by Dan Bolles
Casey Rea will be leaving Burlington in roughly one week — or as Casey might say, not fuckin' soon enough. I'm not sure that he planned it this way, but I do find it curious that the week he and his lovely wife Brooke chose to fly the coop is the one week that I'd likely have too much to write about in my column to publicly acknowledge his departure . . . Or maybe he just doesn't like jazz. In either case, shrewd move my dark friend — but you ain't getting off that easy.
I've known of Casey for some time, originally as the the guitarist for local metal heroes Rocketsled, then later as the quintessential record store guy at Pure Pop. It was there that I had my first real encounter with the man, the myth, the legend that is Casey Rea.
About four years ago, I wandered into the dank music Mecca to all things hipper-than-thou, looking for a birthday present for my younger sister, Ariel. At the time, she was particularly enamored with a certain cheesy songwriter named Mason Jennings, who'd just released a new album which, for the life of me, I couldn't find anywhere in the store. I'm typically not the type of person to ask a clerk a for assistance unless it's absolutely necessary, and what follows is a perfect example of why.
I approached the counter and asked an attractive young girl if she knew where I might find the record in question. Puzzled, she turned to the man in black behind her and asked if they had any left in the store. Looking up from some sort of paperwork, a pained expression crossed his face. "Bleccchh," was all he said before turning around and exiting the store through a door in the back.
I ended up buying the album at Borders, and Casey, you were right. The album was totally bleccchh.
I won't bore you — or piss off Casey — with fawning flattery. But I would like to say thanks. What we do isn't easy and Burlington has been very lucky to have an advocate — and critic — of your considerable abilities. I truly do have some big black shoes to fill.
Also, on behalf of Burlington, I'd like to say, Fuck The Washington Post.
I'm kinda broke, so this is all I could do as a parting gift, but I think you'll like it.
Good luck, man