Closing Shop—And A Life
My CD store was once a gathering place for neighbors. Now that it's gone, they are, too.
I stopped going to Starbucks in 2003. It's not that I don't like the coffee. I stopped going because Erika was no longer behind the counter. It took some months of regularity, but it finally happened: Erika knew me. This corporate java behemoth actually employed someone who found the time to learn and remember my name and my order. Erika (not her real name) was a rock star to me. She knocked seconds, eventually minutes, off my waiting time. I'd walk in and, boom, a latte was in my hand. A minor thrill, but a thrill nonetheless. Once Erika disappeared from Starbucks, so did I. I just didn't have the patience to endure another hazing for an indeterminate outcome.
I learned a bit about Erika. She was a photographer, loved Italian food, listened to more punk rock than most people I knew, had a mutt named after the bass player from her favorite punk band and desperately wanted to move to New Orleans because "as much as I love New York City," she confessed, "I can barely afford The New York Times." I shared some information as well. I told her I had been married for more than 10 years, that I listened to music, including punk rock, six to eight hours a day and that moving to New Orleans was also something my wife and I desperately wanted to do.
Erika and I were friends. But she's gone now. No forwarding address. No e-mail contact. This bothered me. I wasn't really missing Erika. I didn't have a crush on her, but we did share something other than a love for New Orleans. For 13 years I owned a CD, DVD and record store, right around the corner from Erika's Starbucks. And for 13 years I was a rock star to many people.
Celebrities, musicians, journalists and, of course, the everyday people who lived in the neighborhood would frequent my shop and hang out at the counter as if they were in a local pub. We'd shoot the breeze about everything, not just music. Some would drown their sorrows. I served no booze, but it didn't matter. I had a duty, not just as a business owner and music maven. I was expected to listen. While a customer was in need of a Miles Davis recommendation, Larry, a neighborhood fixture who in 13 years had never bought a thing, relentlessly pined over his ship that still hadn't come in. It was double duty, and I loved it. " 'Kind of Blue'," I suggested. Both Larry and my customer said, "Yes."
People would rush in and bark questions that needed immediate attention.
"Sal. Saw you at the Tom Waits show last night. What was that song he closed with?"
"That was amazing, wasn't it? It's called 'Who Are You' from his 'Bone Machine' CD."
"I knew you'd know. Order me one."
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Member Comments
Posted By: ktunafish @ 07/17/2008 12:37:27 PM
Comment: Sal,
Great article, you are obviously a gifted writer as others have already pointed out.
Seems to me there is still come type of angle were you can exploit with your talents
and passion for and in music. In the 'if you can't beat 'um, join 'um' category have
you considered the e-commerce front end to Amazon.. more information here:
http://www.amazon.com/gp/seller-account/mm-summary-page.html?ie=UTF8&topic=200257920
and/or possibly writing music reviews?
Again, great article and thanks for sharing it.
- Kyle
Posted By: cjpfalzgraf @ 07/09/2008 4:52:01 PM
Comment: Oh well, I guess the software battles rage on. Please fill in the appropriate punctuation where needed. Take care Sal.
Posted By: cjpfalzgraf @ 07/09/2008 4:47:19 PM
Comment: Let's try that again without all the punctuation glitches.
Sal-
Sixteen years ago I shut down my two record stores. Thirteen years ago I stopped working in record stores all together. Nevertheless, my passion for music has not waned. Certainly I don't have my finger on the pulse of all 'the need to know bands', but like yourself once you learn how to do this, the skill never goes away. Also like you I miss being a retail rock star and I miss the connection with my customers. But overtime you'll run into them and they will enthusiastically thank you for that rare import LP you found for them or that one CD which changed their way of listening to music forever. And they will ask how you are doing, wish you the best, and you'll feel like a million bucks for your actions in the past.
Despite these intermittent periods of contact with your past the thirst for 15 more minutes never leaves some of us. Sure, I've moved on and become a professional in another field (Clinical Neuropsychology???I'm a Psychometrician). But the endless volume of music knowledge that I have is what makes me tick. I'd drop it all for another chance to enter the music arena again.
People like you and me are rare indeed. We are these odd gatekeepers of knowledge to a form of art that is everywhere but often overlooked due to an industry that has turned it into product. At times I wonder what the real difference between a Twinkie and the endless stream of well-built, but flabby talented, pop stars truly is? But I say people like us need to come together and let the industry know that we are very important to their continued existence. We always moved product in high volumes. From those artists who have the PR machine behind them, to the amazing art projects of the truly talented, we moved it all. We need to show the industry that we are more vital than online blurbs and links like "other customers who bought this CD also bought____." We've worked endless hours learning about and listening to one of humanities most unique attributes. We???ve learned about the people behind the art, the personal history and culture that influenced the art, and we watched our culture change because this art. With unbridled passion we played song after song of our favorite artists to any customer who asked. Thus, we improved the lives of so many people when we sold a piece of music. Now, it's our turn. Our return is necessary to the survival of this beautiful art, it doesn't just sell itself.
Hang in there my friend...the future is unwritten.
p.s. Check out Cory Chisel & The Wandering Son...a rare talent from the hinterlands of the Midwest.