I don’t want to call it a “record store”, because it sells so much more. But that is what I knew it as. One of them still survives–and thrives–on the east side of Cleveland. I spent more hours here during my teens and twenties. The owner, a huge Paul McCartney fan like myself, always had the most incredible selection. Whatever you wanted, he would get it. Back before the internet, that was something in itself.
But what have we lost in buying music over the web? Mostly, the socializing with others who shared your passion. I met more Beatles fans in that place. The conversation usually went something like “Have you heard [obscure bootleg album name]?” “No, where did you get that?” and off you would go, in search of music that until five minutes ago, you didn’t even know existed, but now you needed.
Of course, like all good 1970s era record shops, they sold all the stuff you had to have to properly listen to the music of the time: black light posters, incense, and t-shirts. They probably sold roach clips and water pipes at one time, most of these places did. But the best thing about the store was the large selection of “imports”–a code word for bootlegs. For a Beatles fan, these were the holy grail of records. In those wonderful pre-RIAA days, fans did not care what the suits thought. They were squares who just wanted to keep you down and silence artistic expression. They probably hated the music, too. We cared not what they said and bought the records anyway. This place was my main supplier.
This store still sells vinyl, which as any music lover knows, is superior to the throwaway cd in its flimsy case. The incense, t-shirts and posters are still for sale, along with bins and bins of cds and even cassette tapes. I still visit them when I go home, just to pick up an “import” for old-times sake, even though I can easily find them on the internet. The internet doesn’t have the owner, his love for music or an old Abbey Road poster on the wall.
