A Return to the Record Store

On the Communal Experience of Record Stores

I pulled up to my local record store, and the parking lot was packed. Sandwiched between a banged-up Volkswagon and some dirty Tesla, I found a spot. I wasn’t there for anything in particular; mostly, I realized I hadn’t browsed the shelves of music and movies since before the pandemic. And scrolling through Spotify playlists wasn’t going to cut it. On this day, I woke up nostalgic.

Inside, my ears were tickled by something smooth and jazzy with a textural quality that played out loud. After I passed by shelves of DVDs, I got an overview of Saturday's crowd. I saw a few people lingering within every aisle. I was stunned, but it made me smile. And even if I normally prefer the solace and privacy of an empty aisle, it warmed me to see so many strangers, of all ages, flip through used CDs, movies, and vinyl. 

I walked up and down and I looked at carefully concentrated faces; music lovers on a mission with their eyes scanning below their furrowed brows. A couple squatted on the ground and dug through used indie CDs; I saw endless copies of The Shins Oh, Inverted World. And I watched two bearded dudes chat over what gems of albums they found in the metal section.

I noticed the row of vinyl that used to be tucked in the way back, is now upfront, before the CDs. And in that row, I saw smiles filled with braces stretched across teenage faces. The posters were mixed with Pink Floyd, psychedelic mushrooms, and anime. The selection of t-shirts a few teenagers looked through seemed almost exactly the same as when I was in high school: Nirvana, Iron Maiden, Sublime. The usual.

The employees roamed around and organized the used dusty, scratched, and cracked CDs. I overheard one answer that the song playing was by Atlanta Rhythm Section, but then it weirdly shifted to Metallica’s Fuel. While going through a bunch of Bob Dylan CDs, I couldn’t help but constantly look around to observe and take notice of everyone and everything happening around me.

It hit me. Nostalgia propelled me there, but what I most miss is the communal experience of finding music; the search for the tangible within a physical place with others doing the same. 

I thought about trips to the record store growing up. My teenage summers with friends or my older brothers, and back in college, stopping by on the weekend or at night after catching a movie with my best friend. We could all spend hours aimless and wandering through the stacks of records, talking about everything and nothing. It was about the shared physical experience anchored by music.

I stepped back and took in the scene. I almost felt punched in the face by the beauty surrounding me. Existing between the walls are the heart and guts of humanity. I paused and pondered which used albums were the soundtrack of someone’s first love, or worst heartbreak, and whose hands held the liner notes inside every case; and how many lives were saved by the records sitting inside this sacred space.

The experience of searching for music online feels less alive by comparison. It’s isolated and disconnected. There’s no communal space full of tactile connection and visible collective joy. Even when I’m discovering songs, making, and sharing playlists, it’s not as involved as being in the record store. The space, the sights and sounds, the physical touch, and the people are essential to making the search for music special. I don’t feel the same level of fulfillment when I tap or click open Spotify.

Seeking through a screen to select an album doesn’t have the same charm as brushing my arm past someone’s hand as I reach for a record. The algorithm making suggestions for what I might love isn’t as personal as getting a face-to-face recommendation from an actual person, like an employee or music obsessed stranger. There might be listeners who appreciate similar album covers as me, but I can’t see their eyes light up as they quietly geek out and admire the artwork. A million people can be eagerly browsing the app at the same time as me, but instead of that collective flicking of plastic CD cases, I get nothing. 

And so lately I’m thinking a lot about intentionally integrating more of the physical connectedness with my music experiences. Because after finally coming back to the record store for the first time in a few years, I was reminded of how there’s a communal bliss in a place like this. That’s something I miss.

---

The record store finds:

---

Hi friend!

Thank you for reading Sunday Candy!

If there’s anything that resonates here, let me know. You get to read a bit about what I think and feel—I’d love to hear what you’re thinking and feeling too.

Drop a comment below? That’s all for now!

Stay Tender,

Sandra