He's Got This Dream About Buying Some Land

He's gonna give up the booze and the one-night stands...

Gerry Rafferty, best known for "Baker Street" and the Stealer's Wheel hit "Stuck in the Middle with You," is dead at age 63. Although his later career had few sucesses, he created at least three (and arguably four) nearly perfect pop songs.

I know three important things about Gerry Rafferty:

The name of his first solo album was Can I Have My Money Back?

The first Stealer's Wheel album (the one with "Stuck in the Middle with You") was produced by Lieber & Stoller ("Yakety Yak," "Jailhouse Rock," "Spanish Harlem," etc.). Rafferty had already quit the band by the time the record came out and started to sell millions.

And then there was a record store. In a mall. Where I found myself before I knew how uncool mall record stores were.

But in the carefully ranked pantheon of cool, record stores were still up there (even if they were in malls). And the record store clerks knew this and wanted you to know it too -- especially the ones who weren't quite cool enough to work to work in non-mall record stores.

So, while I was perusing the cut-outs, someone's Mom wandered up to the counter and asked for a Gerry Rafferty album. Except she didn't know the name Gerry Rafferty. Or the name of any of his songs. Instead, she asked if the clerk could identify a song for her. And then she started to sing (in a screechy, off-key way) the opening sax part of Gerry Rafferty's "Baker Street."

The clerk let her go on for longer than he needed to. Then she stopped, somewhat embarrassed. And said she was going to get the record for her daughter, who loved the song.

A few years later, record store clerks would stop knowing much about music. A few years after that, record stores started to close and never come back. And now, you can limit your embarrassment to your smartphone because if you wanna know who sings any song in the world, hey, there's an app for that.

But this was back then.

"I know exactly what you're talking about," said the clerk. As he bounded up the aisle, I caught a glimpse of an intricate tattoo carefully hidden by a long-sleeve black t-shirt.

He picked through the albums, frowning, then squatted and went through the stacks stored below the inventory that was on display.

Finally, the clerk reared up to full height, as triumphant in his own way as the Raphael Ravenscraft sax solo on "Baker Street." As he handed the woman a record, I thought for a second the clerk (with hair all disheveled and eyes barely containing his fury at having to service the bourgeoisie) could have been a bear -- if bears listened to twitchy new wave bands and took speed in the woods.

The woman thanked the clerk and clutched the record to her. "My daughter will love this."

But when she turned back to walk to the cash register, I saw what she was carrying. It wasn't a Gerry Rafferty record at all -- it was a Sex Pistols album.

I looked at the clerk, who smiled conspiratorially at me, and held a finger to his lips.

Part of me knew it was wrong. But who was I to argue with anyone cool enough to work in a record store (even if it was in a mall)? And in pursuit of the cool and the dangerous, I didn't say anything. And who knows, maybe her daughter grew to love the Sex Pistols and became the bass player for an amazing pop-punk band (hopefully one that recognized how great a sax solo can sound).