The Golden Age of Music Retail

People still go to record stores? I haven’t set foot in one in years. But as much as I love downloading, I fondly remember whiling away entire afternoons at my favorite record shop. First, there was the long drive down Interstate 40, which—like Proust and his madeleines—I recall vividly whenever I smell a mixture of state-maintained foliage and automotive exhaust. After navigating the hair-raising traffic around the shopping center—think Mad Max meets 2 Fast 2 Furious—the Wal-Mart Supercenter would shimmer into view like an oasis in a desert of asphalt, which meant I had nearly arrived at the homey glass-and-steel megalith of record stores, its huge, looming sign commensurate in size to the bargains waiting within.

The automatic doors would whoosh open, whispering, “No consumer of your discernment and stature should be forced to touch a knob.” Then I would step into climate-controlled comfort. My feet treaded easily on the speckled, industrial-grade carpeting, and I would browse aimlessly, bathed in the tender glow of fluorescence, flanked by the friendly sentinels of alarm-system towers. I loved how the staff’s ubiquitous polo shirts and khaki pants made them seem totally anonymous, and how the grinding monotony of their jobs made me feel that much better about my own.

I loved the familiarity of the stock: always 20 copies of each Pearl Jam record, no Modest Mouse before The Moon and Antarctica, and no stupid bands I’d never heard of to make me feel inferior. And I felt proud to support a true captain of industry that knew how to make money really get up and shake that thang, rather than some local college-radio DJ who would just blow my disposable income on frivolous stuff like neck tattoos and health insurance. After writing this piece, I feel a little guilty—how, in this cruel digital age, is poor little Wal-Mart ever going to get by without my support? I guess I could use one more copy of Vitalogy.

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