subconsciously how much this has always played on my mind. Walking into a room of people and feeling like you immediately stick out because you look different presents a conceptual wall against the feeling of inclusion. I’m sure that’s something many in this room know something about.

In the end, our home is where we allow ourselves to feel comfortable. The place where we can be our authentic selves. Hopefully we all will find this place.

To finish dad’s story, in 1988 Congress passed the Civil Liberties Act of 1988. The law provided reparations to Japanese American citizens who were interned. My dad got a check for $20,000 and an apology letter from President Ronald Reagan. My dad wasn’t much for irony, and I’m not sure how much convincing he had to do with my mom, but he decided to spend his check on a brand new Honda. And I’m sure all the while his mind flashed back to his very first car parked outside the barbed wire fence.

I’ll leave you with words from the 2016 Nobel Prize Literature winner, Minnesota born Bob Dylan. Mr. Bob once wrote:

“A hero is someone who understands the responsibility that comes with his freedom.”

In other words we shouldn’t wait until we lose our freedom before we appreciate it and understand its significance.

Today is the third day of Diwali, the Hindu Festival of Light. It is a day to celebrate new beginnings and the triumph of good over evil and light over darkness. So I wish you all a very happy Diwali and hope you all enjoy our program tonight. Thank you.

Home

My 92 year old father passed away a few weeks ago. I share this with you on this a celebratory day not because my dad was a well-known or great man. No, he'd likely would have admitted he was in many ways, quite ordinary. He would have readily told you his proudest achievement was raising our family. Yet the life he lived was extraordinary.

Eleven days from today will mark the 75th anniversary of President Franklin Roosevelt signing an executive order ordering the incarceration of Japanese Americans living on the west coast after Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. My dad, his sister and brother, all American citizens, and my grandparents were among over 100,000 Japanese Americans who lost their property, homes and freedom pretty much overnight. Years later the United States Congress and President Ronald Reagan issued an historic, formal apology and monetary reparation acknowledging this wrongful government action, one of the darkest in our country’s history.

I'm not sure I would have been as humble and strong enough to accept any or all of this fate like my dad and so many in our Japanese American community did without rage or a loss of faith. But instead of giving up on their country, my great community doubled down on the belief that the American dream was the one that would ultimately make their life and more importantly, the lives of their children, better.

A few weeks before dad died I had a dream. It was the type of dream that when I awoke, I couldn’t get back to sleep as I tried to figure out its meaning. In my dream one of my sisters told me I had to go back and get something from our childhood house, the house dad moved out when we moved him into a senior living facility four years ago. In my dream I didn’t want to argue with my sister yet I was uncomfortable walking into a house that a stranger now owned. When I entered the house it was empty. I walked upstairs to my childhood bedroom and the lime green shag carpeting and orange walls were still there. The only thing in the room was a video tape machine, my Betamax, along with a Minnesota Twins video tape up on top.

That's when I woke up.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about that dream. Ultimately what I think it meant was trying to come to terms with the achingly sad feeling of losing the last bridge to my childhood and beyond that, losing my real home. I can no longer go back into the house I grew up in and have so many fond family memories of. My sanctuary and security blanket. That was a very difficult realization to come to grips with.

I almost feel sheepish telling this story after, as a CAPM board member, hearing the personal hardships and difficulties many in our refugee communities had in coming to America. Many lost their homes in a much more real, difficult, often times violent and life shattering way. Many can never ever return to their home country without risking their lives. Even the way my dad lost his home in Seattle all those years ago is much more heartbreaking than my metaphorical middle class loss of home.

But what I've come to understand as I mourn and try to figure out what the loss of my dad means to me, is that home isn't merely a place, it's a tangible feeling with a lot of associated memories that make up who we now are. No matter where we are in our lives,what we’ve encountered, our ups, our downs, our triumphs and losses, what we really are always longing for or clinging to is something as basic as a place to call home, a place of our own, where we feel secure, safe, and sound. It’s really a basic human need right up there with air, water, and food.

Today we are standing in a glorious and historic building that is often referred to as the “people’s home.” The people who come into this building work so hard in trying to make this state feel like home for those they represent. Understanding what goes on in this building and how you can play a critical role in the process can be so important as you find the tools to achieve your own American Dream.

It’s been my great privilege during my time as a board member of CAPM, to hear from and learn from so many life stories told from different members that make up our great Minnesota Asian Pacific Islander community... as we gather in this awesome place of power, the beautifully restored Capitol...I'm humbled and inspired to play any role I can in helping improve our communities. And I thank you all for sharing in this journey.

