The Death and Dying of the Record Store

April 15, 2011

If you’re like me, the dedicated music fan that borders on sickness with my obsessive self-nurturing, you can look around your home and literally pick up a vinyl, cassette or CD, study the cover and recall exactly where you got it and the surrounding events that went with it. These little memorials in the head are what keep us young; we hearken back and forth to a past that we so casually watched slip by without so much as a second glance. What seemed so limitless years ago is now a footnote in the corners of our brains, collecting more dust than sustenance. It’s the past for a reason, after all. I can hardly believe it’s been nearly 35-years since I first heard Black Sabbath’s Master of Reality cassette when I was a mere five-years-old. The long list of record stores that I frequented from about 1977 to today is, sadly, getting shorter by the year. Those photos really struck a chord with me and where it is we sit here in 2011. Yes, these kids are digging the digital age where everything is readily available to buy, rent or steal with a mouse click or two. When I was tape trading demos and concerts in the underground through the 80’s we would have killed for implements like this, as opposed to the long, arduous waiting periods for the mailman to bring us our booty. Now, here I sit nearly 40 and longing for the days that were, in essence, our Little House of the Prairie in terms of technology.

Okay, for the few among us that fall unfortunate prey to the ease and complacency of the digital age, allow me to take you on a short journey in my world some 25-years ago. First, we would form a plan of attack; this was precision-thinking and we knew we needed an audio fix, stat. We would hop buses, ride bikes, bum rides, beg parents or older brothers and sisters, whatever it took to get to the record stores both near and far. To a 13-year-old kid with minimal means or transportation a simple four mile trek was like crossing the Appalachians, yet we always found a way. We would sit in the available mode of transport, slightly shaking and nervously foot-tapping or humming along to our Walkman’s (the old fart’s iPod, kids). I would literally sit and look over at my buddy Kurt and wonder exactly what route I’d take once inside the doors of the record store to get to the “import” section before him so as to get first crack at the metal. It was a sick and twisted hypothesis we would endure every time we’d go together. This little practice usually worked to a friendly conclusion, save for the messy fist-fight in Kroozin’ Music over a Venom Canadian Assault vinyl for a whopping $6.98. Gary, the owner, had to actually threaten us with lifetime banishment for wrestling and punching each other’s mouths and eyes while laughing onlookers loudly called us “idiots” or “assholes” (oh, and for posterity, I won the fight). These were great times! Well, the visual scanning of the cassette titles piled atop one another in somewhat alphabetical order was always a welcome treat filled with a biting of lips and holding of labored breaths searching for that elusive metal rarity we read about or heard about from an older neighborhood kid blasting it at the park nearby. After finding Running Wild nestled on top of Sacrifice, or Agent Steel right above Bathory, and clawing loudly and violently at the makeshift wooden case, destroying the casual silence of the store we’d then venture over the vinyl and flip quickly through them all, making a mental note of the covers and titles we saw the first time around. We would then flip through a second time at a slower pace, pulling up the Celtic Frosts and Exciters among the Helloweens and Kreators of the stock and putting them beside us for purchase. The smell and feel of thin plastic covering such amazing cover art still permeates my sensory bank to this day, as does the scent of a fresh cassette whose ink and glue is so fresh you want to bottle it and keep it forever. You can also find a charm and ambience in the dust that kicks up from the bottom of the bins as you paw through the stacks of records that await purchase and inclusion in only the finest collections. Now, while we went through a third time (in case we missed anything the first two times around) I’m busy calculating my personal haul in my head and praying that I don’t have to humiliate myself and put something back or, geez, ask mommy or daddy for an advance on allowances some five months in the future. So with no less than five vinyls and four or five cassettes, our hard-earned and saved allowances went into the “mans” pocket - this usually friendly, but distant merchant that fed the youth its daily metal fix - and we couldn’t wait to get outside and look at what we bought again. We’d be in the back seat (if that was our luck during this trip) and just tear open our albums and cassettes, leaving litter all over the car floor in small heaps. We wouldn’t talk to each, Kurt and me; the silence was afforded and expected. We were happy for the other guy (sometimes) and this was our time to just revel in our luck. I’d smile down at my Venom American Assault album and count the dragging minutes from Hegewisch, Illinois to Chicago, usually a 40-minute trek on a good day. It’s funny how quick these trips appear now when you’re older and have been everywhere and anywhere in your own car; it’s one of those points of innocence that is long gone and was virtually ignored in its past state.

