"Goodbye...lay the blame on luck..."

I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard, so much and for so long. It could have been a sad, solemn experience—it was the end of an era, after all. Instead, the gathering Saturday evening at the record store was filled with music, fun, friends, good food and life-affirming laughter of the type I haven’t experienced since leaving the store for Corporate America. Memorabilia covered the walls: photos and apparel spanning the 32 year history; posters from the days when The Sav booked concerts; tapestries with the smiling sun logo. Photo albums seemed to multiply on every counter space. Some of the hanging mobiles were missing, as customers eager for a piece of history had placed bids that were too silly to be turned down. Candles flickered on and around the antique showcases, still brimming with ornate silver jewelry and handmade, one-of-a-kind necklaces. Marcum had dug out all the old award-winning reel-to-reel commercials, which he duped onto CD and blasted through the powerhouse vintage Marantz amplifier. We roared at the risqué radio ads and lamented the conservative voice of today’s milquetoast airwaves. The signature incense burned all around. The smell has always been the same, and we laughed assuredly that no matter what sort of shop may open in the space in the future, it will still smell like the Record Store. The smell has permeated its being, and will live on infinitely. We gathered around the Artists Showcase in the back of the store, peering at photos of our much younger selves smiling with Ace Frehley, Queensryche, Poison, Winger, L7, Badlands, Pantera, The Cranberries. We howled at our haircuts, our clothing, our youth. We reminisced about our missing fellow employees and wished them there. And because they weren’t there, we were merciless in our remembrances and laughed heartily at their expense. The stories spilled out. Confidences were breeched--it no longer mattered. We pulled the widow aside and admitted the secret hi-jinks we got up to while on the clock. What was the harm? We could no longer be fired, after all. Oh and there were some really juicy bits too. Two employees lived “rough” in the store when they were evicted from their apartment. They kept sleeping bags in the car, slept in front of the showcases, and left just before The Sav turned up to open the store at 8 a.m each morning. He never knew. Another employee took an informal poll on how many staff got jiggy in the back office—with customers, with boy/girlfriends, with each other. There were admittances of getting high in the back hallway, getting hammered on the clock, sending customers to pick up food orders, and having The Melvins play a concert in the store after closing. There were over 100 people in attendance, and The Sav never even knew the event took place. We tried to remember the rules of the elaborate game of hacky-sack we used to play, which involved trying to knock as many country artist cassette tapes from the shelving as possible. Reynolds remembered that we got points deducted for knocking off artists we liked, like Soundgarden. Another “game” was the friendly competition between all the guys, which consisted of amassing as many “hot chicks” phone numbers as possible. There were extra points for the “hotness” of the girl, and there were bonus points if she visited the store more than once in a week’s time after giving said phone number out. Even more points were added if she returned with a mix tape for the guy—double bonus points if the mix was a good one. Each had his own hiding place for his “stash” of numbers: underneath the turntable; tacked to the wall behind the special orders; in an envelope beneath the amp. Since most of the guys had girlfriends, the competition was simply an ego booster—proof that the guy “still had it.” There were times it backfired on them, with entertaining results. One guy was stalked by a Michael Jackson fan after he turned down her repeated requests to go to Prom. She used to follow him when he went on dates with his girlfriend, and would sit outside his house in her car. His girlfriend, rather than being angry, felt sorry for the girl and went to sit with her, bringing her tea and coddling the sobbing girl. Another employee had to deal with a hippie chick who, after being rebuffed several times, sat on the curb outside the store and cried every single day for three weeks. Only when the guy was working, of course. Tears of laughter streamed down our faces as we remembered the dreaded Things List. Each morning The Sav wrote out a list of tasks for us to perform during the day, to keep us busy and keep us out of trouble. As if! And woe be unto any employee who managed to somehow piss off The Sav. Between guffaws and chortles, we reeled off the tasks that verified “shit list” status: blowing up the deflated Led Zeppelin blimp; polishing the brass poles; changing the bin liner in the outside trash barrel. Webber even coughed up a tidbit of unprecedented shit list material: having to put three coats of varnish on every wooden LP bin in the store! “I don’t know what I did, but it must have been a whopper!” he mused. Reynolds shot an eye up to the deflated Zeppelin and reckoned it hadn’t been inflated once since he left in 1997. It certainly didn’t look as though it had. The Zeppelin brought the musings upward, and we began to point out all the crafty cut’n’paste sessions we had, mostly at the expense of the hanging mobiles. Rather than do actual busywork whilst on the clock, we’d spend hours devising intricate cut’n’paste masterpieces. My handiwork was still there: Macaulay Caulkin and Ice-Cube masquerading as members of The Crusaders. Janet Jackson still sports a Darth Maul mask. Reynolds face still smiles merrily on the body of Billy Duffy, as The Cult’s Sonic Temple mobile dangles from the ceiling, gathering dust. PJ will always be the Cut’n’Paste King. He and TC did cut’n’paste battle every day for several years, commencing with TC defacing a copy of Rolling Stone with PJ as the middle Hanson brother. PJ, however, emerged the victor with a craftily placed series of TC’s face over every usable surface available. PJ snapped a photo of TC at a Dingle-Jam concert, and then spirited it off to the copy center across the road for an evening of fun. It took several weeks for TC to locate and destroy all the incriminating evidence, the last of which was his stoned mug plastered on the body of Jimi Hendrix, holding court high above the album racks in the middle of the store. The subject turned to the regulars, each name or description bringing with it a flood of laughter and yet more stories. We missed them, we admitted, even the ones who drove us crazy and grossed us out. We regaled tales of sightings outside of the shop. Hilarity ensued. We posed for photos, stood behind the showcases once more, hugged for eternities. We were the fortunate few—former employees of one of the best, most renowned independent record stores in the country. The final closing of the store could have been maudlin. Instead we celebrated that it had existed at all. If good things lasted forever, would we appreciate how precious they are?

