I still remember the horror and dismay on his face. What a disappointment I was. How crushing for him. His benign and unassuming demeanor vanished in an instant. And in its place, disbelief, maybe even anger. All this affect in reaction to a simple answer given to a fairly simple question. The forest escapes me, but I believe the trees looked something like this…
Boston, circa 2007. An outwardly put-together kid in my freshman year orientation group is rambling on and on about his interests and hobbies. The kind of rambling one does when your adrenaline is pumping after meeting dozens of strangers in a single day.
Suddenly, he turns to me with a huge goofy smile on his face, and asks, “Do you like Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers?”
My eyes widen. I freeze. I’m paralyzed. I think to myself: Oh no. The jig is up.
My limbs feel as heavy as cement. Dried. Why this question? Why now? We were having such a nice day.
A cold sweat forms and, in a nanosecond, sweeps over my 18 year old body. Must everyone know now, must everyone know what a poor unfortunate soul I am.
I forget to breath. Who?! I think I may have heard of Tom Petty? Once. Maybe. I’m not sure!
I know I have to say something because he keeps staring at me.
Luckily, my faculties come back to me. After the most pregnant pause in the history of humankind, I take a breath - probably theatrically too, just to buy me some more time. But my mouth is failing me. Now comes the stuttering, “Uh… Um… Mmm…” which I pair with weird tics and some wriggling in my auditorium seat.
I think I shrug.
By now, he gets it. It finally hits home. He says something like, “W h a t. Do you not like Tom Petty?! Have you heard any of his music??” Without any humor by the way. And he won’t let it go. He begins to ask others around him. He needs validation. He needs redemption. Or something! I’m still not quite sure. The rambling starts up again, but this time with more vigor and righteousness. The kind of 18-year-old righteousness that permits you to judge harshly upon others based on their CD collection.
Very quickly, he loses interest in talking with me and proceeds to carry on his Tom Petty’s fan club discussion with someone else. I sigh with relief as his insect-like attention span saves me from further humiliation.
Sitting in the safety of my solitude, I am once again reminded of the limitation of social cache: I am not a music person.
I’ve never been a music person. Maybe it’s the family I grew up in, or the fact that I was the eldest sibling, or perhaps it’s due to my lack of musicianship. Regrettably, I never gravitated toward music the way other kids around me did. I was never that curious. I never saved up my babysitting money just so I could demand another car ride to the nearby record store. Because that’s the era that I was still a part of as a teenager, the record store era.
The ever mysterious and intimidating record store. My friends, with their savant like ability to pick out CDs from endless rows of neatly organized music, found record shops to be a haven. A slice of paradise on earth. I, on the other hand, saw rows and rows of plastic. Aisles of names I had never heard of playing musical genres I never knew existed - my own personal nightmare.
So when one of my close friends (still is by the way) had her 13th birthday party, and someone gifted her a DVD - Empire Records (1995) - I didn’t understand the commotion. I remember it pretty vividly now.
“A lot of people don’t know about it,” the gift-giver sagely chimed.
Implicitly, or rather explicitly, this little 13 year old sage divided the room into two groups - the kids “in the know”, and the culturally hopeless goobers. She made it very clear, over numerous instances during our time in the educational system together, that I was squarely in the latter. Which I agreed with entirely, by the way. I guess it bothered me a little bit back then, but not enough to become something I was not.
I am, as I have proudly declared before on this newsletter, a musically illiterate blob of a consumer. Now as a thirty-something, I just feel more confident about it.
Now. Have I always retained a sort of curiosity about this fawned over Empire Records movie? You betcha. Do I perhaps want to knock down any barriers that mildly resemble exclusivity and, what would later be called, hipsterism? A resounding yes from this side of the generational timeline.
And what a quirky little piece of cinema it is! Thank goodness for YouTube’s free movie catalog.
