My take on Record Store Day—and, more important to me, the days after—got picked apart by a few columnists this week. I expected that, and I enjoyed reading the disagreements, but they each lacked a substantive reply to what I'd implied: that modern record stores have retreated, not advanced, as taste-curators and conversation-starters. Record Store Day is fantastic, but if shops want to hugely promote the holiday, then that one-day spike deserves to be scrutinized and capitalized upon.
I've since applied that scrutiny to my college days as a clerk in a used CD store. I avoided mentioning it before, as I didn't want to be accused of getting all High Fidelity, but something clicked this week. It took me a decade to realize just how peculiar my old shop was—or, more accurately, how bland and normal it was compared to the indie-friendly record stores I've frequented since. I'm starting to think my first shop was superior as a result.
In 1997, I turned driver's age, a big deal for most American kids who don't live in centralized, transit-linked cities (and who are lucky enough to get a hand-me-down junker from their older brother). But at 16, I was a reclusive, nerdy homebody in a suburb of Dallas, TX, with an ear-damaging addiction to loud music. That's all I wanted the car for, really—to get more CDs.
In the 56K modem era, my options for new, cheap music were limited to radio stations and repeatedly applying to BMG's "12 CDs for the price of 1" promotions under fake names. Like a starved mongrel—one that had been eating BMG's Son Volt and Spin Doctors CDs for far too long—I scoured the city to hit every nearby store I could. Most of them made it too difficult to sample CDs, though, and I didn't have a record player, which nixed Bill's Records & Tapes, perhaps the Dallas area's most legendary music shop of the past few decades.
I wound up at CD Source, conveniently the closest one to my parents' house at the time, with its four listening stations and its endless racks of $8 albums, all free from the tyranny of shrinkwrap. Listen to any album, the clerks said, and for at least four hours a week, I did.
Doesn't matter where you live; you've probably shopped at a CD store just like this one. The store's "pop/rock" section is a relatively inaccurate catch-all, including everything from folk to metal and even miscategorized electronic fare. The soundtrack, Christmas, and gospel/Christian sections are huge. The country section makes no qualms about stocking Kenny Chesney a few slots away from the Carter Family—same thing in the R&B section, where The Isley Brothers and Jamiroquai are practically neighbors.
The place doesn't look like a snob's outpost. The "recommended" racks are full of middling CDs, seemingly promoted to move excess stock. Posters for random national bands and movies line the walls for noise's sake, along with a few peculiar photos, like the one of the store's owner posing as Bruce Springsteen on the Born to Run cover.
So what's so great about it? Low prices on a massive selection are a good start, but I was attracted, weirdly, by the continual "Can I help you find anything?" philosophy. Clerks have to ask every shopper that question at least once, and they're encouraged to say that they're happy to recommend tunes, as well. I understand that shoppers may liken that question to a hassle; as a whiny teen, I sure did. Sometimes, though, brute force is the only way.
In one of my earliest visits, I was about to buy some albums when I saw a bizarre, white CD cover perched on the counter. It was Radiohead's months-young OK Computer, whose "Paranoid Android" single had just blown me away on MTV.
"Oh, you have to listen to this," the bleach-blonde clerk said, gesturing to the right to the listening station and almost forcibly putting the clunky Sony headphones around my ears. "The first song sounds like snow falling." She grinned and watched as opening track "Airbag" rattled in pieces around my ears.