January 2011
Many things made me want to start Dust & Grooves: my love of vinyl,
the loss of most of my own record collection, my desire to develop a fun
and meaningful photography project—and a handful of really inspiring
people. One of those people is Frank Gossner, also known as the man behind VoodooFunk.
Soon after moving to New York City in the summer of 2008, I read a
Village Voice story about Frank, a very serious record collector
originally from Germany. Frank has literally spent years crate digging
in Africa for the Afrobeat, Funk, and Disco records that are the main
focus of his collection. Immediately after reading about him, I wanted
to meet him, and contacted him through his mighty blog, Voodoo Funk.
Frank graciously agreed to see me over coffee, and the conversation we
had that day led many places, including to the beginning of Dust &
Grooves.
In the months that followed, Frank kept encouraging me to start the
vinyl photography project that had been germinating in my head for some
time, and also helped introduce me to the people and places at the heart
of the New York digging scene. One of the first acquaintances I made
through him was Joel Stones, owner of the gorgeous East Village record
shop Tropicalia in Furs. Beside being another cool and knowledgeable
person I could talk with about records,
Joel would become the first subject of a Dust & Grooves profile when I launched the site that October. (
Frank got his turn in 2010.)
Another of the biggest boons of getting to know Frank, however, would
not come until over two years later. In January 2011, Frank agreed to
let me tag along for a short leg of his digging trip to the West African
country of Ghana. The great volume of records pressed there in the
1970s (Ghana’s record industry heyday) has attracted large numbers of
foreign vinyl heads and profit-oriented exporters to the country since.
Also, since record collecting has never been the serious pastime in
Ghana that it is in other places, competition from local buyers tends to
be minimal. Frank has found great records in Ghana before, but thought
this might be his last trip there, as the selection has dwindled so
much. I was excited to check out these legendary record-hunting routes,
but even happier about the fact that Frank was willing to have me along
as a companion for part of this perhaps-final journey—he most often digs
alone. Also special about this trip was that Frank and I share an
affinity for Africa: the music, the people, the landscapes. So this was
bound to be a magical time.
Magical with big patches of discomfort, it turned out, starting with
visa issues. Frank and I had agreed to start by meeting in the town of
Hohoe, on the east side of the country, then head north to Tamale. I was
traveling from Cameroon but hadn’t yet arranged my visa for Ghana; I
thought I could buy it at the border. This being Africa, however,
protocol changed just in time for my visit and I wound up stranded at
the Ghanaian consulate in Togo for days, begging the desk clerks and
eventually even the dour consul himself to give me a break. Finally they
showed me mercy and allowed me a 10-day visa; not ideal, as I’d been
planning to stay three weeks, but it was a lot better than nothing, and I
wound up walking over the border from Togo into Ghana (where a guard
was able to extend my stay to two and a half weeks in exchange for a
wink, smile, and $30). Once I got to the capital city of Accra, I was
just a bumpy seven-hour bus ride away from where Frank was staying in
Hohoe.
Needless to say, when I arrived at the hotel bar after midnight, Frank
was a sight for sore eyes. But no sooner had I ordered a beer and begun
to relax than he broke the news: Hohoe was dry, he had found; there was
nothing here to be dug these days (at least nothing he wanted). But he
had gotten a good tip about Mampong, so he wanted to change course and
head there. I forget if I laughed or cried when Frank told me we were
about to be going back nearly the same way I’d just come: around Lake
Volta to the city of Kumasi, from which we’d get to the tiny town of
Mampong, a nine-hour bumpy bus ride this time. And please don’t picture
an air-conditioned coach with TV screens and drink-holding armrests. A
lot of well-worn European minibuses are donated to African countries to
live out their golden years packed with commuters and all manner of
material goods. The people of Ghana are polite and tolerant, but when
you’re packed like sardines with anyone on a bus trip that long and hot
and nauseating, you’re pretty glad to say your farewells when it’s over.
