By Working at a record store taught me a tragic truth; no matter how much you love your favorite albums, they’ll never be as popular as they deserve to be. Each month at Merry-Go-Round Magazine, I dust off some long-overlooked records, revisit my pretentious past, and explore how this music forever etched itself into my history. Eventually, all your memories get marked down and thrown into The Bargain Bin.
I found myself wandering the streets of Portland, OR in the winter of 2009, searching for what I always look for when I’m in a new city—record stores. I’d saved up all of my cash tips from my job as a bouncer for four months and purchased a ticket to accompany my friend The Drummer back to college. I saved money by crashing on the extra bunk in her dorm and sneaking into the dining hall for meals.
It was getting late as I crossed at a light about a block from my bus stop. I heard a raspy voice whisper as a dude passed me in the opposite direction.
“Hey, man, you wanna buy some hash?”
—
Since the entire student body was returning from winter break at the same time, not even the tiniest nug of weed could be found on the shadiest of dudes we asked on campus. For the first time in three years, I was raw-dogging life with only nicotine to fill my lungs.
PORTLANDIA was still a few years out from airing, and Starfucker’s “Rawnald Gregory Erickson the Second” had yet to soundtrack a Target commercial, so Portland as a city felt less self-aware. It was artsy, weird, and new to me. I found the town charming, from its blocks-long bookstores down to its not-at-all-hidden strip clubs. It felt different than the Midwest, and not just because I could see a fucking mountain in the distance. I passed streets Matt Groening named Simpsons characters after. Flanders, Lovejoy, Quimby, Burnside. I fell in love with the chill in the air and the independence it brought as I ventured out on my own one afternoon. Portland was the first city I had visited where I felt I could survive on my own if I ever decided to leave St. Louis.
I also fell for The Drummer’s friends, a rag-tag group of misfits that spent their evenings singing songs by The New Pornographers on guitar and stealing whatever they needed from the local Fred Meyer. They were in bands with names like Bebefut or ones that were just one letter that I never tried to say out loud for fear of saying it wrong. They talked about books I would never read by authors whose names I would instantly forget. Talking to them made me feel like an imbecile, but they were kind and laughed at my jokes.
I spun the little click wheel of my iPod to a playlist I cobbled together based on a mix CD The Drummer burned for me before she left at the end of our summer together. It was filled with sweet nothings from bands and artists I hadn’t heard before. Little Wings, Adrian Orange, Starfucker, the legendary Vaselines, and a host of others I’ve since forgotten—sad songs played on worn-out guitars and synthpop sung by lonely writers. I let them all shuffle as I followed the directions to Everyday Music that I scribbled onto the notebook paper. I’d scribbled directions straight from Mapquest, figuring I could find the shop as long as I knew which direction I came from.
Hip cities have the best new arrival bins. We could go months at my store without someone trading in a CD copy of IN THE AEROPLANE OVER THE SEA. At Everyday Music, you’d find ON AVERY ISLAND, WHO WILL CUT OUR HAIR WHEN WE’RE GONE?, SUNG TONGS, and the complete pre-SATANIC PANIC of Montreal catalog on disc in their section for what was sold back that Monday.
I walked out with a stack of records; an import copy of Ween’s PURE GUAVA, MF DOOM’s OPERATION: DOOMSDAY, the self-titled record from Mike Patton’s Peeping Tom, and that Starfucker album on CD. That place was heaven on earth.
—
“You, with the glasses. I said, do you wanna buy some hash, man?”
I turned my head towards the voice to see a tall man staring at me with bulging eyes and a lumberjack beard. A ratty stocking cap that had seen better days sat off-kilter on his head; patchouli stink lines radiated off its worn fabric. He wore a large flannel overcoat, unzipped, holding out one side of the coat, and pointed to his pocket as if he might try to sell me a fake Rolex, a string of pearls, or some other writer’s trope.
Without stopping to think, I replied, “I would, but I don’t have any cash.”
If I’d pulled out my wallet, moths would have fluttered out. I’d saved enough for the plane ticket and records, but the rest was for rent.
“No worries,” he said. “There’s an ATM around the corner of that building. You’ll go over there and get the money, then meet at that other corner and will make the exchange down that alley.”
“Oh, awesome!”
I’d never smoked hash before. I’d never even seen hash before; I just knew it was weed-adjacent, which was good enough for me. Smoking weed made me feel dumb, but I did the stupidest things when I was sober. I couldn’t handle listening to the constant anxiety thoughts that rushed through my brain without medication. I wanted to be stoned, dancing carefree around the forest that lined the campus with The Drummer and all of her brilliant friends. Being around them made me want to sell all my possessions, move to the Pacific Northwest, and hole up in a cabin to record the next significant hit indie record. Pitchfork would give a 5.3 upon release, then a 9.8 a decade later once every musician cited it as the record that made them want to start a band. Fuck, I just needed to get stoned.
With cash in hand, I followed my new friend down the alley to buy drugs. We did one of those sly handshake exchanges like they do on TV. I squeezed the baggie in my hand, feeling the dense green square. Was this right? Does hash feel like a rock, or was I scammed? How was I supposed to get high on this? I felt stupid asking questions, so I thanked him before lighting a cigarette. He asked if he could bum one off me. I obliged.
“Listen, my dude,” the hashman said as he cupped his hand around the flame. “I’ve got a lot more of this stuff I’m trying to get rid of if you’re interested.”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m not from here. I fly back to St. Louis in two days.” I had already done that other shady shit with him, so I wasn’t concerned with him knowing where I came from.
“Aw, come on, that’s no big deal,” said the hashman. “You can take it on the plane. No, seriously! I’ll give you some advice. You wanna know how?”
“Sure,” I said, flicking my cigarette into traffic.
“You wrap it up in plastic and then stick it up your butt!”
—
That night I smoked hash with a couple of The Drummer’s friends, talking wildly about my plans to leave my life in St. Louis, knowing full well I was too afraid to leave my family and record store job behind. It was exciting for a moment, but the moment was fleeting.
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