Situated in nowhere Delaware, the movie is about a day in the life of savvy record store manager, Joe, and his crew of loveable misfit employees. (Some of those young employees later go on to star in big blockbuster roles so it’s a delight to see mid-90’s versions of them.) The soundscape is jam-packed with wall-to-wall music from the late 80’s and early 90’s. The cast’s wardrobe is an eye-catching blast from the past and something even the Gen Z crowd has failed to fully resurrect in their latest TikTok trends. For a mild aperitif of what 1995 had to offer, I think it’s a poignant love letter to bygone Gen X slacker-ism.1 In the best way!
The film maintains the romanticized appeal of the times while polishing the edges with shiny haircuts, highly curated music, and pristine versions of grunge fashion. And much like all movies that prominently feature a record store as another actor in the plot, Empire Records is filled with memorable personalities, it produced a killer soundtrack, and it encapsulated the undeniable charm of a local record shop before the dot com bubble.
Would I have been content watching it as a 13 year old? Probably. The physical comedy would have been entertaining and the teen-related problems riveting. Am I happier that I watched it as an adult? Absolutely. I feel like I can really appreciate the budding stardom of Liv Tyler and a spunky Renee Zellweger. I can appreciate how strange it is that Tyler’s step-father at the time, Coyote Shivers, managed to make the billing. I can fully appreciate all of the mental health issues linked so fervently to “coming-of-age” plotlines. And funny enough, I can even appreciate this period in our zeitgeist - the freedom, the possibilities, the in-person connections made while shopping at a record store.
And for this, I thank you, Empire Records. Thanks for keeping this memory alive. Thanks for not letting me forget those moments from my adolescence. The evidence of a shopping trip. The stacks of CDs in my friends’ hands. A sort of bounty after looting. And even though I never had a stack in my hands, I remember fondly the ambience.
The smiles, the pride, the planning.
The anticipation of an album release date.
The sociocultural value of musical knowledge based on depth rather than breadth.
And the steady focus of my friends’ gaze as the all-consuming experience of browsing the stacks became a sort of meditation.
For these memories and so much more, thanks for helping me remember record stores, Empire Records. You rock.
I didn’t have a moody older brother or sister from whom I could steal music. And I come from a background in which money is not readily spent on musically inclined activities like guitar lessons, CDs/vinyl records, concert tickets, etc.
I won’t lie to you, in my formative years, shopping for music at record stores felt like some kind of sick joke. And how could I find salvation among my peers who clearly possessed more sophisticated taste and a discerning ear for what is truly listen-worthy and what is trash. They needed to get the latest record by The Donnas, or Weezer, or The Unicorns. This hunger is not and will never be a part of who I am.
So, when I finally decided to commit to watching Empire Records, I slightly grimaced. But I pulled up my big girl britches because I had a responsibility. Nay a duty, to consume that which musically inclined aging millennials pledged their pre-adolescent allegiance to: movies about music. And what a nostalgia filled, heart-aching, fun stroll down memory lane it was. May we all humbly remember how music used to and can be treated.
Now go out and hug a record store employee today.2
Thank you for reading this week’s rambling post.
Building a flock one post at a time,
M
Merriam-Webster’s definition of a “slacker”: a person who shirks work or obligation; especially, one who evades military service in time of war; a person and especially a young person who is perceived to be disaffected, apathetic, cynical, or lacking ambition.
Actually, official record store day is tomorrow! April 22nd, 2023. https://recordstoreday.com/
Maribel, I really enjoyed this. Official Record Store Day in April. I mean, who knew. I was really into 80s music. I used to memorize the Billboard Charts on Saturday and then go run to share the results with my friends. I've always enjoyed classical music, but mostly the old faithfuls -- Bach, Mozart. After college, I was so ensconced in school and work that I really didn't explore what came out during those years or thereafter. Once in a while it became impossible not to hear a new Lady Gaga song, but I don't have a favorite band past the 80s. Unlike books, it just doesn't feel like an important part of my life and I rarely listen to music unless I'm driving. I'm sure many would say I'm really missing out. But I feel fine with it. Thank you for sharing.