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The Organ Oasis“Can I just spare a minute of your time?” sputtered the disheveled loiterer. “Keep tryin’, pal,” Dr. Franklin Shapiro snapped back as he breezed up the block. He had other things on his mind. Ducking out of the July sunbath, Shapiro strode rigidly through the carpeted cavern that was Dino’s proper. Nonplussed by the busy, obnoxious techno and flickering neon light that filled the room, he braved the dead gazes of the clerks and made his way to the stairs. Within a few seconds, he was insulated in darkness. He found his favored booth and latched the wooden door behind him. He sat down, fed a crisp dollar into the machine and waited to be soothed by some swank, old-fashioned organ-based pop. Ahh. ‘S wonderful. Nino Rapicavoli’s “Autogeno” lurches into an odd syncopation and logically builds on it, hitting its climax all too soon. Click. Valvola’s “Venus 69” eases into the ear canal with blasé confidence. It’s effortlessly cool, charmingly melodic and endearingly vapid. Click. Louis Philippe polishes and disinfects John Lennon’s “I’m Only Sleeping,” rendering it a droll, luxurious snooze. Dull purists will squirm, but the affectionate attention he pays the song justifies its newfound numb comfort. Click. The singer from Remington Super 60 gets a bittersweet taste of lonely freedom on “You Used To Be My Baby Pt. 3.” He’ll never see her smile again, but oh!, the possibilities. Click. Pram’s “Running Shoes” is haunted like a beach scene that had to be shot on a cloudy day because waiting for the t-storm to pass would’ve put the film over budget. To wit, haunted by circumstance, beachy by design. The whole is beachier than it is haunted, just low budget. Click. Saturnine soul man Tony Goddess can’t get over his ex-gal pal either, but that doesn’t keep him out of the disco. Now, how to channel that still-inflamed passion? Click. Merricks find a slow, bottom-heavy groove on “Discodancing und Booker T.” and ride it ‘til the credit card’s kaput. Click. The airy, over-emotive gasping on The Clientele’s “As Night Is Falling” is perhaps a wee bit embarrassing, as the scene doesn’t call for such forced melodramatics. But Shapiro enjoys it for what it is until his time runs out. This is Shapiro’s favorite vacation spot. He couldn’t afford to live here, but his regular visits keep him from quitting the job and ditching the family. This is the music that keeps his heart rate down. Fuck passion. Relaxation’s the ticket. Some settings are threadbare and businesslike, while some are ornate, trimmed with little luxuries. Shapiro prefers the plush, furnished rooms to the cracked drywall, but wonders how many of the decorated lampshades and blinging emerald necklaces he would miss if they weren’t there. By Emerson Dameron
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View all articles by Emerson Dameron