After walking somewhat quickly (metalheads don’t run into the house like Bieber fans, giggling, screaming and crying towards the stereo…or do we?) and ripping the lid off the record player and dropping that fresh wax onto the flat surface with a quick hiss and a plop as the record makes contact with the rubber pad responsible for your musical experience. The needle making initial contact with the opening grooves in the big black circle (yeah, we had no run of colored vinyl back then, my friends) and the familiar crackle of the surface pops fills the air for a mere three seconds before the music blasts out in its intended glory, filling the room with a brilliant lushness that can’t even be described. I’d then plop back on my bed and read the album cover until I had it memorized, studying the band photos, reading the inserts with lyrics. I’d wait patiently for the record to stop, only so I could pop on the next platter, thereby repeating the same motions no less than three times more that day and a dozen more over the next few days. Then I’d carefully store my records in a large brown record cabinet my mother has had since 1958, which I still have to this day and cherish greatly. After all of my purchases made their way through my mental cortex at least once I would then plan out my next chore schedule so as to repeat the saving-to-spending process again, this time at a store downtown that we’d surely have to take the bus to get to. Man, we’d have to spend about $2.20 round trip for bus fare with a transfer (this was the 80’s), which then took this small amount off our total we’d go down there with; then I’d imagine the layout of Rock Records on Washington Street off State Street. I figured if I maneuvered around the jazz section accordingly, take a sharp left at the picture disc bin down the aisle, I could beat Kurt to the metal cassettes while he’s (hopefully) detained by the customers blocking his way for a mere three seconds in front of the counter. I could have feasibly hit the Nuclear Assaults and Warlocks before he even hit the Cyndi Lauper section of pop. It was an orchestrated plan that was often months in the making….

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CHRIS

While perusing Facebook today I was busy sifting through the myriad of junk and otherwise annoying messages people post as statuses. Really, people; does anyone really care you ate a yummy bagel while watching a soap opera in bed? Nope…no one really does, trust me. Personal public bankruptcies aside, through this daily mess I was forwarded a disturbing and sorrowed photo essay of sorts. It documents the death of the record store, and in its body were 40 photographs of abandoned, closed or gutted record stores from around the world. Two of them had personal connection to me since I had frequented these shops many a day back in the mid 1980’s. Some of the other photographs are really burned into my brain; what I know in my heart were once proud stores owned by very diligent and dedicated folks are now faded memories in someone’s personal scrapbook, some creditor’s red book, and a ton of older people’s memory banks. These deaths are as poignant and sorrowful as the knells for any small business, but to the record collector and music fan they are small parts of the soul that just die off and never really find peace. To symbolize a brick building and put so much emphasis on it seems lethargic and downright silly, but such is the life of a staunch and dedicated music fan.

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Hegewisch's, 1985

Photo by Kim Tonry

The convenience factor is not lost on me; I get it, I do, but the cemeteries for record stores are getting fuller and fuller while the caustic, even mocking hard drives are cheaper by the week. Complacency and the privilege of having nearly everything done for us is going to be the death knell for even more record stores in the coming years; hell, it will come in the ensuing months at this rate. When I get these demos or albums to review, the number of digital-only releases astounds me. I have to actually court bands and see if they have a CD they want to sell me, and that says a lot about the current state of affairs concerning the music industry. I won’t get into the Napster thing since Metallica already made fools of themselves doing that, but it was indicative of what was to come on the larger, more destructive scale. It’s a wonderful thing to have these little Mp3 files so readily available and compact; for working out or another recreational activity it’s no different than the Walkman in its intrinsic value, but we never anticipated the Walkman would change music and close down the indie record stores so that nothing but shells remain.

