As we delve into 2007, however, we're in danger of losing that once-vibrant scene, and a part of ourselves with it, forever, particularly those of us living in Southern Nevada. Balcony Lights, Big B's and even Tower Records have shut their doors, and it's a safe bet nobody is lining up to take their place—at least no one with a modicum of business sense. Now, unless skimming through the Top 10 at Target or trying to talk music with the cell-phone salesman at Best Buy is your idea of record shopping, you've basically got Zia Record Exchange as the lone beacon of a fast-fading experience. And while I, having spent the bulk of my childhood allowance at the Arizona-based chain, am as big a Zia fan as you're likely to find in Las Vegas, the idea that we're down to one non-specialty independent record location makes me feel sad, not to mention a bit old.
We all know why it's happening: Folks just aren't buying music like they used to, at least not anywhere that requires them to shower, get dressed and actually leave their homes. Downloads, legitimate or otherwise, are easily obtainable with a high-speed connection, and individual-song purchases present an attractive option to anyone sick of spending $15 on a disc only to discover they dig two of its tracks. Even many who still prefer owning hard copies hit the Internet to get them. I'll admit I've done most of my CD shopping online the past five years, principally because I can sample unheard artists and locate underground scarcities without having to gas up my car.
But as I browsed through the price-slashed racks at Tower's giant going-out-of-business sale last month—a ritual I repeated four times to the tune of some 100 new acquisitions—I was reminded just how much I'd been missing out. Missing out on being in the trenches and dirtying my hands with actual, physical product, as nature intended. Missing out on holding honest-to-goodness cover art in my hands, and occasionally buying a disc for no reason other than that it looked cool. And missing out on the strange camaraderie of a brick-and-mortar record shop, where clerks and sometimes even fellow customers are eager to break open a debate over whether The Fall were as good once Brix came aboard, or about which New Zealand band was more underrated, The Dead C or Bailter Space.
I actually met a close friend for the first time in a record store, when we began gabbing about Pink Floyd as we stood in the classic rock section. Given the dearth of such vendors—not to mention the fact that we both download most of our music now—I doubt we would ever have bumped into one another in today's world.