Reckless Abandon: on Chicago, record stores, snobbery, and ennui

“Uh…I was uh looking for uh something more comprehensive.”

That’s what the young man standing in line ahead of me says after he gives a quick once-over to the Mellon Collie and The Infinite Sadness reissue—an expansive (six discs) and expensive ($100+) artifact of the band at their creative peak. Holding the two records I had intended on purchasing, I had to chuckle to myself. “Something more comprehensive? Are you shitting me?” I thought. “Are you just trying to sound like you know what you’re talking about so you fit in here?”

In High Fidelity, there are some textbook examples of record store snobbery—the best example is in the scene where Jack Black’s character chooses not to sell a specific record to a customer he finds “uncool,” then later, turns right around and sells it to Hepcat’s Alex Desert because he is, in fact, “cool.”

I’ve never worked in a record store. I can’t even imagine what would happen to my attitude and ego if I did. As someone who, I guess, really likes music—listening, reading about, learning about, et. al, I find it frustrating when I go into a legit record store and am treated condescendingly by the person on the other side of the counter, at the same time, knowing full well that I would be just as, if not more, condescending if I was in their place.

That is why I have a love/hate relationship with legit record stores. I say “legit,” because I don’t consider the music department of Barnes and Noble, or an F.Y.E. to be real record stores. I’m talking about independent “mom and pop” shops in major cities, like the Electric Fetus in Minneapolis—seriously, don’t get me started, or Reckless Records in Chicago, which is where I found myself last Sunday.

Reckless is considered a “Chicago Institution,” or at least that’s what I think I saw online when I was Googling things about it. With three locations spread out across the city, in various neighborhoods, Reckless also has an association with the aforementioned film High Fidelity. The exterior of the store within the film, Championship Vinyl, were filmed close to the Reckless located in Wicker Park.

Upon walking into the Lakeview-area Reckless, my wife jokingly says, “Time for me to check out.” There are many women’s clothing stores that offer seating for bored husbands to occupy while their wives shop; the idea of a record store, let’s be honest, is a “guy” store, so since there are never any chairs, my wife often just wanders around, looking for the old Journey record where you can see the dude’s dick through his skin tight white pans, and then proceeds to wait around until I’m finished.

We’re in Chicago visiting our friends Abby and David—they’ve recently come into a turntable, and are looking to slowly build a collection. As we all enter the store, David goes off in search of some classic rock finds—and ends up leaving with a copy of Destroyer by KISS, Van Halen’s third album Women and Children First, something by Three Dog Night that had “Shambala” on it—one of Abby’s favorite songs, and then begrudgingly, because it was placed in his hand while checking out, a copy of Steve Winwood’s Back in The High Life for fifty cents. 

Sometimes I get overwhelmed and lose focus when I’m in a legit record store. Usually I’ve come in there for something specific—in this case, it was the Hebronix LP that just came out—but then I wander around thinking of various albums, wondering if they have it, and if I should buy it.  After striking out in the Jason Molina/Songs: Ohia/Magnolia Electric Co department, as well as in a few other places, I came across the I Can Hear Music 3xLP reissue from Yo La Tengo bassist James McNew’s vanity project, Dump.

It’s a triple LP, and it’s a German import (not sure why) so it was a lil’ spendy. I haven’t listened very closely to Dump, so I approached the young man at the counter to see if he had a listening station I could use to check it out. They do not have a vinyl listening station, I was told, and he looked to see if they had it on c.d. (they did not.)

While he was looking that information up, he did proceed to tell me his disdain for most lo-fi music, and how he thought Yo La Tengo’s music was pretty boring at times, and therefore, this Dump reissue is also pretty boring. This young man is obviously an excellent salesperson.

But he was convincing enough for me to put the record back—lazily filed under Yo La Tengo—because maybe he was right; in his bluntness, perhaps this Dump reissue is, in fact, boring. (It kind of is.) I did have an awkward exchange with him as I was paying—“My description didn’t sell you on that, huh?” he asked.

Waiting in line ahead of me was the young man I mentioned at the beginning, the one who was interested in looking at the Smashing Pumpkins reissue—the one who was disappointed that it wasn’t “comprehensive” enough. As he was paying for the stack of used DVDs he had placed on the counter, I wondered if he was tossing a word like “comprehensive” around to sound like he belonged in a record store.  And I was again reminded of the aforementioned scene in High Fidelity—“you're totally elitist. You feel like the unappreciated scholars, so you shit onto people who know less than you.”

I end up leaving the store with the Hebronix record, as well as a 2xLP My Bloody Valentine record called Before Loveless, a collection of questionable origin that gathers their earliest EPs—like WAY before they were ever gazing at their shoes. Had I not set a budget for myself, I’m sure I would have loaded up on other things that would be nice to have, but my life will go on without—Slint’s Spiderland, Gang Starr’s Hard to Earn, etc.

My Bloody Valentine- "Never Say Goodbye"

Hebronix- "Unliving"

Maybe it was because I was seriously beyond full from the giant sandwich and vegan shake I consumed at lunch, or maybe it was because our trip was nearing an end, and on the cusp of having a good time, I was reminded of all of my responsibilities, but at a certain point at my time in the record store, I got bored. And that’s something I never thought I’d say.

Maybe bored isn’t the right word. Maybe it’s anxious.

 Or maybe it’s because after a certain point, in any store really—grocery, clothing, and yes, even a record store—the emptiness sets in. The ennui and anhedonia that always eventually arrive.

And that’s when you know it’s time to leave.