Concerts 1984

ARTIST VENUE
Gomez/ The Libertines The Jockey Club
Van Halen Cincinnati Gardens
The Romantics Timberwolf Amphitheatre
Dez Dickerson&The Modernaires/Billy Idol Hara Arena, Dayton
Honeymoon Suite The U-Turn, Middletown
Saccarine Trust/Black Flag The Jockey Club
Yes Riverbend Amphitheatre
The Replacements The Jockey Club
Yes Riverfront Coliseum

I’d heard The Libertines on Robin Plan’s “Planet X” late night show on 97X, and she mentioned they were playing some place called The Jockey Club. It was the middle of my senior year and I felt isolated and alienated. The crazy things Dakni and I had worn to school (glitter-splattered trash bags, multi-colored hair, face paint) and the crazy things we discussed (mostly punk and new wave music) labeled us as “weirdos.” She graduated in 1983, moved to Florida that autumn and I had no one. I was relegated to eating lunch by myself, or occasionally with some other misfits. The only thing any of us had in common was that we were all friend-less. Our lunch table was known as the “freak zone.”

So on a cold weekend in February, I drove down by myself and caught local bands Gomez and The Libertines at The Jockey Club in Newport, Ky. The place was an absolute dive, the neighborhood blighted, the crowd rough, and I was scared shitless. By the end of the show, however, I was over the moon to discover likeminded souls out there that dug the same music as me. Even though I was by myself I felt less “alone” than I did at school. Suddenly I “belonged” and it was a great feeling.

I caught the Dez Dickerson/Billy Idol show a few months later with another blind date—this time a true punk rocker named Marc who wore thick eyeliner and had a safety pin through his cheek! He was a distant relative of someone I knew, who thought we would hit off well because we were both “weird.” Marc was sweet and I learned within twenty minutes that he was gay. I ended up hooking up at the show with a suburban punk from Enon named Scott, and Marc ended up hooking up with some leather biker mate of Scott’s.

