Record store day
23rd April 2012
The last memorable moment I spent at a record store was a midnight release of Nine Inch Nail’s The Fragile in 1999. It was at the Saddle Creek location of Homer's where I waited outside for close to two hours, unnecessarily. When the doors reopened from the earlier close of business, there were but a handful of us standing in anticipation. It took all of five minutes to procure my copy and leave. Overall, it was a gigantic waste of time but didn’t seem at all that way to Aaron of ‘99. Exhuming that memory in 2012, it plays back in black and white. The exercise of (1) driving to a record store (2) at midnight (3) to buy a CD (4) with no idea as to the quality (save the radio spun single) is such an anachronistic endeavor now. This was common practice a little over a decade ago though; an adventure for youthful hessians with disposable income. The record store was a frequent destination where music was not only purchased but salivated over by employee and patron alike. Its employees were known, famous on a local level if not for their knowledge or attitude then certainly for the enviable position. A bastion of lifestyle, the record store was the marketplace and news source.
Record Store Day is supposed to remind us of that.
Now, obviously, I’ve been inside of a record store since September of 1999...but not as often as you might expect. The digitization of music was/is all I’ve hoped for and more when it comes to the liberation and convenience of music enjoyment. It’s a work of Nordic magic that we can convert music to a data file then take that file with us wherever we go, creating, for all intents and purposes, a soundtrack to our lives. There will be those that argue for sound’s quality and its supposed reduction when digitized. I can’t speak to that because I’ve never cared enough to find out. (Why would I want to discover that music sounds infinitely better when played on a stationary machine, reducing my portable library to garbage? If it doesn’t sound at least that much better on a vinyl album, then who the fuck cares?!) It does appear to me, however, that more people than ever are enjoying music and in more ways than ever. They’re doing this, oftentimes, without ever touching a physical product or entering a record store.
So is the good ol’ record store dead? Like most things cultural, the answer is entirely subjective and dependent upon what you’re looking to get out of the experience. That experience itself differs from store to store which is, of course, one of the arguments in favor of them. The inherent uniqueness of each record store is really the entire point behind their value and preservation. There are four of note in Omaha and they are as distinctive as they are treasured. Three of them have been around for as long as I can remember. The other opened up around this time last year but is easily as popular as the others combined due to its exclusivity. It’s the shop belonging to record label Saddle Creek and it’s where I, in an effort to search my own soul for either the bones or breath of the great American record store, visited first on Record Store Day 2012.
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I’m not above telling you that this place is intimidating. Don’t get me wrong, it’s cozy as all hell and I love it immediately, but it’s definitely too cool for me. That’s not to say that it reeks of elitism because it doesn’t. In fact, the one staff member behind the counter greets me upon entering then pleasantly answers an inquiry from a nearby shopper and her boyfriend. They want to know more about the exclusive, limited edition Bright Eyes/Super Furry Animals 7" remixed by Dangermouse. Happily illuminating, the clerk explains how (apparently) the final mix never met the approval of Dangermouse so the project was shelved shortly after production. Saddle Creek eventually received permission to release it anyway so they chose it for a Record Store Day exclusive. All the copies are hand numbered with only a thousand in print. It wails from the shelf like a Siren upon the rocky shores of Hipster Bay.
The place is small, narrow, sharp and simple. A few vinyl bins occupy the center of the space with memorabilia and a couple racks of CDs tastefully fastened to the walls. At the back of the room are a leather love seat and oversized chair. The music overhead (The Mynabirds new release Generals) is present but subdued. Holding a conversation requires no rise in volume. The shop is not a typical record store in the sense that you wouldn’t go there for an expansive, diverse collection of music (although I do see vinyls ranging from Kanye West to Pink Floyd). If you want the horse’s mouth of Saddle Creek Records, this is where you go and, for that purpose, the shop is perfect. If there exists a future for record stores, this could be the model.
Attached to Saddle Creek’s downtown venue, the Saddle Creek Shop is a fair distance from the other three record stores (which all occupy the same city block). It’s too far to walk but only a five minute drive south to the Old Market district. It takes longer to find a parking space than it does to reach the general vicinity but it’s expected on a Saturday. There’s an old legend that tells of the cobblestone roadway that delineates this specific part of town. They say it’s always been this way, that it was actually built with every single fucking brick out of place, not that the city has neglected its maintenance since its construction in 1853. During the darkest hours before dawn, the streets fill with the ghosts of an untold number of gnarled car chassis and the souls of those whose ankles have snapped in half crossing the street.
Everything Downtown carries with it a culture bonus and Homer's is no exception. Every other location is similar in aesthetic, with giant posters and smaller live show flyers licked onto the walls and windows like faux tattoos, but the Downtown Homer's location wears that fashion particularly well. The clientele today is largely out of place. Their heads dart around in over stimulation. Fingertips nervously dance atop the vinyl albums as they look without really searching. All of the exclusive albums offered nationally in celebration of the day are present, segregated from the usual large collection of new and used vinyl, and the corn rows of compact discs expand from there. It’s an open house, an opportunity for the outside world to revisit a sociological landmark.
But the curators aren’t exactly inviting us to stick around or, for that matter, return. The staff is frustrated, seemingly put out by having to deal with the music tourists. True, the store is busy. The aisles are jammed up and the one line for the cashier is a dozen deep, but isn’t this the one day where this niche industry is supposed to suck it up? Novelty and sweet sentiments aside, Record Store Day is a marketing effort to bring business back to the struggling music shops across the country. It’s a manufactured attempt at survival first and foremost. One need look no further than the similarly struggling comic book industry and their Free Comic Book Day for a direct marketing comparison. Both marketplaces are dying off in the wake of their products’ digital advent. Both industries have been reduced to their hardcore demo and, as a result, become more impenetrable by the curious outsider. The primary initiative for this once a year event should be welcoming them in, showing the potential regulars that the local marketplace is as much theirs as it is those who’ve been patrons during this era of reduced communal interest. The only way for the annual Record Store Day to fail would be to further alienate the new shoppers you entice through the doorway. That’s the only path from success for this national initiative and, apparently, a few employees didn’t get the memo.
