Vinyl Junkie: The Record Show by Aaron Cohen
“left it for the other junkies to gnaw over.”
I’m broke again for two reasons: vinyl and vinyl. The junk has gotten more expensive, too. It’s bad. Regardless of what I get paid, I keep withdrawing an equal or greater amount from my checking account. What’s next for me feels ominous, if not terminal.
Plus, I’m now officially out of cabinet space.
My custom-made walnut credenza for vinyl storage that I expected to take years to fill is already so tight I have to use an advanced technique to get a record in or out. Woe is this vinyl junkie.
The one good side in all of this complaining is that my once-tiny collection has now grown into an impressive medium-sized collection of nineties music. I have somehow recreated my CD collection in about a year. Vinyl prices are getting worse as the junkies in Portland continue to multiply and become even more addicted. Suddenly, as if finally tasting the good stuff, I’m trying to focus on originals, but also serious-sounding reissues by the likes of master engineers Steve Hoffman, Kevin Gray, and Chris Bellman.
Despite the fact that I am flying soon to San Francisco to see the Flaming Lips, and will have the chance to devour Amoeba Records there, I knew Night Owl Record Show was coming up at the Eagle Lodge. The good news is I had a conflict since it started the same time as a romantic date. After nearly settling for missing Night Owl Record Show this time, at the last minute, I found out I could get in at 3pm, with an Early Bird price of $15.00. It’s kind of funny, because usually Early Bird connotes a discount. In this case it’s three times the price.
I withdrew $150 from BofA. I arrived at the dusty “lodge” at 3:05. Parking was tight. Much to my disappointment, they were already out of the Night Owl freebie tote bags, five minutes after opening. Luckily, I’d brought my backpack inserted with cardboard flats to protect any purchased vinyl from bending.
When I walked into the main hall, the junkies were frothing all over the records and trying to strike up fake idle chat with the pushers. We were all trying to find the secret stash, the deals, the ripoffs, and the steals. I followed the mobs, of course, sliding my body between the punks, mods, and yuppies. My heart hungry for the fix.
The pushers nodded nervously as I rabidly flipped and pulled, flipped and pulled. The funky sounds from the DJ were perfect for this kind of collectors' frenzy. Before long I saw Lonesome Crowded West, the ceremonial “breakthrough” record by Modest Mouse, for a mere $250.00 (it averages $450 on discogs.com). I already had LP1 and didn’t need them both, so passed on it, feeling guilty somehow not to group text my growing friend community of forty-something vinyl junkies that the rare Modest Mouse album was available at a relatively reasonable, but still asinine, price. Suffice it to say, I went back for the record three times, thinking twice, thrice . . . and left it for the other junkies to gnaw over. Surely it would be sold by 5pm when the regular buyers would arrive.
I saw the large DJ/pusher from Clinton Street Records and Stereo there with his boogibandanna, making mellow deals with the other pushers in his cool low voice. I saw the girl from the awkwardly named “Boom Wow” on MLK that I bought the Fugees The Score from last time I went to this record show. I tried not to realize that most of the dealers actually knew me, nodding, waiting to get some of my cold cash money. I was beginning to compete with the buyers themselves, which annoyed me. They needed to sell, not buy, and leave the buying to the buyers. But they were buyers too, and I realized there was a thin line between buyer and seller here.
My first purchase was Pornography by The Cure on Fiction Records, second was the double LP Me. Me. Me. by Air Miami on 45 RPM. Later, I moved to the Gray Album by Danger Mouse and Operation Doomsday by MF Doom. Some mono Mingus original for seven bucks, and about twenty others. My hands were cold and clammy. It was like going into a record store but even more intense and nerve-wracking. If you miss a record someone else will snag it over your shoulder and slither away. It was more mellow than Record Store Day by far, but these folks were no freshmen.
After only forty-five minutes, my fingers hurt from flipping through the records, my heart was pounding, and my backpack was getting heavier and heavier. It was impossible to pore through everything before my big date. I picked up Beware by Bonnie Prince Billy. I picked up Lee Hazelwood’s LHI reissue with the psychedelic cover of Trouble is a Lonesome Town from 1969.
The backstory there is that I had bought my girlfriend Light in the Attic’s Hazelwood Singles, Nudes & Backsides (1968-1971) a few months before. He was her second favorite songwriter (Leonard Cohen was her favorite). She’d already owned the reissue for a few hours but then had lost it (another backstory), so I’d replaced it for her since she was so upset. But then I was feeling like I needed some Hazelwood for myself, which is why I bought the old reissue for my own collection. It was $20.00. I thought that was high, until I pulled out a second copy from the booth from which I bought the Gray Album. The price on that one was $60.00. This awesome hippy DJ told me it was amazing, man.
I told him I already bought it a few seconds before from a different booth, I think for much cheaper. I dug it out of my bag to show him. He said, “Oh man, that’s a good price. On eBay it’s $100.” I smiled.
It was time to go, but with one foot out of the door one of the pushers slithered up to me and handed me a flyer and said, “Make sure you come to Olympia for our record show next month.” “OK,” I said helplessly. I put the flyer in my backpack.
As I headed over to my new girlfriend’s house, I went over my impulse buys over and over in my head. I looked at the time. Damn. I was late for my date, and had one of the worst excuses anyone could have. Fingers grimy, I rolled down the windows, lurched into Hawthorne Street traffic, and felt the wind blow through my hair. I may have felt bad, but it felt good. After all, I was high.
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Aaron Cohen is a writer, photographer, and founder of now-defunct Instatone Brand Records and Instatone Radio. You can follow his street photography on Instagram @instatone.