For me, as a wanderlust teen so suffocated by society, Record Store Day was pretty much everyday—or at the very least every weekend day, as I aimlessly walked to and from the Seven 11, Slurpee (cherry mixed with coke) in one hand and a new album already in my discman. Now, with my super-sleek ipod in my pocket, and my Slurpee addiction well under control, the cargo that escorts me around the city is certainly more aerodynamic, but it lacks a certain nostalgia, a certain bellyflop when a song that made me think of that boy I loved, track whatever, finally played, and I was following every lyric on the cd jacket with a dutiful reverence.
I know. CD’s are dinosaurs. Record Stores are basically like public bathhouses, you walk by them and think, “people used to have to go there?”
[Remember the good 'ole days?]
But, unlike bathhouses, which, I’m going to guess were ripe with the worst of human odors, record stores were teenage temples—a gathering place for those who were seeking meaning in their humble little lives. But I can’t wallow too much. Time is what it is. You grow up, you read Brooklyn Vegan and you hope that if you read the names of enough Brooklyn bands that one of them, somehow, will stir up that ole pain in your gut—the kind that tells you whoever is mixing those beats, or whining over that guitar is the real damn thing.
Saturday has officially been coined Record Store Day. By who, I don’t know. But if you’ve got any love left for those space consuming, sucks-when-they-get-scratched, compact discs full of memories, hit one of these stores up below. Of course, my favorite is Williamsburg’s Soundfix, and not just because they have an amazing free show planned…with an amazing, tough-as-nails, pretty-as-a-lark songstress...