Dad

Hit by a truck when you were a little boy
They said it was touch and go
You proved strong enough not to go
Not for another 86 years
Along the way you learned life
Presents you
with the occasional seven ten split
And you just have to give it your best shot
They took away your family's home
Said it was for your own safety
Judge Judy would have ruled that was Baka thinking
You saw your first car
Parked outside the barbed wire fence
Years later you bought a brand new car
With the apology check the government gave
You didn't like swear words
But I swear that's my all time favorite comeback
Sweet tooth crown artist who loved to drive
Proud father, grandfather, great grandfather
Never shot a man in Reno just to watch him die
Never made a Maya Moore-like three pointer
You didn't need to, to prove yourself
You just needed to live the life you did
Because you made that seven ten split
more often than most can ever hope to do

On my way to visit Dad on what turned out to be the final night of his life, a strange warning light appeared on my Mini Cooper's dash. It was a red warning symbol that looked like the hydraulic lift mechanics put cars on. When it turned off I noticed the brake warning light remained lit. I still haven't yet figured out the right metaphor, or what the symbolism of my car's warning light meant as I visited Dad during his last night on Earth. And having not had the opportunity to bring my Mini in for service, I still don't know what the warning is all about.

He drove his car. It didn't have to go very far. To him his car was all about freedom. Free to go here. Free to go there. Free to go just about anywhere. Dad and Mom loved the rides they took. Mom loved the destination. For Dad, it was just as much about the process of the journey.

I wasn't doing so well the year or so after I graduated from Macalester College with my history major and journalism minor, with my desire to become the world's next great inspirational writer. I told the world's greatest muse, who I recently met as we were now sitting in a little cubby hole our employer, a record store owner had built for children of customers to watch cartoons but where we were now taking our lunch together, (how's that for a well constructed sentence?) that I felt haunted by my recent sad overwhelming memories.  "We'll just have to make new ones," she said in her often matter of fact, but spot on Virginia Slims calming style.

Weeks later we decided we would hit the road with no particular destination in mind. She drew a map on a bar napkin to her mom's house in Kingman, Arizona, but how we would get there would be all about adventure and creating new memories to forget the old ones. When we hit the road in my robin egg blue Honda Accord that my parents bought for me, I think Mom and Dad wondered if they'd ever see me again. Not one for teary goodbyes, Dad offered his last bit of wise advice: "Don't ride the clutch."

I ended up writing an unpublished novel about that cross country trip. In a way the trip was the one that made me understand my Dad the most, and perhaps the feeling was reciprocal. I've never particularly cared for driving a car. It was always one of Dad's favorite things to do. Driving with my muse was inspiring. Dad drove a whole lot farther than I ever did with the great love of his life. 
********
 
 I was holding my Mom's hand the night she died 17 years ago. She gasped her last breath and all of us in the room kind of held ours. Dad broke the silence by asking the nurse, "Is she gone?" The nurse said yes. I, to my surprise because I had so much time to prepare for the moment, began sobbing. Dad looked over at me and said, "We will get through this, David." And I knew we probably would. What I didn't know was how much the "we" would mean.
 
********

We ate dinner most evenings together after Mom died. This lasted a number of years. During those years I think what we discovered was we really didn't have that much in common. Dad's proudest accomplishment was, despite not being a good student, helping raise five kids with college degrees (four with advanced college degrees, me being the dunce with just a Bachelor's Degree). He said he was proud, and Mom was too, that all of us turned out to be good people, successful in our chosen fields.

I don't think Dad ever understood why I never wanted a family of my own (unless you consider felines, three total, 10 and a half good legs between them, family). It wasn't I didn't ever want a family of my own, it was more that my life has always been about following my muse wherever it led me. To his credit Dad didn't consider me a failure for failing to follow in his footsteps toward what he felt was his greatest accomplishment.
 
********
 
Dad worked hard and a lot of long hours to provide for us. After dinner, when he was still working at Edco Dental Lab in downtown St. Paul, we used to call him at work to tell him all about our days because he wasn't going to be home before we all went to bed. We used to fight about who got the privilege of dialing his work number 224-5423. I don't remember what I talked to Dad about during those phone calls but being a busy working man now, I don't know how he had the patience to participate in that nightly routine. And that in a nutshell is how we were always so different.
 
********
There were some days (it must have been weekends), when Mom let us know Dad was on his way home from work and my brother Bruce and I would get all excited about seeing him that we went about hiding in the foyer closet, or the laundry room, all prepared to jump out at Dad and scare him. And boy did we seem to do so ever so effectively. Each and every time. When Mom notified us that Dad was starting a medication for a heart condition, I quite specifically remember Bruce and I asking if we should stop scaring him by jumping out from our hiding places. We didn't want to send him into cardiac arrest after all. It took many years afterward that I found out that Dad heard Bruce and I giggling from our hiding places and always just acted scared because he appreciated what we were doing in appreciating his return home.

And that was why he was the greatest Dad we could ever have.

Together Through Life

Yesterday, the world got to hear 10 new Bob Dylan songs. In my book, the world is a profoundly better place any time that happens.

