My dad, Michael Brooks, was an archivist, a music salvage expert. He worked deep into old age at Sony's New York office: curating the company's labyrinthine back catalogue; sourcing and restoring antique steel recordings.
For every Diana Ross, Johnny Cash or Billy Joel who struck gold, there were a hundred other signed artists who didn't. For every song that is in print and available, there are at least 10 that are mothballed in storage.
A lot of it is awful, my dad used to say. But even the awful work is interesting, significant, and now and again you stumble across something special.
My dad loved his job and Sony valued his expertise, but his body was failing and the commute took its toll. He worked until lunch then reached for his coat: he was done.
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