Boston Globe Story about Record Stores

[Mike from Boston]

For those you old enough to remember, there is a story in the April 3
Boston Globe about three record stores that still sell the old fashioned vinyl.
All three were asked the favorite 10 Albums of all time and Jim Murphy
of Revolution in downtown Plymouth had the Pogues at No. 7 with
If I Should Fall....

http://nl.newsbank.com/nl-search/we/Arc ... _docnum=12

the three lists don't seem to appear on the online version.

[Heather]

Comes up as error for me mate.

[Mike from Boston]

Comes up as error for me mate.

Sorry may not be able to link this so here is the story

PLYMOUTH Jim Murphy's timing could have been better. Two years after he opened his CD and record store, along came the iPod.

Since Apple Computer's MP3 player debuted in 2001, consumers by the millions have abandoned checkout lines to go online. Last year CD sales slumped about 7 percent, a trend expected to continue. Today more than 42 million people own iPods, and Apple Computer's Internet store, iTunes, has sold more than 1 billion song downloads. The numbers make the future look shaky for small-shop owners like Murphy who trade mostly in used music. But he is not ready for the swan song.

"This will be the last record store in Massachusetts," he says from behind the counter at Revolution in downtown Plymouth. "It's all I know how to do."

On this afternoon, a few customers are flipping through racks of plastic jewel cases, but sometimes Murphy, 42, has the place to himself. Especially when the wind scrapes a salty chill off the harbor and shoppers seek refuge at the nearby Wal-Mart Supercenter.

He manages by keeping overhead low and the payroll to a minimum: It's a one-man Revolution. Inventory comes mostly from people who have transferred music collections to hard drives and are eager to dispose of their CDs for a few dollars apiece. "They treat them like trash," he says. "They think CDs are going the way of the dinosaur. Maybe they are."

Murphy marks up the price to realize a healthy profit, and sells to people who have not gone digital. Each CD collection jettisoned prob ably means another iPod sold, shrinking his customer base a little more. The long-term survival of Revolution depends on a simple premise, he says: "That there are people who still enjoy going into a store and poking around."

He has an encyclopedic knowledge of music, swears that with a few exceptions there hasn't been a "really great" rock album since 1986, and has not downloaded so much as a note. Growing up in Braintree, he says, "I didn't really get into music until Elvis Costello, the Clash, the Jam, some early new wave. While my friends were listening to Aerosmith, I was finding `Talking Heads: 77.' That just blew me away. And Devo too."

After working the aisles of a Quincy record store for years, he decided to strike out on his own.

A pink wall is decorated with album jackets such as Blondie's "Parallel Lines," Brian Eno's "Here Come the Warm Jets," and the Jam's "All Mod Cons." A mannequin named Oscar wears a gray-checked suit and sits in the front window display, kept company by a ceramic RCA Victor dog. Murphy rearranges the scene occasionally to reflect his skewed sense of humor. At Halloween, for instance, Oscar's right hand was stuffed into the dog's mouth, fake blood dripping on a copy of "50,000,000 Elvis Fans Can't Be Wrong."

He calls Revolution a "nostalgia factory," reminiscent of the stores he visited as a teenager dusty dens like Kenmore Square's Nuggets, which opened in 1979. They were heavy with the smell of old cardboard, and steeped in strong opinions about which music mattered. Back then, obscure songs could not be located through search engines. Shopping was a hunting expedition, almost as much of a thrill as the music itself.

"You never knew what you were going to find," he says. "Kids today, they know what the masterpieces are already; they don't have to look for themselves. It's all on the Internet."

Stuart Freedman, Nuggets' owner, shares Murphy's sense of loss, and his struggle. "People aren't buying what they used to," he says. "If some kid is flipping through albums and picks one out, a friend will say, `Oh, you can just download that from me. Don't buy it.' "

To keep the lights on, Freedman relies on "the classics" Miles Davis's "Kind of Blue," anything by the Beatles supplemented by posters "and other stuff that's not downloadable." When the Rolling Stones played at Fenway Park last year, Nuggets enjoyed a brief bubble of business that evoked better days. "We were down to the Bill Wyman solo albums, and even they were selling," Freedman says.

"But if I had any real sense, I would have gotten a real job a long time ago."

Allen Day, owner of Cheapo Records in Cambridge's Central Square for about 30 years, also has seen a "substantial" decline in business recently. He, too, plans on staying put. "It's inertia," Day says. "I don't have anything else to do."

Murphy and his peers speak in world-weary tones that belie their passion for music of an earlier era. They can rattle off titles from a 30-year-old album in order and are happily oblivious to the day's top 10 downloads.

In some ways, Cheapo, Nuggets, and Revolution resemble Championship Vinyl, the record shop at the center of Nick Hornby's 1995 novel "High Fidelity." The place is an anachronism, its owner fatalistic and stubborn. There is, however, at least one crucial difference: Hornby's struggling store did not face competition from downloading.

But easy access to digital files has not only pulled customers out of stores, it has fractured the concept of an album. Content and sequencing are up to the listeners or their computer's shuffle mode.

"I can't imagine that anyone still plays a whole album from start to finish," Murphy says. "But I don't get the whole idea of just buying the good songs. I mean, put on any Beatles record they're all good songs."

Revolution's few younger customers often congregate in the closet-size basement room devoted to vinyl. Records have attained cachet through retro-centric magazines like Mojo and Uncut. Purists insist they sound warmer than CDs or digital files.

"Right now, the newer the vinyl the better," Murphy says. "A collection from the '80s is better than one from the '60s. I'd much rather have five Smiths records than five from the Yardbirds." He has also tried selling on eBay, but "people are a pain. Everyone's very particular about condition."

"If I get to the point where I'm selling inventory off just to pay the rent, well, I'm not going to do it."

On a Saturday afternoon, Tim Daley, Murphy's best friend and foil, positions himself near the counter to assess customers' purchases. Dismissals outstrip approvals by a 3-to-1 margin.

"I'm Jack Black, he's John Cusack," Daley says in reference to the stars of the 2000 movie version of "High Fidelity."

They have known each other since 1982, the year Springsteen's "Nebraska" came out, Daley says. Both men prefer to mark time through release dates rather than calendars. Daley regularly drives from his home in Revere to hang out. He is purposely obnoxious in an amusing way sort of like Black's character. He makes pronouncements like: "Buddy Holly was the last original white guy," and "The Kinks never put out a bad record." He and Murphy can spend hours dissecting a treasured album, and denounce a new one with the smack of an expletive.

When "High Fidelity" premiered in theaters, they saw it together.

"It was like looking into a mirror," Murphy says.

"That movie was huge to us," Daley says quietly. "Definitely."

Two brothers, ages 21 and 24, approach the counter with their purchases. The younger one plunks down a short stack of records that includes David Bowie's "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars" and "The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society."

"I like having the actual album in hand," the older brother says. "I'll download something, but if I really like it I'll go buy the album. You'll never beat them for artwork, either."

Daley and Murphy nod like approving parents. Today they have reason for optimism. Just don't expect them to admit it tomorrow.

SIDEBAR:
MEMORY ALBUMS
PLEASE REFER TO MICROFILM FOR CHART DATA.

[Heather]

Thanks.