What to make of Dylan's new CD, Together Through Life? It's very bluesy and with Los Lobos' David Hidalgo on accordion, there's a Tex Mex feeling to most of the songs. My favorite song upon initial listening is the jaunty "Jolene" that sounds nothing like Dolly Parton's song of the same name. Bob had to know Dolly's song exists doesn't he? And if he did, why the choice to name his heroine Jolene too? My favorite lyric? "The door is closed forever more/If indeed there ever was a door..."

R.I.P. the CD 1982-2007

By CHRIS RIEMENSCHNEIDER, Star Tribune

Once praised for its clear, crisp audio quality but panned for its susceptibility to scratches and smudges, the compact disc passed away in 2007 after a quick but painful illness. It was 25 years old.

The final cause of death has not been determined, but friends and fans blamed digital-download sites such as iTunes and illegal file-sharing among rich kids. In addition, doctors pointed to the big record companies and mega-selling artists who put out CDs in recent years that featured only a few good songs and lots of filler.

Simon Cowell, who is also a suspect in a mass plot to ruin pop music, is being questioned by police.

The CD was preceded in death by its siblings, the cassette and 8-track tape. Its older cousin, the vinyl record, has been hanging on for two decades, with life support from nerdy audiophiles.

Conceived in 1979 by engineers at Sony and Philips, the CD first went on the market in 1982. The inaugural album was Abba's "The Visitors," which led to Jerry Falwell's accusation that it was a gay technology.

The CD survived, though, and went on to account for about 200 billion album sales worldwide.

Its success led to a record-industry heyday in the 1990s, when such substantive and high-quality artists as Garth Brooks, Celine Dion, Shania Twain, the Backstreet Boys and Ace of Base sold CDs like umbrellas during monsoon season.

"The compact disc was such a great friend," mourned Brooks, the country singer who sold about 80 million albums in the CD era, many of them at Wal-Mart. "You could pop a CD into the stereo on your pickup truck or Lear jet and let it just keep spinning and spinning."

Since 2004, CD sales have declined by one-third while digital album sales have quintupled. Last year's 19 percent slide from 2006 led doctors to finally sign off on its death notice.

"I sure am going to miss the CD," said Paul McCartney, whose Beatles are one of the last groups to refuse to sell their albums on iTunes. "On the bright side, new technology means that Beatles lovers now can buy our albums for the third or fourth time."

Memorial services have not been finalized, but Elton John has committed to singing at the funeral. In lieu of flowers, please send $17.99 to the record-store owner of your choice.


5 reasons to mourn the CD

1. No, really, they do sound better. Most MP3s feature data that's compressed for quicker downloads.

2. Remember looking at album artwork? Granted, you often needed bifocals to read the lyrics and liner notes on CDs, but at least it was something.

3. You can't throw MP3s out the window like frisbees. What are you going to do now for dramatic effect when your wife/girlfriend plays her Madonna, J. Lo or Gwen Stefani MP3s to the point of insanity?

4. Computer/electronics companies, not record companies, will soon run the music business. Compact discs were overpriced, sure, but at least they profited corporations that actually discovered and developed new artists (who then got taken for everything they were worth).

5. The CD's 74-minute max was enough. With MP3s taking over, we could face 150-minute hip-hop albums -- featuring 28 annoying skits, two good songs and four different remixes of those songs.


5 reasons to cheer its death

1. No more mad dashes to the player when the disc starts skipping. A CD skip was 20 times more annoying than a vinyl album skip. It sounded like you were back-masking a Slayer album for a hidden satanic message -- even if the CD was by the Carpenters.

2. No more cellophane wrap. Those genius scientists figured out how to cram 10,000 songs onto an iPod small enough to hold in your butt crack, but could never invent a plastic wrap on CDs that didn't take minutes to get off, dangerously heighten your blood pressure and occasionally require stitches when you resorted to scissors.

3. Those old silvery discs are great for arts and crafts projects. You can string them up as mobiles or cool doorway curtains, or even construct lawn ornaments out of them.

4. It's good for the Earth. No toxic plastic or downed trees are used in the making of digital downloads.

5. Gen-X-ers have to own up to being old. Remember how you rolled your eyes when an "old" guy said, "Man, if it ain't on vinyl, it ain't on!" You're that guy now.

CD Sales Plummet, Leaving Retailers Spinning

By JON BREAM, Star Tribune

Like Britney Spears' reputation, CD sales declined dramatically in 2007 -- 19 percent, to be exact.

That news hits especially hard in the Twin Cities, a national hub for record distribution for a half-century. It is home to two of the industry's biggest players -- Best Buy and Target, which together account for 3 of every 10 discs sold in the United States -- but even smaller stores are singing the post-holiday CD blues.