When we got to Kumasi, we hired two porters (they happened to be female;
interestingly to me, lots of women were offering to do this work at the
bus terminal, along with men) to help us schlep our bags to the taxi
we’d take to Mampong. Frank takes his digging trips with several huge
bags systematically filled with clothes, record equipment, and shit
loads of fliers. And just like the luggage system, he has a tried and
true methodology for digging in Africa: for each location he visits, he
puts together colorful fliers showing the covers of albums he wants to
buy and his phone number, with instructions to call if you have the
record and want to sell it. He also buys airtime at local radio stations
in each location: the DJ announces several times a day for however many
days Frank’s in town that anyone with records in his genres can take
them to his hotel (or a park, or wherever he’s setting up shop) during a
certain range of hours. Though the fliers often get taken down and kept
just because they’re pretty, and though lots of people show up to the
hotel lobbies with very different types of records, or sometimes no
records at all, and though sometimes they call Frank with false claims
of great collections, overall, the pitches do pay off.
Finally, we arrive in Mampong. It’s dry, dusty, and flat; dirt roads,
tin sheds, rail fences, donkeys milling. It’s shorts and t-shirts
weather, though of course Frank has his fatigues and heavy boots on. (He
explains that he’s on a mission when he digs like this: no frivolous
flip-flops—he’s dressed for duty.) We make our first stop checking into
the Video City Hotel, so named because of its close proximity to a
former thriving VHS projection house-slash-church! The hotel’s
proprietor explained to us that since the advent of DVDs, few people
were interested in leaving the house and paying admission to see
inferior quality films. But many of the murals and artifacts that had
adorned the place in its heyday—both of cinematic and religious
theme—remained, and walking through the empty building was a total trip:
oh look, here’s a tempera rendering of Invasion of the Blood Farmers
across the aisle from a statue of Jesus. Pretty intense. (Frank writes
about the Video City Hotel in his account of the Ghana trip on Voodoo
Funk.)
Of course, we couldn’t spend too long loitering in that cool decaying
palace—Frank had records to find. Out came his chrome-plated staple gun
and up went scores of fliers. When they’re traveling together, Frank
usually asks Ken to do the stapling because it’s a lot less conspicuous.
Ken is a native Ghanaian who helps Frank scout for records from time to
time: he helps translate (both language and culture), spreads the word
to key people about Frank’s arrival, and generally acts as a liaison.
Especially in places where white skin just equals money in the eyes of
many locals, his help can be vital.
On the first day of the four we planned to spend in Mampong, turnout was
not great. Despite the ads on Mighty FM and all the fliers, we had few
visitors, their records were not in Frank’s bailiwick, and a lot of them
were in poor shape. It’s a difficult thing, turning people down:
they’ve come some distance with their records, and usually could really
use the money. Frank stays professional through the entire process,
though, letting people know nicely but definitively when he’s not
interested. He gave me a good lesson in professionalism of a different
kind, as well. When our first potential sellers showed up to the hotel
patio that day, I immediately starting taking pictures. Frank let a few
shutter clicks go by before taking me aside and suggesting that if I
wanted to take a bunch of pictures of someone, it would be nice of me to
offer the person something in return, like maybe buy one of their
cheaper records. In a situation like this, he explained, people are apt
to feel they’re giving something when their photo is taken, so it’s only
polite for the photographer to give something back. I took up this
habit immediately and kept it for the duration of the trip. I even wound
up with some good records this way.
We felt a bit discouraged after the slow start, but on the second day,
we made an acquaintance who would become one of the trip’s, and Dust
& Grooves’, most memorable players. Philip Osei Kojo was 90 years
old when we met him, and a father of 24 (yes, let me repeat that: he has
24 children). Philp often sits on the Video City patio and has an
afternoon beer; he’s something of a fixture in the community and
receives regular visitors. This afternoon, as we all got to talking
about records and the purpose of our trip, Philip bought Frank and I a
beer—for the “rich tourists” to be treated to drinks by a local was, to
us, a startlingly kind gesture. Philip said he had a large record
collection, and we would be welcome to go to his house to see it, so
early the next morning, we did.
Philip lives alone now, and his home is well appointed though not fancy.
Frank promptly sat and pored over Philip’s collection with his usual
lightning speed and expert eye. Much of it was highlife music, but
nothing of particular interest to Frank right then, since the condition
of the records was pretty poor. I myself bought a few albums that caught
my eye, and Philip made a point of giving me one as a gift.