Listen, the reason FYE and Best Buy ‘thrive’ is really simple: they’re not thriving. They’re dying inside, and one trip inside the stores solidifies this statement. The CD aisles are growing smaller every day, and the DVD’s are stalling in sales with the advent of NetFlix and other rental gigs. No one was happier than me to see Blockbuster get its just deserts for squeezing out the ma-and-pa video stores, but damn, when the giants start toppling we’re really left with nothing but to follow the leaders into unwanted and forced change. We have no real want or need for rentals in the music arena, so we get iTunes, which allows us to buy songs at random or albums if we so desire. I used to curse the days of buying an album for three or four good songs and suffer with three or four filler tracks, but hey, the fillers seem like a long lost art form at this point. We took too much for granted too often and here us oldsters sit, like the song says, and long for yesterday.

I can’t really say anything witty or powerful enough to rally the troops, so to speak; the damage at this point is irrevocably done. The stores of independent design that have managed to weather the storms are in need of our help on a daily basis. Support these stores by going in and paying an extra dollar or two over the corporate competition; I know, the economy sucks and all, but in the grand scheme of things what’s an extra dollar or two? We’d spend that on a drink or something superfluous, and the little guy can always use our help. The Internet is also our ally here; online distros for metal are all over the place and some have amazing selections and prices. We really don’t want CD’s and vinyl to go the way of the 8-track, folks, and even though vinyl is making a comeback of sorts, this rash of nostalgia won’t last long if sales fall off due to file-sharing and trading. Buy an LP or CD when you can, people; there are a million-and-one programs to rip your CD onto your iPod or other portable player should you desire portable enjoyment. Don’t forget the bands behind these tiny files that would love to have a physical product in your hands someday; hell, when I was in a band that’s what we aspired to. There’s something to be said for the old school way of things; we’re older, but we’re not out of the game yet. Support the indie bands and labels and engage the tangible. I’m lucky to have two or three good stores left that I frequent that know me by name, love me, and take good care of me. Not only do I go for the deals and selection but for the kinship and camaraderie; you simply can’t search iTunes for the conversations I’ve had with new friends, younger and older or bands I’ve hooked up with that still fly the flag high at such a young age. I go for the music and the experience, and you should want this experience too. Remember the adage of Music soothes the savage breast; in short, it makes giddy children of us all.     
                         
Just now I stopped typing this, pulled out my Canadian Assault vinyl and stared at it for a few minutes. I remember Kurt’s attempted headlock really causing a skin burn on my neck and a red mark across my nose from his sweatshirt. As a rule Kurt was not much of a fighter, but he really put his all into this tussle and gave me a solid run for my money. We both really wanted that record, as Venom was our lives back in 1985. I also recall vividly that during the bus ride home Kurt not talking to me and staring out the window as I sifted through my haul, silently nursing my stinging nose and neck. I kept the Venom record in the bag; I didn’t wish to rub it in any more that necessary. About six or seven blocks from home he jumped off the bus at the corner and walked home in a huff; he wasn’t about to get off with me at our stop. I remember pulling the album out then and thinking, Yeah, it was worth it. I called him the next day and invited him over to hear it with me and all was forgotten. I even found him his own cassette copy some months later. We loved our records, man; the tangible deal was where it was at, so much so that it was worth fighting and hurting over…that speaks volumes in and of itself.
Kurt will be gone nine years next month and what was left of his record collection I have in my possession. These artifacts are priceless memoirs for me. It’s funny; this album would have ended up being mine anyway, under the most horrible of circumstances, but the point is we fought like imbeciles in a public forum and pissed off a respected and beloved store owner in vain attempt to best the other with that rare album that eluded us up to that point. We did it for the love of the hunt, the exhilaration of the jaunts to Timbuktu to find these rare gems. These trips and excursions are left a million miles away right now and I’d give anything to do it all over again.

Enjoy your music, and buy the physical product from “the man” whenever possible because there simply aren’t too many of them left.

Now, imagine doing this with an iPod and iTunes, folks.

You click a button in rapid succession; we planned our excursions, gathered our wits and made a fun science out of it all. You file your, well, files away on a data disc or folder on your computer’s desktop; we built elaborate displays for our tapes and albums, creating a grand library in some cases.

Where is your added joy in music now? Where is the thrill of the hunt?

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