Standing at the corner of Haight and Stanyan on a sunny Sunday morning, I’m reminded of that book that told me I couldn’t go home again. But here I am with my back to Golden Gate Park, waiting for the San Francisco branch of Amoeba Music to open. Subtract a few minor scenic adjustments and I could be fifteen again, itching to get my hands on the latest haul.
For the Generation Y cohort, our teenage years spanned the period when music went from being a physical commodity to something bought and sold online. The Internet had already been around for a while, but downloading music was still relatively foreign, depending on one’s tech savvy. I had heard of Napster, but I didn’t really know how to use it. Besides, high schoolers are itching for any excuse to get out of their parents’ houses, and going to the record store meant a full-day excursion.
According to some, Amoeba Music, which consists of three locations in San Francisco, Berkeley, and Hollywood, may very well be America’s best independent record store. It’s certainly one of the biggest–the San Francisco location, which was my second home from ages 14 to 18, occupies a former bowling alley. Each Amoeba boasts aisles and aisles of every genre imaginable, with new and used products galore. And for silly kids like me who were still buying vinyl well into the new millennium, the records were a steal. For a mere $2 or $3, you could get an only slightly worn copy of say, Remain in Light–a small price to pay for weeks of feeling musically superior to your peers.
Getting to Amoeba, however, meant dedication. I lived in a small town over an hour away, with no decent record store to speak of. The trip consisted of a train and subway ride into San Francisco, and then a MUNI bus over to the Haight-Ashbury hood. But it was all worth it by the time I was flipping through the racks of records.
For any kid that’s into something unusual, a safe haven is integral. Some of them had comic book stores or musty basements where epic Dungeons & Dragons battles were waged. I had the Haight, and specifically Amoeba–a place where people wore glasses, liked the Smiths two decades too late, and didn’t care what your math SAT was. These were my people. This was my place.
I spent most of my time at Amoeba alone, and didn’t usually talk to anyone else. But as with any community, it was the little things that marked acceptance: the nod of approval from the checkout cashier; or the awkward moment when you and a fellow browser reached for the same album; and the in-store performances, when you got to look around and see dozens of other people singing the same words right along with you.
Most of this is gone now. The past few times I’ve been to Amoeba, or to any record store, the clientele is predominantly older folks. Teenagers don’t buy records or CDs anymore, and to be honest, neither do I. When I was 15, I’d save the money I earned bagging groceries just to get a few used albums, before listening to them over and over, all the way through. These days, I can’t remember the last CD I bought. I don’t even read record reviews anymore, because I can download everything for free, so what does it matter if it’s no good? The days of agonizing between the Songs of Leonard Cohen and Born to Run are long gone; this is the time of musical plenty. Maybe kids these days don’t need a physical space to feel like they finally belong somewhere. Maybe they can find those places through online communities now, and don’t feel that need to get the hell out of their bedroom. But where would I be if I hadn’t had Amoeba to escape to?
It’s hard to know whether downloading has ended my love affair with record stores, or if I’ve just grown up. Most people I know listen to less music now then they did when they were teenagers, and it’s likely that I would have stopped frequenting places like Amoeba even without a wireless connection. But although I have a larger music library now than I ever dreamed of as a teenager, something’s missing. I’ll be spending all afternoon digging through the vinyl bargain bin, trying to get it back.
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Wyndham Bettencourt-McCarthy writes regularly for Toronto Standard.
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