A friend of mine in the travel industry once flew to Miami to see the Stones – not an uncommon occurrence for those of us lucky enough to be in the biz. (Another colleague flew to Edmonton from YYZ just to get a NEXUS card, while another once alighted to Australia for the weekend merely for a sporting event).

Point is, we often can and do chase our dreams all over the world, though certainly the concept isn’t restricted only to those in travel. Deadheads famously followed the Grateful Dead to the ends of the earth, Parrotheads the same for Jimmy Buffet, while Jays and Leafs fans often outnumber home supporters at road games, to give just a few examples.

I’ve never gone so far as to go to a place only to see a singular event, but I can admit to a twisted tale of obsession that was satisfied only because of my propensity to travel.

The story started innocently enough: In the mid ‘80s I discovered and became a devout fan of an Australian singer, Paul Kelly, who, with his band the Messengers, reminded me of Blue Rodeo. (Thirty-plus years later he’s considered a national treasure Down Under and still my favourite). Fortunately, for awhile, Kelly’s albums could be found in Canada in the import bin at the iconic Sam the Record Man store on Yonge Street in Toronto, though usually several months after release.

A few years later – 1991 to be precise – and now working in travel, I had the opportunity to visit Australia, and while seeing Sydney, the Barrier Reef and Ayers Rock (not yet officially Uluru) was awesome, I was equally excited to have a chance to visit a local record shop to update my Kelly collection. Sure enough, I found a couple of releases I didn’t have, though to my dismay the cassettes were double the price I would pay at home, about A$30. Foolishly, as it would turn out, I chose to buy only one, committing the name of the other to memory: “Comedy.” After all, I’d be able to get it at Sam’s, even if I had to wait awhile do so, I reasoned.

Back home I dutifully made the trek to Sam’s only to find the Kelly slot stocked with every album except Comedy – an occurrence to which I would soon become accustomed. A helpful staffer offered to order it for me, but it would take a couple of months to arrive. After six months or so and no album, I conceded defeat and gave up on the notion of getting it from Sam’s, or indeed, in Canada at all.

Fortunately, by this time I was beginning to travel extensively and during each trip I took, from New York to L.A. and Madrid to Moscow, I ritually ducked into any and every record store I passed to look for that album. And while I was able to find newer offerings, I had no luck finding what was turning into an obscure album – one that I once had in my hand and had now become my white whale.

Alas, for all my travels, fate had managed to steer me clear of a return visit to Oz where I presumably would have managed to find it, and, at the same time, London – epicentre of the music world.

London was my old stomping grounds. I had lived there for a few months between years of university in ’81 and returned often, until a dry spell in the ‘90s. When I finally returned in 2002 to attend World Travel Market, I knew just where to go: the Virgin Records megastore on Oxford Street at Tottenham Court Road, which was a veritable musical mecca and arguably the most comprehensive such place on the planet.

In short, if I couldn’t get Comedy there, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get it anywhere.

So, it was with great optimism and eagerness that I ventured to Virgin, nagged only by fate’s decision to prevent me from finding the album for a long 11 years and counting.

Heart beating, I navigated the dozens of sections and thousands of artists in the store to find a Paul Kelly slot. Relief. It’s filled with CDs (it had been so long that cassettes were by now nearly obsolete). But, sure enough, there seemed to be every Paul Kelly release except Comedy. Typical. Yes, it was listed in the computer and they could order it for me, but it would arrive in a couple of weeks and I was going home in a couple of days!

Dejected, I left the store, wandering aimlessly along Oxford Street, half-heartedly poking into tiny record stores I came across, but mostly simply coming to grips with the undoubted end of my miserable mission. Carnaby Street, famous music street of the Sixties, nothing. Piccadilly Circus. Piccadilly Circus! Home, I now recalled, of Tower Records – the only shop in London that could rival Virgin. And, perhaps, one last chance.

I entered, hardly hopeful, but found a Kelly section. Lots of discs – had them all – but no Comedy. I stood in place dejected, demoralized, neck craned towards the Gods: cruel fate, why do you mock me so? This, I believe I heard John Cleese shout, is an ex-quest.

Then, suddenly, someone is elbowing me aside – a store employee: surly, nose rings, purple Mohawk. He’s filing CDs into their slots, reaches across in front of me to drop a disc into… Kelly, Paul. Wait! I would know that cover anywhere – it’s Comedy! I can’t believe it and snatch the disc – before it even leaves his hand.

The punk snarls. Me, I can only smile. Comedy, at long last, was a laughing matter.

(Check out this SONG from the album).