A depressing story in today's New York Times on the forced closing of two record stores in Harlem.
The main focus of this story, of course, is the gentrification of Harlem. History and an entire way of life mean absolutely nothing compared to the voracious appetites of New York real estate developers, who won't stop feasting until every last square inch of the city is utterly devoid of personality. The Giuliani administration actively encouraged this behavior, and it's too late to stop it now.
But what I took away from the story was simply sadness at losing two more great record stores.
Many happy hours have I spent trolling through music shops, in NYC and elsewhere, with a list in my mind of obscure and out-of-print albums I couldn't find back home. Yeah, I know the wonders of the interweb make it easy to track down anything you want from the comfort of your own desk or cubicle, but that's hardly the point. Hanging out in these invariably cramped, vinyl-strewn environments was a social thing, interacting with people you've never met who share your enthusiasm, become your best friends for at least a few minutes. (Sometimes you even unwisely sleep with some young woman you meet at a record store, but hey, let's not get into that.) Sure you can chat online with anonymous strangers with cutesy user names who are into the same music as you, but it's not really the same thing, is it? (Lack of personal contact also makes it much more difficult to have spontaneous, regret-filled sex.)
Am I starting to sound like a cranky old guy who goes on about the good old days? Yeah, well, maybe, but damn it, things really were better then. Damn kids today with their fax machines and their hula-hoops, grumble grumble...
