“VHS Voyage”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-19)

Memories.

In shadowed crevices of the human brain, such recollections may linger for a near-eternity, still fresh and unaffected by the passage of time. But in analog form, specifically, when recorded on magnetic tape, such events suffer through an aging process not unlike the one that governs human mortality.

I witnessed this truism recently, when a friend from yonder days requested copies of any material I might have on hand from our shared stint at Channel 13 in Ithaca, New York. He was in charge of the station, and I had landed in his care through an apprenticeship program of Cornell University.

Our voyage together was from 1978 to 1980. I first met him at the age of 17.

I called him ‘The Guru’ as he had already lived into his 30’s, graduated from college, and become a teacher in the SUNY system. The State University of New York. He introduced me to the compositions of Woody and Steina Vasulka, a husband-and-wife-team notable in the early days, for pioneering work in media arts. Though my reserve of ideas was plentiful, I lacked much practical knowledge. Yet he spoke in a language I could understand. Patient, yet demanding.

“Think of a video system like plumbing,” he declared one afternoon. “You have a supply, pipes to feed the flow, and a destination point, like a spigot.” The analogy registered in my teenage brain. Soon, I was able to re-wire our studio, when it had been broken down for other needs. After a class on editing, I assembled a compilation of a show I hosted at the station.

It was a music and culture program, called “Punk-Out!”

Through the magic of social media, I located ‘The Guru’ almost 40 years later. We connected via Facebook and traded messages. Other friends in Ithaca and New York City made this possible. Then, a few weeks ago, my erstwhile mentor sent a query about video relics that I might have on hand.

His request was straightforward: A digital copy of any tapes that had survived from our cooperation at Channel 13.

With some trepidation, I pondered that our late cohort Riverside Paul, also involved in the show, had dubbed off a VHS copy of material sometime in the early 1990’s. He had originally recorded my compilation video with his Sony Betamax device, at the studio. He also had black & white footage of a session with house band ‘The Embarrassing Pinworms’ when I had taken over as lead vocalist due to the departure of student and frontman, Johnny Youth.

The videocassette had been in storage for almost 30 years. I tried to play it once before, in recent times, with the contents jamming in my neglected Kmart VCR. So the thought of making another attempt to revive the video-brick gave me butterflies in my stomach. Yet I knew that the tape would only decompose further with time added to its isolation. So I purchased a USB system off of eBay, with the needed connectors and a driver program included on CD. I hooked up the hardware to a brand-new VCR discovered at the home of my parents. Then, installed the driver. After winding the tape through for safety, I clicked on the input controls. What followed was a trip back to 1979, before career fatigue, divorce, family alienation and old age took their toll on my body and soul.

On the computer screen, I was young again!

The sight of deceased compatriots from that distant era quickened my pulse. Most impressive was the moving image of Mark the Poet, a local iconoclast and songwriter from that era. His creation ‘Mike Hammer Dead In Black & White’ became an anthem for Pinworms shows, rendered over music stolen from Henry Mancini’s ‘Peter Gunn Theme.’ Sadly, Mark left the mortal realm in 1980.

I felt a sweet release of stress as the recording finished its run without incident. My task seemed to be at the end.

When trying to copy the file onto a SanDisk USB stick, so that it could be sent to the Guru in Brooklyn, I encountered an error message that said the file was too large. I knew this could not be correct. Yet the message repeated again and again. Feeling a rising tide of frustration, I consulted online help. A forum post prescribed reformatting the stick from FAT32 into NTFS to avoid the 4GB limit on saved files.

As in my days with ‘The Guru’ I barely understood, but trusted the guidance. This procedure wiped the stored memory clean, but it worked. I was able to transfer the two-hour video at last.

The first digitization had been accomplished at my kitchen table, with an old Compaq laptop, running Windows 7. The USB link I bought included Honestech TVR 2.5 as a driver program, which according to comments on eBay, was a Chinese bootleg of an outdated Ulead program. When I plugged the stick into my more modern PC in the home office, running Windows 10, it failed. I could not get a video signal.

I pondered the situation over adult beverages. My path was clear. The real-time transfer would have to be done all over again.

A day later, I shuffled notebooks, mail, and ephemera to make a spot for the VCR on top of my PC printer. I hooked up the USB device and cables, again. I wound the tape through once more, for good measure. A search in cyberspace revealed the computer program ‘Open Broadcaster Software’ which was a freeware alternative. Offered for PC, Mac and Linux. When downloaded, it looked much like the TVR 2.5 setup, but was improved with better features.

I repeated the process and again heard the ringing of Riverside Paul’s Fender Telecaster, contrasting with the keyboard doodles of our friend Manic McManus. My co-host on the show. They were performing a version of the Janie Bradford / Berry Gordy classic, ‘Money (That’s What I Want).’

Finally, the had transfer worked.

Assured of my success, I packaged the SanDisk memory stick to be mailed. Jangling, buzzing guitar riffs still echoed in my head. I felt glad to have saved the vintage recording to a current format.

And glad to have preserved the memories of my friends who had graduated to eternity.

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