To fight back, Best Buy and longtime local independents such as the Electric Fetus and Cheapo Discs are diversifying, adding everything from coffee shops and digital downloads to -- gasp! -- vinyl albums.

Although Best Buy did not suffer as sharp a downturn in CD sales, "We're not happy about the decline," said Jennifer Schaidler, vice president of music. "But we're going to go where the customers go."

That means Best Buy is now custom-tailoring its CD selection for each store.

"In Chicago, we have Polish and Arabic music," Schaidler said. "Latin music is a big initiative. The shopper is not going away. We also will be expanding our digital [download] initiative," a partnership with Rhapsody.com.

You don't need to know your way around an iPod to understand that digital downloads (legal or otherwise) are becoming the preferred medium for recorded music. Since 2004, digital song sales have more than quintupled while CD sales are down by one-third.

Although Best Buy is devoting more store space and advertising dollars to other products, it still carries a similar number of CDs -- at least 10,000 per store, according to Billboard -- and aggressively courts superstars for Best Buy-only discs, such as live DVDs by the Rolling Stones and Mariah Carey, or a Tom Petty documentary by Peter Bogdanovich.

Target takes a similar approach with tailored inventory and exclusives, including recent Christmas discs by young stars Taylor Swift, KT Tunstall and Elliott Yamin.

"We recognize that overall sales will likely continue to decline as digital options become more widespread, but remain committed to the business and to doing everything we can to encourage our guests to buy physical CDs," said Target spokesperson Amy von Walter. Its stores typically carry one-tenth as many CDs as a Best Buy.

Both Target and Best Buy "have done as well as expected, given the music environment," said Patricia Edwards, a retail analyst with Wentworth Hauser and Violich in Seattle. She thinks Best Buy's strategy to localize its inventory reflects a growing trend that "consumers want more and more customization."

Indie stores diversify

The decline of the CD has been tougher for stores that, unlike Target or Best Buy, focus primarily on music. Three local indie chains -- each in business since the hippie era -- are transforming themselves to make up for lost revenue.

The Electric Fetus, the granddaddy of them all, figures if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. It's adding digital downloads to its mail-order website.

Down in the Valley has expanded its non-CD merchandise (T-shirts, collectibles) by 30 percent.

Cheapo Discs is adding coffee shops to some stores. Buzz, a 1,000-square-foot coffee joint with a separate door, will take up about 9 percent of the St. Paul Cheapo and 5 percent of the Uptown Minneapolis location.

"I wish I had a crystal ball," said Cheapo owner Al Brown, who founded the three-store chain in 1972, and co-owns similar stores in six other states and Toronto. "I've got some ideas no one else is doing, [but] my ideas would have been great five years ago." His stores have always revolved around recordings -- the Uptown store has more than 100,000 -- but for the first time he will attend a national gift show this year to shop for other products.

Music store morphs into gifts

At Down in the Valley, "I'm trying to get my store known as a gift store, not a record store," said Steve Hyland, owner of the four-store chain, which has shopping-mall locations in Golden Valley, Wayzata, Maple Grove and Crystal. "Gift is what I'm going to survive on."

That might be a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, a ceramic Marilyn Monroe cookie jar or a Rocky key chain that screams "Yo, Adrienne!" CDs occupy less than half of the floor space now.

"Every month my business goes down, down, down," said Hyland, who opened his first shop in 1972. He estimates his CD sales dropped 18 percent from 2006 to 2007 and, to his surprise, DVD sales declined 10 percent.

Nationally, digital-download sales were up 45 percent in 2007. Those numbers are tough for even a diehard like Electric Fetus owner Keith Covart to ignore.

"We're working on a downloading site," said Covart, who has stores in south Minneapolis, St. Cloud and Duluth. "My heart is not in it. They still haven't beat the CD for [audio] quality."

But with his 2007 CD sales down about 18 percent in both retail and wholesale -- the Fetus also distributes CDs to about 200 indie and gift stores around the country -- Covart realizes "you've got to carry music in several formats: digital, vinyl, CD, new and used. Sales of vinyl is 10 times more than [the previous] year. High schoolers and college students are looking at vinyl more than CDs."

The Fetus, like the big-box stores, also tries to lure customers with exclusive titles -- 200 of them, such as "Ben Harper Live at the Twist and Shout," via the Coalition of Independent Music Stores.

Although Cheapo shuttered a 6-year-old store in Moorhead in November because of slow sales, none of the local indie merchants are talking about closing shop. Hyland would like to hand over his stores to his children even though he knows the future is "not good. In a few years -- maybe 10 years -- I don't think they'll have a CD or DVD product that you put in your hands."

That's because the under-25 crowd -- the iPod generation -- is hooked on downloading, not owning discs.

"My kid's got 1,000 songs in his MP3 [player]," Hyland said, "and he didn't buy any of them from me."

Jon Bream • 612-673-1719