I told Scott about The Jockey Club, and we drove down together in July to catch the Saccarine Trust/Black Flag show. We didn’t know what to think about that show because Henry Rollins looked like a metal head with his long hair and bell-bottoms, but he and the band were a whirlwind of seething energy! Mostly I remember drinking Foster’s Lager in oil cans, trying to stand clear of the mosh pit churning out of control on the tiled floor. I was eighteen, which back then was the legal age for beer, so I was the one going to the “bar” to buy the booze, since Scott was still seventeen for another month. We were surprised and relieved that no one seemed to care that Scott was an underage drinker. And the “bar” wasn’t really even a bar at all! There were no barstools, no taps, no liquor. It looked more like an abandoned luncheonette with two chill cabinets against the grimy wall and a scary skinhead taking orders. Although you couldn’t really order anything, because the only thing they served was Foster’s in the oilcan. No glass was allowed because it could be broken and used as a weapon—but holy fuck those Foster’s cans were the perfect projectile missiles. They weighed a ton and were cheap as chips.

In October Scott and I went to back to the Club and caught The Replacements. Bobby Stinson wore a dress, Westerberg was drunk, and they rocked our asses off. I loved them. They were raw and so alive—the real deal—and they looked just like us: torn jeans, Chuck Taylor’s, t-shirts. It was a bittersweet show, however, because Scott’s military parents had pressured him into the service. I was shattered when he told me, and a few days after the ‘Mats show he was shipped out to Biloxi, Miss., his spiked hair shorn.

We wrote a few letters to each other—him mostly bitching about getting into more and more trouble—but I had started university and wasn’t about to sit home alone on the weekends and pine for him.

There were other shows I saw in 1984:

Van Halen: two freshman girls in my typing class paid me to drive them there, and bought my ticket. I ran into an old girlfriend, LA, at the show and we vowed to stay in touch.

The Romantics: They played Kings Island’s Grad Nite and I caught a couple of songs. They sucked.

Honeymoon Suite: The friend I’d reconnected with called me up for an evening of fun. Our plans to get drunk at the drive-in were thwarted by the sight of a huge tour bus pulling into the bar across the street from the Star*Glo. Curiosity got the best of us and we pulled up beside the bus to find out who the band was. We didn’t know them but chatted with them, and ended up cruising around Middletown with the guitarist and drummer in the bitchin’ Camaro. They bought us dinner, helped drink our 24-case of cheap Busch beer, and put us on the guest list. How could we refuse?

Yes: A month after the Honeymoon Suite gig, LA and I had plans to see the re-formed Yes, who were riding high on their 90125 album. Two days before the show, LA’s favorite cousin Kevin was killed in an auto accident in rural Kentucky. After much soul searching, she decided that she couldn’t handle seeing Kevin in a coffin, and she came to stay with me for a week while the rest of her family made the trip down south. Yes put on a great show, with lasers galore, but neither of us could properly enjoy the show with Kevin’s untimely death hanging over us. I still have the concert shirt I bought that night. It’s raspberry red, sleeveless, glows in the dark (which I didn’t know when I bought it) and because I love all things luminous, I have thus far refused to hawk it on eBay.

Ratt/Billy Squier: I had seen LA staggering around at the Nazareth/Billy Squier show the previous year, and she convinced me that we needed to go see him again. So we did. I can’t remember a single thing about the show. I might have been very drunk. I’m pretty sure I was.

Yes (again): Can't remember who accompanied me to this show and I don't remember much about it, but I have the concert stub so I must have gone. I also must have BEEN GONE at the show.