Outside the Antiquarium, a band performs to a few gathered friends. Like Homer's, this record store moved just a few blocks away from its original space for reasons unknown to me. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense but I imagine it came down to money, as most things often do. The space inside is considerably smaller than the Antiquarium I grew up visiting. The former location was primarily an antique bookstore with a basement record collection. It was magical, creepy, and one-of-a-kind. In the ventricle of urban Omaha, the Antiquarium was more “emporium” than “store”. The floor, walls, ceiling, everything was covered with books and antique knick knacks. I bought my first Henry Miller novel from the original location as well as D.R.I.’s Crossover on cassette. An old man ran the place and, out of fear, was never spoken to until time of purchase. A heavy place, it was the least visited record store of my youth but nonetheless memorable.
“Where are your guys’ exclusives?” someone shouts from behind one of the used vinyl racks that seemingly comprise this place entirely. I haven’t located a single new album, not that it was to be expected necessarily. While the mystique of the old location is gone, exchanged for a tighter dungeon-like den, the produce is similarly stale.
“We don’t have any!” one of the three clerks behind the counter shouts mid-conversation.
There’s no interest here in acquiring new business. The clique is apparently self-sustaining, huddled within the carrion’s belly to stay warm.
If I thought the Antiquarium bummed me out, the final stop of the day is a direct assault on my youth. Drastic Plastic was a punk haven once upon a time. If we’re talking about intimidating environments where you had better know your shit before entering, none were more so than Drastic. As a teenager, visits Downtown inevitably passed by Drastic Plastic and the constant coven of skaters and riot girls outside the store was a personal fixation. They’d deride anybody walking past and shout anarchic pseudo-philosophies at each other through bellows of cigarette smoke. That rebellious element is gone, has been for some time now, as the store regressed into a novelty shop over the years, providing fewer and fewer reasons to visit. Understand that I do not go there expecting the beloved environment of my youth. I’ve been aware of its declining relevance. But the state it’s in today could not have been foretold.
T-shirts. T-shirts, everywhere. Snarky Nebraska-themed casual wear as far as the eyes can see. What used to reside in the upper banner of the walls has since invaded the entirety of the store. This empty calorie commercialism is exactly what this shop used to defy. Where’s the music? The Record Store Day promotion is on the window outside but whatever product would have one day helped to classify this place as a record store has long since been ejected.
I ask the lady behind the counter where the records are located. She points to her left, toward the end of the store down a long hall and replies, “Down there”. Twenty yards or so from the entrance of the store, a small area has been cordoned off for two bins of vinyls. Most of them are new releases and the national exclusives are mounted on the back wall. Upon entering the sequestered area, the album quarantine, a large man standing by the entry went unnoticed. I’ve since noted his presence and, furthermore, his stationary occupation. He’s keeping a close watch on everyone handling the vinyl with his arms crossed in the traditional security stance. It’d be easy to take offense if the idea of a guard overlooking such a modest collection wasn’t entirely laughable. Given what this store used to represent, it’s simply pathetic.
Outside, ear buds are produced from my pants pocket and plugged into a phone that allows for instant playback of my entire music collection, hosted in the cloud. While inside Homer's earlier, I didn’t find the Mastodon/Feist split that was advertised nationwide specifically for Record Store Day but remembered seeing it on Stereogum earlier in the week. It takes seconds to navigate to their mobile site and stream the songs. This technology isn’t new to anyone reading this now but it is the direct nemesis to the four record stores visited today.
So, again, after today’s recon back to the record stores of old, the question is asked: are they, as they currently exist, dead? Not quite. Largely irrelevant maybe, but not dead. You’ll notice that, though I was able to stream the songs that couldn't be found in the shop, they weren't available for purchase online (yet). They were exclusive to the stores and that’s a commodity that, I think, needs to be exploited more often by record stores. Exclusives aside, there wasn’t much else about the record store experience I found compelling other than the nostalgia associated with an industry firmly rooted within my adolescence. Do I miss waiting for some guy to move from the one doom metal section so I can see what’s available? Do I miss not being able to sample music before buying it? Do I miss standing in line to buy something? Those hindrances are entirely absent from the online music purchasing experience and, furthermore, most of the benefits previously associated with record stores are also online. The community, the access, the volume and availability: all of these are present and more dynamic online. I don’t think I’m enlightening anyone with these observations. If my sentiments weren’t already acknowledged by the majority of music consumers daily, the record stores wouldn’t need a national holiday to drum up interest.
Record store exclusives, earlier release dates for shops than online resources, a welcoming staff to ferment a trusting relationship: these are necessities if record stores are to survive the digital age. They’re no longer on the cutting edge; on the forefront of the music. In the interest of pure survival the shops must adapt and realize that consumption is dominated by convenience now. It takes a greater than normal demand to pull the consumer from a more efficient mode of purchase. Be more than a store. Focus on the experience of buying music. Put a beer and a set of headphones in my hands. Let me listen to the new Torche amongst friends in an environment that encourages discovery. If you're going to rely simply on being a store, another resource for anonymously buying something, you’ll lose every time to the store that lets me shop in my boxers.
