Record Store Days

Yesterday was the first national Record Store Day, a chance to support and applaud independent Mom-and-Pop record stores across the country (which is easy to do since most of the chains except -- inexplicably -- FYE are out of business). I've had many a formative musical experience in my most local of small record stores, and it got me thinking about something that's been nagging me for a few years: my complete disinterest in digital music downloads.

I belong to emusic, which is a fantastic indie-geared download service with a great selection and equally good recommendations. I get about 30 songs a month, normally culled from a wide range of albums I may enjoy...a buffet sampling of sorts. The issue I have is twofold. First, good albums are meant to be a start-to-finish adventure. Grabbing a third of an album at a time makes the songs totally disposable to me; in fact, a good deal of what I download never even makes it onto my iPod. Everyone has their favorite songs from the favorites albums, but what would "Tumbling Dice" be without the rest of Exile of Main St.? "The Weight" without "Caledonia Mission" on Music From Big Pink?

The term "record album" to me has always translated into more than just a collection (re: album) of recordings (re: record): it's an historical record of that content as an event, of the months or years it took to group those songs together, distilled into something that sounds immediate, instantaneous and fluid.

Second, I just don't feel any connection to the music without something physically in my hands. Sure, that album may get ripped to iTunes and never played on a CD player again, but there's something about that drive home with it playing in the car that matters. And even when I do find an album that I love via emusic, my immediate impulse is to get in the car and buy the CD (for the better sound quality, if nothing else).

Nick Hornby (author of "High Fidelity" amongst other things) sums this up nicely:

"Yes, yes, I know. It's easier to download music, and probably cheaper. But what's playing on your favourite download store when you walk into it?
Nothing, that's what. Who are you going to meet in there? Nobody. Where are the notice boards offering flatshares and vacant slots in bands destined for superstardom? Who's going to tell you to stop listening to that and start listening to this? Go ahead and save yourself a couple of quid. The saving will cost you a career, a set of cool friends, musical taste and, eventually, your soul. Record stores can't save your life. But they can give you a better one."

I walked into Chester County Book & Music Company on my 15th birthday and found John Scofield's A Go Go playing over the speakers. It swung, it swayed, it smirked and floated along in effortless cool without ever sounding like smooth jazz, smooth Jiffy peanut butter or anything else safe and innocuous. I picked the album up that day and still listen to it at least once month. Scofield's playing influenced everything about my own, and whenever someone debates about the most lyrical and conversational player out there, I always think of Sco's humor-full style.

So what's your most fondly-remembered record store memory? It doesn't have to revolve around a specific album (that I'll address next time), but everyone has that one special day, and everyone who reads this blog can probably describe it with all five senses. Sock it to me, gentle readers.


Sidenote: The best reason of all to vote for Barack Obama this Tuesday (as if you needed one)? John Cleese has offered his joke writing services to the campaign. I, for one, am looking forward to a cartoon McCain being crushed underneath a giant cartoon foot.