Bananas Music’s Vinyl Warehouse

Exit the interstate just north of downtown St. Petersburg, Florida; take a few turns until you’re on a dead-end street in a lifeless commercial zone; climb the rickety metal steps to the second floor of the nondescript, two-story brick building; enter the forest green door into a 3,000-square-foot space crammed with floor to ceiling shelves and you’re in it: Bananas Music’s Vinyl Warehouse, the largest collection of vinyl records in the world.

The dusty space with its circa 1980 decor doesn’t appear like much, but contained within the building are more than just the approximately 3 million records prized by audiophiles the world over. Bananas also preserves a century-old aural tradition threatened over the years by the introduction of the 8-track, cassette, CD, and now MP3.

The MP3 has turned the music industry upside down. Portable players allow people to carry tens of thousands of songs in their pocket. Brick and mortar stores are obsolete in favor of online ordering. Buyers no longer have to buy an entire album just to get the one song they like, so artists are more inclined to create a collection of unrelated singles rather than a unified record. And record companies spend less on album artwork that buyers now only glance at on a screen.

Yet despite–or perhaps because–all the changes incurred by the MP3, vinyl records have endured–and even thrived. There are a number of reasons for this. Some say vinyl gives off a “warmer” sound than the sterile MP3s. Others feel a deeper connection to the record when its tangible and they are more involved in the playing process (place on turntable, set down needle, flip over when side is done playing, etc.). The large liner notes and sleeves that come with LPs provide listeners with a visual experience as well. Then there are those who buy vinyl because it’s the trendy thing to do.

Last year was the best for sales of new vinyl records since numbers were kept beginning in 1991. (CD sales continue to nosedive and MP3 sales are flat.) Though vinyl makes up a fraction of music sales, more and more artists are releasing on the format and then give the vinyl buyers the option to download the digital version at no additional charge.

Inside Bananas, I put the store to the T. Rex test. I use the 1970s English glam rock band to determine the breadth of a record store’s collection, because T. Rex has indie cred with today’s tastemakers, yet my middle-aged brother-in-law likes them, so they can’t be that cool. The results? Forty-seven T. Rex records. A-plus.

A record store can’t really call itself a record store without at least a few Beatles LPs. Bananas has hundreds, including about a dozen copies of each major release.

This box only contains copies of "Meet the Beatles."

My ever so patient girlfriend was not enjoying this as much as me.

Boxes of 45s also line the premises.

Revere Quality House

The Revere Quality House should be in a landfill right. When its former owners sought to sell in 2003, the house’s age, condition, lack of value, location, lack of square footage, and the size of the land it sat on all pointed toward demolition. Fortunately, the Revere Quality House was not torn down. Instead, it was beautifully restored, and a larger residence with a similar design and material makeup was constructed next to it.

The Revere Quality House, built in 1948 on Siesta Key, was designed by Paul Rudolph and Ralph Twitchell–the fathers of the Sarasota School of Architecture. The house was a product of the Revere Quality House Institute, a housebuilding program sponsored by the Revere Copper and Brass Inc. and Architectural Forum magazine. The program’s goal was to showcase innovative yet affordable housing to meet the needs of postwar America, and eight houses were built throughout the country.

The Revere Quality House certainly met the program’s goals. The about 1,ooo-square-foot house was built by Lamolithic Industries and utilized their state-of-the-art monolithic concrete construction system said to be resistant to mildew, bugs, fire, and hurricanes. The concrete roof had a passive-cooling sprinkler system and was held up by a series of evenly placed lally columns. This roof structural system allowed for unlimited interior space configurations and walls of glass. The rectangular house had a carport, patio with roof cut out, a living room, dining room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and laundry room that was set off from the house. Architectural features included a copper stove hood and fireplace made by (who else) Revere Copper.

Photographed by Ezra Stoller. Courtesy ArtStor.

Photographed by Ezra Stoller. Courtesy ArtStor.

Photographed by Ezra Stoller. Courtesy ArtStor.

Photographed by Ezra Stoller. Courtesy ArtStor.

Photographed by Ezra Stoller. Courtesy ArtStor.

As I wrote about in my thesis, the house was quite the sensation after it was built as an estimated 16,000 people toured it. Furthermore, it was published in architectural periodicals throughout the world and brought much attention to Rudolph and Twitchell’s subtropical take on the International Style.

Architectural Forum October 1948

Architectural Review June 1949

House and Garden August 1949

The house was designed for Roberta Finney, and Twitchell liked his client so much he left his family and took up residence with her. (The Cocoon House was designed a few years later for her parents.) To meet the Twitchell/Finney family’s needs, the patio and carport were enclosed and a carport/guest house was built on the property. Roberta Finney died in 1966, and Twitchell remarried a third time and remained in the house until he died in 1978. His family continued to live there after his death.

