It took two people to write (and apparently no one to copy edit) this slick-looking, superficial piece of garbage meant to celebrate the onetime ubiquity and continued communal importance of the Record Store. Not music, not the stuff you buy in stores, but the actual experience of the Record Store itself as some sort of church. Look, I like record stores too, I like browsing around in them and finding good and strange things and even have a pretty decent and long-running relationship with the proprietor of the one in my own area. But I like record stores because they contain records, and when we start mythologizing the act of milling around in a store, I get a little queasy… and that’s all this book is. It’s not well written, there’s no insight or any kind of probing about real and deep changes to popular music as a culture or the record stores as a survey of all that. It’s all just so empty and has the same received-wisdom quality as a pamphlet from the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame’s Cleveland Museum — that same total absence of individual expression in service of an ideal that’s hallowed in a way geared specifically to the grizzled, nostalgic white male contingent. It’s like writing a book about the Fillmore and barely mentioning the bands that played there, only wait, it’s not really like that; it’s like writing a book about “concert venues.” I’m not even against someone waxing poetic about browsing used items in a store, which can be transcendent in a weird way, but these authors aren’t capable of delivering that kind of experience with any idiosyncrasy or depth, they’re too busy rattling off numbers and gleefully providing lists of what bands have done in-stores where, reprinting the insipid Yo La Tengo Onion article for the 400th time, and announcing no less than seven times (I counted) that Peter Buck met Michael Stipe in a record store, and without that where would we be? (I love R.E.M. and will until I croak, but even in 2011 when this book was published, were they really the right band to select as a world-altering quantity?) One good thing: there are lots of cool photos of vintage record shops in action. I’d have gone for a coffee table book of just that stuff.
Let me tell you a quick story, than I’ll wrap up this rant. One Saturday a long time ago I got a taste of what it’s like to be an actual DJ for a living; I was a DJ for six months and change but I was doing it as a hobby in off-time and on this day I was hanging out with someone who did it for his livelihood, and as part of said livelihood we spent about five hours in a hellhole of a thrift shop that was fashioned within a warehouse that hadn’t seen sunlight in a generation. We rifled through box after smoky box, painstakingly setting aside any interesting items that might be worthwhile for either of us, then we trotted over to the house record player and tested every one of the records that had been set aside, which in his case was almost a hundred. At the end of the day, I had a migraine, my knees hurt, I was ready to pass out, and I was still only 26 at that point! As Sergio said on the phone later, when we got home and saw what we’d purchased, we were happy, but it took a lot of unpleasant work to get there. And that’s really an extreme example of how it all is for me, and how it was when I used to go trolling yard sales with my parents; there are exceptions — Gravity Records being one — where the shopping itself is fun and pleasant, but for the most part, we go seek this stuff out for the end result (more art that we love, more records we can play) more than for the in-the-moment experience, which I guess sounds cynical, but I just don’t see shopping as the essence of any quality human experience, and if it ever is (like when you’re traveling and experiencing new places and getting to know people) it’s purely incidental. There are many good reasons we should want record stores, the independently operated brick & mortar kind, to survive. This smug, self-congratulatory book puts across none of them.