One fascinating thing we learned about Philip that day was that he
hadn’t listened to his records in over 30 years. He used to pride
himself on his habit of replacing his Zenith turntable needle when it
got too worn down so it wouldn’t mar his records. But at some point the
Zenith needed repairs that Philip couldn’t make, and, with no record
repair shop in town, his collection laid fallow. This story of course
affected me, and I spent the next day thinking about it.
Day three at the hotel gave us a better crop. Just as we were were
getting used to the long, tedious days of sitting around, waiting for
things to happen, a woman approached us with a plastic bag containing
about 25 LPs. Ken picked through them but couldn’t find anything he
thought Frank would want. I asked if I could take a portrait of her with
the records and she agreed; to show my gratitude, I bought one of them
for 20 Ghanaian Cedis (about $10 US). I had no idea what it was, and
clues from the sleeve indicated it might be English reggae and/or
religious in nature, but the name on the front, “Heads Funk,” caught my
eye. I showed it to Frank and he was taken aback. “Ken,” he said, “how
could you not show me this record? Anything with the word ‘funk’ in the
title is something I want to see, even if it might appear to be reggae.”
Ken acknowledged his mistake and we went to Frank’s room to listen to
the record (a big component of Frank’s digging expeditions is the
dragging around of a portable turntable, so he can preview records
before buying). The music didn’t turn out to be our favorite, but Heads
Funk is a collectible group and this record was even relatively rare
(Frank hadn’t seen it before). We made some other good scores later that
afternoon—including a record by Ghanaian band Marijata that Frank was
very happy to get—but my 20 Cedi LP probably made for the best story.
The morning of the fourth day, I got an idea: could I take Frank’s
portable turntable to Philip’s house so he could listen to his records
once again, even if only for an afternoon? I asked Frank if he would be
willing to make the loan for this special occasion. The turntable is the
lifeline between Frank and his records throughout digging ventures like
this; if something happened to it, we might not be able to get a
replacement in time to save the trip. Frank was quite aware of all this,
yet it didn’t take him long to consent. The hope that we might be able
to give Philip an afternoon with his music was reward enough to take the
risk.
I thanked Frank and headed to Philip’s with the turntable. He was happy
to see me, and quickly went to work setting up a table and chairs on his
porch to make us a proper listening area. Then he searched through the
house and collected stack after stack of records to bring out. Many
weren’t in sleeves and had become laced with the dust of years past;
others were sandwiched in covers that looked well-used. We hooked the
little turntable up to small speakers that gave off a warm, ambient,
transistor-y sound. Our ad hoc record room was actually a pretty sight.
In the golden afternoon light, Philip selected his first 45 and
dutifully dusted it off before setting it on the platter and lifting the
tonearm down as I looked on. At the first sound, he grinned a little,
but his eyes were distant; he looked pensive and unsure. It was hard to
imagine everything he was feeling. He lovingly dusted off a second
record and carefully examined the wording on its label before playing
it. He hadn’t even looked at many of these albums in decades; it was as
though he were rediscovering all of it before my eyes.
After a few songs played through and Philip stayed still, I started
to move a bit to see if it might make him more comfortable—just a little
snapping, humming along. I wasn’t sure if it would draw him out, but
almost as soon as I started, he let loose. The smiles came bursting
forth, the laughter erupted, and soon he was dancing and clapping along.
He came alive, even throwing his head back joyfully and moving his hips
like he was on the dance floor to some of his favorite tunes. It was a
wonderful and special thing to watch Philip reconnecting with music that
had once been a part of his life but that for so long had been silent.
We kept up the snaps and smiles, and grooved for more than an hour.
Philip walked me back to Video City when he’d had enough. I offered to
send him some of the photographs I took during our listening session,
but he wasn’t really interested. We said our farewells, and I gave Frank
back his turntable, still in fine shape.
Frank, Ken, and I packed our operation up that night and woke at 5:00
the next morning to take a twelve-hour bus to Tamale, which was a whole
different sort of terrible than the bus that had gotten us to Kumasi.
