THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, December 5, 1994 TAG: 9412030038
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY RICKEY WRIGHT, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Short : 50 lines
AT MIDNIGHT, the carts come out.
So do the record-buyers waiting for them.
Every Tuesday morning - early every Tuesday morning - at Planet Music, the week's new releases are carted out to the sales floor. Other nights, the Virginia Beach ``superstore'' closes at midnight, but since it opened in November 1993, Planet has kept the lights on a half-hour later on Monday for the die-hards, those who want to be first.
Look for a big crowd tonight: Pearl Jam's new ``Vitalogy'' arrives on CD and cassette.
When the album, the third by the Seattle supergroup, came out on vinyl two weeks ago, fans were ready. So was one father, who begged off answering questions about his purchase.
``I wouldn't know `Vitalogy' from - I don't know,'' he said. ``My son's asleep, and I'm not.''
``I probably won't even buy the CD,'' said Paul Saylor of Newport News, holding a copy of the LP. Saylor is a veteran of the late-night scene. He was at Planet three weeks earlier to pick up Nirvana's ``MTV Unplugged in New York.''
Did he plan to stay up even later to listen to Pearl Jam's latest?
``I usually just listen on the way home,'' Saylor said.
Twenty to 30 shoppers were out the night of the Nirvana release, but not everyone was there for the same reason. The carts also carried new titles from Megadeth, Tom Petty and Aerosmith. In first-night terms, Megadeth's ``Youthanasia'' appeared to be running a strong second to Nirvana.
``When I hear (about) a record I want, I'm here,'' said Megadeth fan Frank Hunley III of Virginia Beach. ``Sometimes I'll be here a little early just to make sure I get one.''
Planet general manager Ted Liles said customers start calling on Monday.
``A lot of our customers want the new releases one day early,'' he said.h fives, ``well dones,'' etc. Then a pole will be run between the deer's tied legs, men will lift the pole and before long, someone with a camera will yell ``Hold it!'' and snap a photo.
Then the deer will be dumped in the back of a pickup truck. Or maybe roped to the front of a Jeep Cherokee.
Fortunately, I only have to see two or three slain deer photos a year now. But I remember my younger days in North Carolina when I worked for a weekly newspaper and was handed at least two or three of the photos a day to admire.
A hunter would park his four-wheel drive wagon outside the small newspaper office and thump his boots over the wooden newsroom floor until reaching my desk. Pinching a glossy of a slain deer hanging from a pole, he would wave it to the desktop with the pride of a man who has put four aces on the poker table.
I remember the first time it happened.
``Whadaya think?'' the hunter asked, pushing his ball cap up and away from his eyes with a thumb.
I stared at the photo. Bloody wound on the chest of the deer, neck contorted, tongue flopped over the lips like a swatch of red flannel. The Taj Mahal by moonlight it wasn't. Arrrghhhh.
``Whadaya think!'' he repeated.
``I think I'm going to throw up,'' I replied.
Somehow, my lack of enthusiasm for the slain deer photos became known to the newspaper's publisher. Our publisher was a deer hunter himself. He loved those deer photos and rarely missed a chance to publish one. Even if it meant bumping a shot of a gun battle outside the local bank from the front page.
The publisher kicked his legs up on a scarred walnut desk, brushing away a pouch of Beech Nut chewing tobacco with his heels.
``What is it about those dead deer photos you don't like, Maddry?'' he asked.
I shifted from foot to foot. ``There just seems to be a sameness about them, sir,'' I replied. ``You've got the pole, the feet in the air, the tongue hanging out, the antlers nearly dragging the ground. No matter how good the photo is, it's essentially the same thing. Not exactly like revisiting the Sistine Chapel ceiling is it?''
He pinched some tobacco from his pouch and stuffed it into a florid cheek.
``Well, keep your opinions to yourself,'' he said. ``It's dead deer photos that sell newspapers.''
Thereafter I kept my opinion to myself. And hunters continued to hand carry the photos of blasted Bambis to my desk. In time I developed a foolproof method of dealing with the photos which, while hypocritical, was not outright lying. .
``How do you like this?'' a proud hunter would ask, a smile of accomplishment and triumph on his lips as he handed me yet another dead deer photo.
They all looked ghastly. But I had been warned by the publisher and suspected the worst from him. I believed it likely that when Christmas rolled around, he would run a drawing of Santa on the front page that had poles running between a reindeer's feet.
I spent much time with each photo, holding it close to my nose, then at arm's length for a better look. Then, slowly returning it to my desk, I would rise from my chair and rest a hand on the hunter's shoulder.
``Now there, sir, is a deer photo!'' I'd exclaim.
It seemed to comfort them. by CNB