Siesta Key in 2003 was hardly recognizable from Siesta Key in 1948. By that time, the island’s population had swelled, and a majority of the original houses on the island had been razed in favor of condos and monster Mediterranean Revival (Revival) mansions. Land values and property taxes soared, which forced many longtime Siesta Key residents to sell to developers. Twitchell’s descendants found themselves in just such a predicament. They had a crumbling, 53-year-old house on nearly an acre of land–huge for the north end of Siesta Key–with boat access to the nearby Gulf of Mexico, which was just a couple hundred feet away. In other words, it was a developer’s dream situation.

But that’s when Doug Olson stepped up. He already lived in a Sarasota School house, so he recognized the the Revere Quality House’s importance when he bought it from Twitchell’s descendants in 2003. His goal was to restore the house and construct an addition, but Olson realized he could not undertake the project alone and teamed up with–ironically–a developer, Howard Rooks.

Rooks asked Sarasota-based Modernist architect Guy Peterson for his opinion on the property, and Peterson came up with the plan to both restore the tiny Revere Quality House and build a new residence on the property. Peterson drew up plans for a 4,712-square-foot, three-story house that paid homage to the Revere Quality House with its design, colors, and materials. Then the Revere Quality House was restored nearly to its 1948 appearance, down to the paint colors. Furthermore, a pool was dug behind the historic dwelling so it could serve as a guest house/pool house for the new, much larger and taller main residence.

The restored Revere Quality House, right, and the new main residence. Courtesy of Guy Peterson OFA.

See more photos of the project here.

In April 2007, the completed project was on the market for $4,875,000, but Sarasota was so slammed by the real estate crash that it sat for more than four years. According to the Sarasota County Property Appraiser, the house finally sold for $2.1 million on August 31, 2011.

From a preservation point of view, I consider the Revere Quality House project to be a success overall. The building rests on a highly desirable land and it could have very easily been razed like so many other Sarasota School houses in favor of a soulless mega-mansion. Instead, the Revere was meticulously restored and a fairly compatible new primary residence was built next to it.

But from a financial point of view, the project was a failure. The developers of the project lost millions, and others will be wary of undertaking similar projects in the future. At least the Revere Quality House still stands as a reminder that even experimental modern buildings can be adapted to new uses as long as sympathetic people are involved. If only the numbers added up.

McIntosh, Florida

At first glance, the north-central Florida town of McIntosh doesn’t look like much.

The part of town bisected by U.S. 441 is lined mostly by nondescript concrete block buildings, trailers, and ranch houses. I have been driving through McIntosh for a decade on my way to and from Gainesville and until recently only associated with it as the place where the speed limit drops from 65 mph to 40. No one ever seems to be walking down the sidewalks, and a few scattered antique shops provide the only commercial activity.

U.S. 441 in McIntosh.

Yet a few buildings along the stretch hint at McIntosh’s prestigious past.

The Brown House (1910) along 441 is the town's finest residence, in my opinion. (Too bad it doesn't have the original windows.)

This large residence, built in 1910, has been significantly altered.

In August, The Gainesville Sun ran a story about one of McIntosh’s larger homes, the J.K. Christian House. The house was built in 1909 reportedly from the proceeds of just one winter’s squash crop. Though it appears in decrepit condition, the house is undergoing a piecemeal renovation.

The J.K. Christian House (1909), known as the house that squash built. It's undergoing a slow restoration.

My interest piqued, I looked deeper into McIntosh’s history. The town was first platted in 1885 along Orange Lake. (The Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings Historic State Park is located on the other side of the water in Cross Creek.) The Florida Southern Railroad was built through town five years later, and dwellings, packing houses, stores, and other businesses sprang up to meet the needs of the orange industry.

The infamous 1894-1895 freezes effectively killed the region’s orange industry the region, but McIntosh’s growers successfully transitioned to other agriculture. Meanwhile, McIntosh’s proximity to the lake lured sportsmen in the winter. It counted 300 residents when it incorporated in 1913.

Like Micanopy just 6 miles up the road, McIntosh’s economic boom effectively ended before World War II. U.S. 441 was built through town in the 1940s, and some buildings were moved from the depot to the road. The last train rolled through town in 1974, and the tracks have subsequently been removed. The McIntosh Depot (1890) was restored by the Friends of McIntosh and serves as that community group’s headquarters for the town’s annual 1890s Day Fall Festival.

The restored McIntosh Depot.

I visited McIntosh on Halloween and was impressed by the quantity and condition of the Victorian-era and early 20th century architecture. The historic houses sit on large lots and are neither too perfectly restored nor rundown–just lived in. The abundance of well-maintained churches display fresh coats of white paint. Citrus trees and packing houses stand as reminders of McIntosh’s agricultural past. Many properties feature sprawling gardens, and humongous oak trees–which are protected by an ordinance–shade the sloping streets.

In McIntosh, streets make way for trees, not vice versa.

Just south of McIntosh, a hilltop provides a remarkable view of Orange Lake and the surrounding pasture. A former roadside citrus store/art gallery stands at the top of the hill. There has been a movement to conserve the land down the lake, and there is an easement on a small parcel.

