It’s been a while since I’ve posted. I’m going to try to be better about that, particularly about these Record Store outings, calling attention to places that I discover, or re-discover, when I dare to leave the boundaries of New York City.
I recently made a quick trip up to my Hometown of Amherst,
Massachusetts, and while I did not have the time or money to visit all of the
places I wanted to (most of them in neighboring towns requiring more planning
for people such as I who do not drive), I never go back to Amherst without
stopping at Mystery Train.
Mystery Train
178 N Pleasant St
Amherst, MA 01002
I would recommend this store to all collectors, whether
they live in Western Mass or are on some kind of vacation or pilgrimage (and
not just because it is the only place in town). They have good stuff, and a
selection that is just different enough to notice. The place has a lot of
interesting records that I can only imagine comes from buying collections from
people in and around Amherst: Academics, artists, aging hippies. I’m not saying
that those people do not exist in New York, but visit Amherst and you will feel
a certain vibe. Yes, there are colleges in cities, but cities are different
from “college towns.”
The jazz section is solid, and again, for some reason,
that is where I seem to find more things that I don’t come across in other places.
The rock section is pretty standard, but with a few surprises, records by bands
that fared better in smaller cities but never broke through in a huge way. There
were some great records by the Baltimore based band Crack the Sky, and the Long
Island based Good Rats.
Organizationally, it could be a bit better, but that’s a
common problem. Categorization is all well and good. It is nice to have a
designated “prog” section, but often over-categorization can make things hard
to find. This place, though, seemed to suffer from both overcategorization and
disorganization. Subcatagories would be on the other side of the room, while there
were boxes and boxes of records sorted only by price. I think these boxes, once
upon a time, would have been called the “cheapo” bin, but it isn’t quite the
bargain it used to be.
The “cheapo” bins seem to be getting more and more
expensive, and obviously that’s not unique to Mystery Train. I suppose that’s
just a consequence of the times and the resurgence in vinyl’s popularity, but man,
I remember back when there was great stuff to be found in the fifty cent bin. At
Mystery Train they have the “$5 New Arrivals” box, close to the floor (elevated
only by an upturned milk crate) and similar boxes which get progressively more
expensive until the end when I wondered why I was screwing up my knees and
back, squatting to look through a bunch of unsorted ten dollar records. I mean,
I don’t want to sound like an old fart (which I suppose I am now) but once
things get beyond, say, 8 bucks, I think it should be at standard browsing
level. I should be able to stand up straight and leaf through.
As I sauntered to the counter I made a stop at the rare
vinyl bin. You know the one: Basically a box of disparate record unified by no
theme other than the fact the everything in the box costs more than thirty
dollars. I can kind of see why, at Mystery Train, the box is right the front of
the counter, which is also to say, farthest from the door. Perhaps this is to
dissuade the rare animal that is the vintage record collector who is both of
criminal nature and quick and spry of body. On the other hand, having it right
by the counter, which I have only approached once I have reached the limit to
what I should spend greatly decreases the likelihood that anything in there
will come home with me.
“I don’t know why I do this to myself,” I said to the
stereotypical, graying, bespectacled dude behind the counter. “Best case
scenario is that I find nothing of interest rather than find something that I
want, but not be able to afford.”
“Hmm,” the guy said and noddled, neither with impatience
or interest.
“The last time I was here you had the first album by
Patto for, like, a hundred bucks. I’m still kicking myself for not picking that
one up.”
“Oh.”
I leafed through the rack and found that the average
price of the records in the rarities bin had gone down a bit. Most of the discs
were priced at thirty bucks, and most of those were even worth it. I was
definitely hoping that the Patto record was still there a year later (and
marked down), but even as I went through, I knew that I was being hopelessly
optimistic. Then I stumbled across the second album by the criminally
underrated early 90s Boston band, The Cavedogs. Soul Martini (Capital Records,
1992).
“Wow. That’s crazy. I didn’t even know this was even
issued on vinyl.”
 |
| This looked far more impressive in the catalog. |
I mean, I shouldn’t have been too surprised. By 1992, vinyl still had some life in it. As I think back, I only had started buying CDs in early 1989. The holiday season before had included gifts of a Yorx Stereo System and my first CD player. Those who were in early adolescence back in the late 80s might remember Yorx electronics. I believe that they were entirely designed for catalog purchase. You see, in the pictures, it looked like you were getting an incredible rack system of dual cassette deck, turntable, AM/FM receiver, and graphic equalizer. All of this also came in a cabinet with room for media storage, and floor speakers. When the “system” ultimately arrived, the recipient would discover that the whole unit was essentially a single plastic box, with flimsy parts and much smaller than it appeared. In fact when playing an LP record, the disc would stick out beyond the edges of the unit. While the speakers stood about 3 feet high, it was exaggerated for effect. The same woofer and tweeter could have fit inside a tiny bookshelf cabinet. That was my Hannukah gift, but in spite of all this, I loved it to death.
The CD player was a Christmas gift. A Sanyo something or
other. As relatively cheap a model as it was, it was certainly a step up from
the Yorx unit, and was designed to be plugged into a proper receiver. I
discovered to my dismay when I went to hook it up that the York system only had
one single mono input for an auxiliary device. Not to be deterred, I went to my
local Radio Shack and bought a stereo to mono RCA adapter cable. So at least I
could hear both channels, even if they were flattened into an unintended
monoaural mix.