Maybe the universe heard my complaints about the lack of air
conditioning and entertainment on that ride, because this bus driver
threatened to give me hypothermia with the AC on blast the whole way,
and a series of low-budget African soap opera-style dramas played on a
loud loop, frying my brain in contrast. I got the feeling most of the
other passengers were enjoying the ride, but it was all I could do not
to jump out a window. Frank, of course, was unbothered.
Tamale had been a big hope for Frank, who thought its remote location
would mean a good cache of unfound records. (As he put it: “The more
remote the location and the worse the road that leads to it, the better
your chances of finding valuable records.” But small towns can also wind
up bone-dry and a big hassle to get to for nothing, so you have to
weigh the gamble.) The city is a bit of a thruway for trade between the
north and south regions of the country, and therefore its own local
culture has a hard time taking root. It also doesn’t get a lot of
tourists, and therefore most of the hotels are filled with rats and
uninterested staff. But eventually we found a nice place on the
outskirts of town and settled in for the night.
The climate is harsher in Tamale than in Mampong, hotter and more
desert-like. It also feels a little more relaxed; there’s a larger
Muslim population there and it shows in the calm demeanors of the
people. Ken left the hotel at 6:00 am to attack the city with flyers and
arrange for spots on two radio stations. I thought people might
occasionally mind having their telephone poles plastered with these
things, but that never seemed to be the case; they appeared to be
entertained by it more than anything. Something else about Tamale: At a
certain point, Frank decided he should print some larger posters and
post them on walls across the city. Since no computers were involved in
this craft, Franks had to reconstruct the layout of the fliers and
adjust it to a poster layout in a DIY-style, with fingernail scissors
and glue.
We got a lot of fake phone calls in Tamale—Frank started a Fool Numbers
list so we knew not to pick up the phone if one of them rang twice. Ken
worked hard talking with each caller first, to ascertain if they were
being honest by asking for specific details about records (“What does
the back side of the cover look like?” and “What’s the first song on the
first side?” were nearly foolproof questions). Between fake offers, we
answered a call from Mr. Baba, an elderly-sounding man who purported to
have a good collection at home. Ken vetted him and we agreed to pay a
visit.
Baba welcomed us in and Frank got down to business. We soon came across
an album by Fela Kuti and Afrika 70 called Zombie from 1977. Baba
explained that “zombie” was a slang term for police, and that the record
was considered so controversial that it was once banned in Ghana; Baba
used to hide it from view, even in his house. Frank already has a few
copies of it, but that was great for me, as I was keen to take it home.
Baba told us that his health was no longer good and he couldn’t leave
the house much. He wanted to sell as many records as possible to pay for
his medications. I offered him about $10 for Zombie and he accepted,
saying that was good money. He walked us back to our hotel slowly,
around piles of building bricks and stands of goats, and we parted ways.
Our last day in Tamale was a mixed bag. We met a guy on a motorbike in
the morning who claimed he had some of the records Frank had been
looking for desperately. Frank asked him all about them as we stood in
the road, trying to make sure he was the real deal before we made the
effort to trek to his home. He was convincing, so off we went. But when
we got there, the reality was entirely different: just stacks and stacks
of totally unrelated stuff. Frank got pretty upset and we look off.
When you only have so much time to spend, it stings to realize you’ve
wasted it.
Back at the hotel, though, we were able to redeem our luck. A super
knowledgeable man who had connections to the music community in Tamale
came by the courtyard in the afternoon with some great stuff. Frank
pored over the collection for some time, playing record after record on
his turntable, which was perched on a bench between two trees. He came
away with a good haul, and the experience definitely helped make up for
the crap time we’d had earlier that day.
Though we wound up making out alright overall in Tamale (with a very
rare Astronauts Pop Band 45 taking the cake), Frank commented that this
was so far the least successful digging trip he’d ever been on. It was
hard for me to believe, as it seemed to me like a great adventure, but
apparently it paled in comparison for him.
My time with Frank was up after our stint in Tamale, but he and Ken went
on to Bolgatanga, Wa, and Accra, possibly among other places. Frank
wrote on his
blog
about one incident in which he broke down an old door (with the hotel
owner’s permission) to take a look through a forgotten trove of records
just minutes before his bus left for the next town! Maybe that episode
redeemed the trip somewhat for him.
Thanx for this amazing story to dustandgrooves.com !!!