Concerts 1983

ARTIST VENUE DATE
Molly Hatchet Cincinnati Gardens 1983
Triumph Cincinnati Gardens 1983
Kansas Hara Arena, Dayton 1983
Jethro Tull Hara Arena, Dayton 1983
Phil Collins Cincinnati Gardens 1983
Joe Walsh Riverfront Coliseum, Cincinnati 1983
Stevie Nicks Riverfront Coliseum, Cincinnati 1983
The Raisins Timberwolf Amphitheatre 1983
INXS Timberwolf Amphitheatre 1983
Men at Work Timberwolf Amphitheatre 1983
Loverboy Timberwolf Amphitheatre 1983
Chicago Timberwolf Amphitheatre 1983
Girls School Hara Arena, Dayton 1983
Twisted Sister Hara Arena, Dayton 1983
Quiet Riot Hara Arena, Dayton 1983

Briefly.I saw Molly Hatchet/Triumph together at the Gardens in the early spring with the guy I was dating. Abiding memory? Being on the floor in the 2nd row when Triumph’s flashpots erupted with such fury that we were blasted back several feet, landing on the poor fools in the 5th and 6th rows. I am fairly certain I lost at least 20% of my hearing that night. Bastards.

Kansas/Jethro Tull: The boyfriend insisted I attend this show with him. Didn’t want to be there, didn’t enjoy it, thought it was crap. Plus some asshole spilled an entire bucket of beer down my back. Over 20 years later, whenever I hear “Dust in the Wind” on that Subaru commercial, I cringe.

Phil Collins: The boyfriend again. Didn’t want to be there, didn’t enjoy it, thought it was crap. Plus Phil Collins came out in a suit & tie. I felt old.

Joe Walsh/Stevie Nicks: At last! A concert I wanted to see—and I made the boyfriend attend the show as penance for the trifecta of tripe he’d forced on me. Stevie was gorgeous, witchy, throaty, had nine costume changes and I’m fairly sure was drunk off her tits. She actually fell down on the stage twice. I didn’t care. I loved her with Fleetwood Mac, and I loved her solo stuff. This was The Wild Heart Tour, and she did everything from the album, plus everything from Bella Donna, plus several of her Mac songs like “Dreams” and “Gold Dust Woman.” I took a few pages from her dress manual, and to this day still have a penchant for capes, long skirts and silver jewelry.

The Raisins/INXS/Men at Work: By the summer I’d ditched the boyfriend and his bad taste in music and reconnected with Dakni for a bit of fun at the INXS show. We took the bitchin’ Camaro to Kings Island Amusement Park for the day, her thirteen year old sister tagging along because she was “in love with” Colin Hay.

Yes, you read that correctly, and no, she hasn’t lived that one down to this day.

Dakni and I loved The Raisins and INXS. We owned all their albums (one in the case of The Raisins, and 3 at the time for INXS—this was the Shaboo Shoobah Tour) and knew all their songs, which we sang along to with gleeful, tuneless abandon. After INXS left the stage but before Men at Work came on, we ditched Livia and lit out into the parking lot to try to scope out the INXS tour bus. By the time we found it the band had already boarded and the bus was pulling out. We jumped in the bitchin’ Camaro and followed the bus all the way to Lexington, some two hours away. Which is when we realized that Livia was still at the park! We quickly turned around and rushed back, arriving sometime after midnight to find poor Livia sitting forlornly on the curb in front of the park entrance.

Chicago: The ex-boyfriend wanted a second chance, and said he had a surprise for me. Whoop-dee-doo, the “surprise” was taking me to see Chicago. I should have wheedled out of him what the surprise was before agreeing to go on a date with him. My bad.

Girls School/Twisted Sister/Quiet Riot: I accompanied some dude named Whick. That’s right—his name was Whick, and it was a blind date. He looked way too clean cut to be a metal head. There is a very convoluted story about how I came to accompany Whick to the show, and how I ended up losing a friendship with Melissa because of it, but it’s not worth repeating. The show was decent, the crowd entertaining, and Whick the consummate gentleman. We never went out again.