An audiophile system, this was most certainly not. But it
was mine, and I would spend hours locked away in my room listening to my new
Guns n’ Roses CD and my dad’s old Beatles LPs. Even though I had come up
listening to vinyl, by this time they were third class citizens. My parents’
records were not things to be cherished and appreciated for their sonic
superiority (which was lost on this system, which, also, if I recall, played
the records slightly too fast, resulting in the music being a quarter-tone
sharp). They were just things that were there. At that time, I generally
wouldn’t buy vinyl. If I didn’t have enough money for an album on CD (a common
problem for a twelve year old), I would buy the cassette tape. If I couldn’t
even afford the cassette, I would grudgingly buy the LP.
So yeah. Thinking about it, I guess major labels were
still pressing records at that time.
Anyway, I digress. So I began telling this guy about how
I had first heard of the Cavedogs through my stepbrother and ruminated about
the strange and inconsistent relationship between obscurity and perceived
rarity, mentioning that my entire collection of Cavedogs on CD had been found
in dollar used CD bins in New York… And then I just kind of stopped talking.
He looked back at me politely, then when he noticed I was
done, went back to whatever it was he was doing. I was kind of taken aback. I
don’t know what I was expecting out of this guy sitting at the counter behind
stacks of CDs with an empty plate and fork sitting precariously on top. I guess
I was expecting a different kind of energy, or any kind of energy at all.
He wasn’t even cantankerous. I could accept that. I’ve
come across many of the old school, aging record collector guys who shit on
everybody else because they are unworthy trespassers in the curated museum of
rock history that is their dungeon of a shop. Some act aloof and “dickish,” feeling
a deep need to protect their knowledge with a cool nonchalance in a desperate
attempt to hide the fact that their wells of wisdom came from being geeky kids listening
to records alone in their rooms while poring over issues of Rolling Stone and
memorizing liner notes.
I could not get a feel for the guy. Maybe that kind of behavior
and attitude is frowned upon in the warm, liberal town of Amherst. Maybe he
used to be more like that until he got a visit from the town council who gently
admonished him, saying: “Sir, we admire your tenacity as a small business owner
in our town, and love what your shop brings to its cultural life. However, as a
town that prides itself on being welcoming and understanding of all, regardless
of race, religion, class, sexual orientation, gender and gender affiliation, education
level, and musical taste, we would appreciate it if you would tone down the curmudgeonliness.”
Maybe that’s why he was so quiet.
I don’t think I was out of line for expecting some kind
of conversation. Hell, I’ve even been shamed for being too perfunctory when
buying records. I was once at one of my favorite spots in New York and I went
to the counter and put down my stack and asked if I could get a break on the
price if I paid cash, something not uncommon at this place (and many other used
record places). The dude regarded me with a look that could only be described
as sadness and disappointment colored with the slightest touch of repugnance.
“I don’t want to get in to the dirty business at the
start. I haven’t even seen what you’ve got yet,” he muttered as he started to
look through.
When he got to the copy of Depeche Mode’s Music for the
Masses, I told him that I was buying that one because I promised my wife that I
would get it the next time I found it, but in fact the album had been on my
back burner for almost twenty years when a regular at a bar I worked at in the
early aughts recommended it to me. This patron, incidentally, was a budding
fashion designer whom I had first met when serving a bottle of Veuve Cliquot to
him and one of his model friends before grossly injuring myself while polishing
a wine glass, necessitating a trip to the emergency room to get stiches put
into the tip of my pinky.
“See, that’s the stuff I’m talking about,” said the guy
behind the counter, now somewhat satisfied.
I don’t think that I’m wrong in saying that most people
who own or work in record stores are people who really, obsessively, love
music, and most people who really, obsessively love music, love talking about
music. Particularly when I was younger, record stores were social places as
much as places of commerce. Sometimes I would even win over the curmudgeons.
But I digress again. Back to Amherst. I don’t know what
was going on in the head of this dude at the counter. I don’t know what kind of
day he was having. In any event, I handed him my stack of records, he quietly
rang them up, told me the total, and then asked if I was paying cash or charge.
I paid cash even though it was clear there would be no discount.
As I headed towards the door, I discovered found a
section of 80s records that I had overlooked. Evidently these deserved their
own section. I took a cursory look. There was a copy of a record by The Bongos
that I kind of want, but I wasn’t about to go back to the counter. It would
have felt too awkward.
Maybe it’ll still be there next time.
 |
| My haul for the day. It turns out I already had the Herbie Mann record. |
*Evidently, while I was going to college in Boston, Mystery Train was planning it’s state-wide conquest, opening up locations in Gloucester, Amherst, and… Well, somewhere else. The website for their Gloucester location reads: “[T[he shop expanded over the years to five stores, then settled back to one large (most vinyl in New England) store in Gloucester, MA.” This tells me/insinuates a few things: Firstly, the stores that I originally frequented are no longer in existance. Secondly, there was one location that I did not know about, and still don’t. Finally, the Amherst location is probably no longer under the same ownership as the original Cambridge and current Gloucester locations, and thus likely functions as an independently owned entity.
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