The Windmill Galleries at the scenic Orange Lake Overlook was once an orange shop and a feed store.

The Orange Lake Overlook, a cultural landscape.

Florida Southern College

I live less than an hour away from Florida Southern College–the largest collection of Wright buildings in the world–and visited the Lakeland campus for the first time earlier this month. I think Frank Lloyd Wright is overrated–while I think he was a visionary designer, I find his buildings to be impractical and not very functional. However, despite my disdain for Wright, I have been intrigued by Florida Southern’s recent efforts to restore the campus and wanted to view the efforts firsthand.

When he received the Florida Southern master plan commission, FLW was amid a surprising late career revival thanks to his masterwork Fallingwater (1935). Known as “Child of the Sun,” Wright’s Florida Southern designs attracted attention within the architecture community, notably a young Paul Rudolph.

From 1938 to 1958, 12 of Wright’s 18 campus designs came to fruition. Florida Southern has a brief history of the project on its website. There are also at least two books on the undertaking, one by Dale Allen Gyure and another by Randall M. MacDonald, Nora E. Galbraith, and James G. Rogers Jr. Florida Southern also has a comprehensive collection of historic campus photographs here.

Like so many other Wright buildings, they haven’t stood up very well over time. Unsympathetic alterations have also taken their toll; from 1938 to 1958, the student body almost quintupled and design intent was overlooked when campus officials converted spaces.

But Wright enthusiasts have had reason to rejoice in recent years.
Florida Southern demonstrated its commitment to its FLW designs when it restored the partially filled Waterdome to its original appearance in a 2006 project. Also that year, the school received a grant from the J. Paul Getty Foundation to create a long-term maintenance plan for the Wright buildings. Then the World Monuments Fund placed them on the group’s 2008 watch list.

Today, Florida Southern hosts tours of the Wright campus, and the original Roux Library serves as the welcome center. Visible signs outside each Wright building proclaim the college’s promise to preserve.

The master inspects construction at Florida Southern. Courtesy Florida Photographic Collection

Annie Phieffer Chapel (1941)

Danforth Chapel (1955)

Impressive interior.

Carter, Hawkins, Walbridge Seminar Buildings (1941)

E.T. Roux Library (1945)

Favorite building.

Watson and Fine Administration Buildings (1948)

Waterdome (1948)

Ordway Building (1952)

Polk County Science Building (1958)

Esplanade

Micanopy, Florida

Silence is an often overlooked aspect of historic integrity–until it is taken away. That’s what happened in the historic north central Florida town of Micanopy.

Though just 10 minutes south of Gainesville and a mile from a busy stretch of I-75, Micanopy’s Spanish moss-shrouded oak  trees soak up the noise and envelope the late nineteenth/early twentieth century vernacular buildings in a time warp back to a South that existed before the spread of air conditioning.

As the plaques below attest, Micanopy has a rich history–especially for a Florida locale not situated on the coast.

In the 1940s, U.S. 441 was built just to the east of town, leaving Micanopy essentially frozen in time. It unwillingly returned to the map in the 1960s when I-75 was constructed a mile away to the west, and a connector road between U.S. 441 and I-75 passed through the center of the town. This brought tractor-trailers and other vehicles through the fragile downtown at all hours, infuriating residents. Over the next few decades, they launched an anti-sound campaign and showed how the tracks were causing damage to historic masonry. Their efforts finally were rewarded in 1992 when a 75-441 bypass opened northwest of town, returning Micanopy to silence.

To round out its unique history, Micanopy has made Hollywood connections in recent years. It was a film location for the 1991 Michael J. Fox film “Doc Hollywood,” and the Phoenix family (Joaquin, the late River, and Casey Affleck’s wife, Summer) grew up on a hippie commune nearby.

Today, Micanopy’s half-mile downtown strip is a thriving antiques center, though it still resembles a pre-World War II town.

A stretch of buildings in downtown Micanopy.

Most downtown buildings are from the Florida Land Boom in the 1920s.

The Feaster Building suffered damage when big trucks passed through downtown. Its deterioration helped lead to the construction of the interstate bypass in the 1992. Cultural performances were once held on the third floor. Gator Preservationist mobile to right.

Antique shops are an excellent way to tastfully reinvigorate historic downtowns.

Apparently the 1920s log cabin was built first, and the warehouse came next to shield its roof.

The vacant and restored Thrasher Building dates to the 1920s as well.

The Herlong Mansion is Micanopy's most famous building. It originated as a vernacular, Cracker-style farmhouse in the 1840s and took its Southern Greek Revival appearance during an overhaul in 1910. Today, it's a bed and breakfast and hosts weddings and other events.

This restored sign is on the Thrasher Warehouse, now home to the Micanopy Historical Society.

Spanish moss-draped oaks line Micanopy's side streets.

The Old Baptist Church, now a residence and fronted by a massive oak tree.

Whimsical.