Before the Record Stops Spinning: A Tribute to Joe and Discovering Treasures

Kevin McElroy
Editor, Tune Up Magazine

It starts with Guiseppe “Joe” DiPietro, the man behind Howard & Nan’s at the Berlin Farmer’s Market—or as we locals call it, The Auction. I didn’t know Joe, and in fact, just this past year was the first time we got to talk on one of my occasional Sunday morning trips to The Auction. I was picking up some jazz records for my wife (thanks to some character named Harvey on Suits), and Joe and I got to chatting.

Joe was a Vietnam vet who served his country proudly in the Air Force. When it came to the government and the news, let’s just say he was skeptical. He was a man who carved his own path, trusting only what he could see, hear, and touch. No TV. No outside noise. Just the peace of vinyl grooves and the company of people who got it.

For over 60 years, Joe was the quiet guardian of Howard & Nan’s, a Berlin institution and a treasure chest of recorded music. He didn’t just sell records; he sold stories, moments, and the chance to find a little magic if you were willing to look. Read more about Joe’s legacy here.

I Was 12. Ozzy Bit a Bat. We Bit Off More Than We Could Chew.

It was 1982, and I was in seventh grade when I first heard the rumor at school: some guy named Ozzy Osbourne bit the head off a bat at one of his shows. What?! This was the most insane thing I’d ever heard. I HAD to hear this guy’s music immediately.

But this was 1982. No internet, no cell phones, no playlists. If you wanted an album, you had to find it the old-fashioned way. I could not get home from school soon enough—I was not a very patient child at all. I grabbed my money, hopped on my Huffy, and rode to Johnny E’s house. Of course, Johnny was coming.

The plan was simple: ride up Cross Keys Road to Howard & Nan’s. If you know the road, you know how dumb this was—no shoulder, narrow lanes, speeding cars. But we didn’t care. We were kids on a mission. A mission from God? Nope. A dumb mission, but a mission nonetheless.

By some miracle, we made it. I don’t remember if Joe waited on us that day, but I’ll never forget what I found: Diary of a Madman.

The cover hit me like a freight train—Ozzy, wild-eyed, in some haunted room with a creepy kid behind him, standing in front of a wicked cross. I didn’t know a single song on it, but it didn’t matter. I threw my money on the counter, grabbed the bag, and we bolted.

Johnny’s Bike Got Stolen. Randy Rhoads Got Taken Too Soon.

Outside, we discovered Johnny’s bike was gone. Just…gone. If a bike was going to get stolen anywhere, it would be at The Auction. The real question is, WHO doesn’t lock up their bike at The Auction??

Dopey Johnny. That’s who.

We knew this wasn’t smart. All that mattered at the moment was the mission. OF COURSE it would get stolen. I guess they liked Johnny’s bike better. I’d like to say I remember what it looked like, but he had it for such a short time, I can’t. Well, someone liked it enough to take it.

GREAT. NOW WHAT??!

There was only one choice: Johnny rode on the handlebars of my one-speed Huffy. And who would go along with this??

Dopey Kevin. That’s who.

Picture it: two kids wobbling up Cross Keys Road. Me, clutching the bag with Ozzy’s face glaring through it. Johnny, perched up front like it was perfectly normal. We’d bitten off more than we could chew—just like Ozzy.

By some miracle, we made it back. I ripped off the cellophane, dropped the needle, and the opening riff of Over the Mountain hit us like a lightning bolt. I was in love. Like everyone else, I was blown away by Randy Rhoads. His playing was a Revelation.

And then, a few months later, we lost Randy to a stupid plane accident. He was gone at 25, and it stung.

It’s funny how music ties itself to moments. That bike ride, that stolen bike, and that first listen of Diary of a Madman are locked in my brain forever.

I told Joe that story last year and let him know he still owed Johnny a bike. He smiled.

What We’re Holding Onto

Now, 43 years later, I still have that album. It’s survived moves, years, and life itself. It’s a reminder of Joe, of Howard & Nan’s, of Randy, and of a time when music was magic—and you had to chase it.

But here’s the thing—our legends are getting older, too. Ozzy’s health has been rough. And just the other day, I heard Doug Aldrich (Whitesnake, Dio, The Dead Daisies) talk about beating throat cancer. Doug’s a guy who’s always taken care of himself, but cancer doesn’t care. He’s back and playing again, but it’s another reminder: none of this lasts forever.

Before the Record Stops Spinning

The music we grew up on isn’t going anywhere. But the legends? The stories? The places like Howard & Nan’s? We can’t take them for granted.

If you’ve got the chance to see one of your favorite bands live, take it. If you haven’t kept up with their new stuff, go back and check it out. And if you’ve got the old albums, sit down. Drop the needle. Really listen.

Music gave us heroes when we were kids. And now, as we get older, it reminds us just how fleeting life is.

As for me, I haven’t ridden a bike up Cross Keys Road since that day, and I don’t plan on breaking that streak. But when I play Diary of a Madman, I’m right back there—Johnny on the handlebars, Ozzy in the bag, and two dumb kids who didn’t know any better.

And I wouldn’t change a thing.

A Final Toast to Joe

To Guiseppe “Joe” DiPietro—thank you for your service, thank you for the music, and thank you for being a quiet guardian of the magic we all needed.

As Clarence wrote in his favorite book, Tom Sawyer (though Joe struck me as more of a Huck Finn type): “No man is a failure who has friends.”

Well, Joe, from the looks of the tributes online, you had plenty of those—SCORE!

From all accounts I’ve read, you were a good, a fun guy who knew his shit. I hope it was a wonderful life.

To Joe, Randy, Ozzy, and all the legends, friends, family, and gatekeepers of timepieces like albums—here’s a toast to you this Christmas season. Keep spinning.