On a recent trip to Paris, I stopped by to meet a pretty unique collector. Patrice Caillet collects records, some jazz, some rock, garage and other oddities, but this is not the reason we met. Actually, he refused to show me any of his real records. Real records? Are there any fake records involved? Not exactly, but sort of.
We walked for about 10 minutes to reach his humble apartment. 4th floor walk up. We listened to some experimental jazz as background music while drinking coffee and talking about his collection. I wanted to take a photo of his house, but he was persistent in his objection to be presented as a vinyl collector. “Let’s go to my office in the basement,” he said. “That’s where the real interesting stuff is.”
Down again, 4 stories, no elevator, we reach the stuffy basement office or study, to be more precise.
Patrice starts to pull out some albums from his collection. They are weird and freaky sometimes. I get a weird feeling while taking photos. I can’t really explain. I guess it is the extreme change of scene. From documenting serious vinyl collectors with real heavy collections, I find myself in this basement, taking serious photos of amateur, infantile record covers. But wait, this collection is serious! Patrice’s observations and comments and his endless passion and admiration to this art form slowly gets to me, persuading me that this is nothing to look down at. He mentions “Art Brut,” Outsider Art.
Modified Grease as a punk detournement
A red Lee “Scratch” Perry