Record Store Day is coming in a few weeks. I'll write about it later. Meantime, let me tell you the story of a record store I once knew.
About three years ago, I heard about a magical place. Not just a record store, but an experience. I had to find it for myself. When I did, I found out the hype was real. This place not only sold music on those big, black discs...people talked about the music. They spent minutes, even hours, talking about not just what they've been listening to, but how it made them feel. They shared stories of acts they saw live. Customers not only conversed with the owner of the store, but with each other, despite being total strangers. It was like no other record store I'd ever seen. It was home.
But as Tom Wolfe said, you can't go home again.
The owner of the store planned to expand to a bigger location. He'd have a second floor with live performances. He'd be closer to the City, and the jazz lovers that called it home and sometimes came out to the Island, perhaps on their way to the East End for the weekend. With two stores, it would be the best of both worlds.
But it turned out not to be at all. The bigger store ran into zoning and occupancy problems and never opened. The smaller store, which had temporarily closed in preparation for the opening of the bigger one, ended up being shuttered permanently, leaving the owner with zero stores instead of the two he'd planned on. And it left us, his customers and friends, seeking the magic his store once had.
I, for one, never found that magic. I'd been to a couple of other stores since, but none were so welcoming, so eager to let you stay an hour after closing to talk music. Yes, they bought, sold and traded records and gear - but no...something was missing in each of them. I doubt I'll ever find it again, but I'd love to be proven wrong. God rest ye, Vinyl Exchange.
"Still I'm glad for what we had, and how I once loved you." - Carole King
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