Last week I was listening to some random music and a lesser-known Lyle Lovett song “Record Lady” came on. It had been a while since I’d heard that song, and while Lyle’s tune was about an attempt to woo the record lady, it sparked a flood of record store memories. Buying (and selling) records back then was a social experience all its own.
At locally-owned record stores like Arboria, Record Ranch or City Lights you’d walk in and the owner was behind the counter. They loved music as much as you did. And a lot of the guys who worked in those places were young musicians in the local music scene. Those stores were the lifeline of your musical existence.
Long before Ticketmaster, a lot of these stores were also places where you could get tickets to concerts. They’d have a chalkboard with the listing of shows, dates and tickets they had. At the old National Record Mart on College Avenue, we got tickets to see R.E.M. at the Syria Mosque in Pittsburgh and the Beastie Boys and Public Enemy at Stabler Arena in Bethlehem. And speaking of record stores and Lyle Lovett, we got tickets in a Charlottesville, Virginia record store for his 1992 show in C’ville.
The best part of the old record store was the experience. Sometimes you went in there with a specific album in mind—like when a new U2 album was released and we were there to watch them take the albums out of the box they were shipped in. Or the goal was a multi-year quest for the rare Led Zeppelin B-side “Hey, Hey What Can I Do” that was finally found in a used record store in New Orleans.
Other times you’d go to your favorite store just to hang out and perhaps discover something new. The clerk would have new tracks spinning on the turntable, and you’d listen as you perused the aisles of new and used records. Sometimes they’d ask “Have you heard the new album by…?” and play it on the turntable behind the counter. That was part of the experience.
At a time when you made $8 for cutting the neighbor’s yard and around $30 a week delivering newspapers, spending $6.99 for a new album was a serious investment. When the era of the CDs arrived, there were racks and racks of used discs to look through. To save a few bucks you’d search the used racks to see if you could get a CD for $6.99 instead of buying it new for $13.99.
The used CD rack also served as a sort of star-rating system. If there were 5 or more copies of a certain album in there, that was a pretty good indication that a bunch of people hated it enough to sell it back.
In the pre-internet era, Rolling Stone magazine was the connection to the national music scene. It was sold in almost every record store. On the back pages, they had the charts for best-selling albums and singles. They reviewed new albums and shows and even listed tour dates for bands on the road. That was one of the few places to find that information.
They even had a “College Radio” chart, which tracked airtime on college radio stations. WPSU was different then, with dedicated times playing music and programming aimed at that college radio audience.
And on Sunday afternoons, QWK-Rock had a show with “The Witch Doctor.” He’d start out previewing the show over the opening chords of “Pick Up the Pieces” by the Average White Band. Between him saying “Mercy, Mercy” and talking about bringing you “The Soulful Beat”, he’d talk about his trips to record stores in nearby cities. That’s where he’d find the urban funk, rap and soul records he played. That’s probably where 90% of the white kids in State College first heard Prince on the radio.
Radio and music charts were a big part of the discovery process. Some people gravitated to what was on those charts, while other musical snobs pretty much hated anything that became popular. The Daily Collegian “Arts Page” listed the national top 10 as well as the best-selling music from local record stores.
That was a long time ago. But sometimes what was old becomes new again. Many have noticed a renewed niche interest in vinyl records and turntables. And places like Stax of Trax on Beaver Avenue and Fez Records in Bellefonte remain vinyl outposts.
These days we get suggestions on one of the dozens of music apps out there. These suggestions are created by algorithms and analytics created by nameless, faceless people we will never meet.
It is more efficient to be sure. But it will never match the music-buying experience hearing the first chords of an album’s opening song crackle and pop on the store’s turntable. You trusted the person behind the counter was doing their best to find some music that would resonate with you.
And that was the point in the first place, finding music that brought people together. No computer will ever top the job done by the record ladies and men of a bygone era.
