It's funny—you'd think that, having lived here for the better part of 30 years and being fully aware that we live in a city of perpetual reinvention and expansion, I'd be used to seeing a landmark torn down. But last week's closing of Odyssey Records (1600 Las Vegas Boulevard South) is a little hard for me to accept. Unlike seeing the destruction of a hotel where I once worked (the Desert Inn), the closing of a popular restaurant that I used to frequent (the Venetian on Sahara Avenue) or the law-induced shutdown of a classic music venue (Calamity Jane's), Odyssey's closing eats at me because it was an accessible place to hang for the longest time. Like most quiet, underrated pleasures, you don't appreciate them until they're gone.
Established in the early 1970s (different sources give me conflicting dates as to whether it was 1972 or '73, but the exact date is probably moot), Odyssey was truly the first record store in which I can recall hearing music that was much different than anything on contemporary radio. Although I was still in grade school, I knew what I liked, and listening to the staff play anything from the gutting guitar riffs of the Stooges' "Raw Power" to my first taste of politically infused reggae with Toots and the Maytals' "Funky Kingston" was nothing short of a revelation. If nothing else, it was a hell of a lot more interesting than hearing my baby sitter singing along to "Afternoon Delight" and "Disco Duck" and other mid-'70s dreck on our family stereo.
As I got older and began to earn some pocket money, I would head straight to Odyssey to take advantage of the best import selection in town: Brian Eno, the Damned, the Swingers and anything else that the alt fanzines would recommend. And by the late '80s, even before hardcore hip hop began to co-opt itself into mainstream culture, you could depend on Odyssey to open you up to Public Enemy, Ice-T, N.W.A. and other urban sounds. Plus, you could direct your questions to employees who could answer all of your questions about the latest trends, and they'd do so without smug condescension.
As Vegas grew, so did rival record shops— Tower Records most notably. Even so, Odyssey, like a weary soldier, pressed on, developing a pretty damned good used-CD collection and better still, a terrific discount barrel for used cassettes—a dollar a tape. Sure, you had search past titles like Shaun Cassidy's Born Late and K-Tel's Fun Rock to get to the good stuff, but at a buck a pop, it was worth it. You'd find a cool Captain Beefheart or Desmond Dekker cassette in listenable condition lurking in the middle of the barrel.
Eventually, Odyssey struggled to make a go of it alone, and by the mid-'90s, with used record shops, the Virgin Megastore and online purchasing on the horizon, they were bought out by record chain Wherehouse Music. The selection began to thin out a bit, but Odyssey still had its charms. Particularly an impressive Latino section for the city's growing Hispanic demographics, and some very alternative sounds. Best of all, until very recently, Odyssey was a 24/7 establishment, making it a great place to buy a last-minute gift or just chill out in the wee hours of the morning without being disturbed. And for all the ludicrous, snooty rumors and complaints I heard about the Odyssey being too "seedy" an environment, as a frequent customer for nearly 30 years, I never once had to sidestep mothers nursing crack babies on the sidewalk or ignore panhandlers with blood stains on their T-shirts.
So now it's closed. The other day, I was about to make the right turn from Wyoming onto Las Vegas Boulevard, Odyssey's corner spot, before I noticed it—a torn "liquidation sale" banner draped on the outside of a dumpster in the parking lot. I pulled into the lot immediately and walked up to the window. Man, it was eerie. Although the end caps, display racks and banners declaring "everything must go" were still in place, all the merchandise and music accessories were gone. Not a soul was there, not even to clean up the dirt, tossed receipts and discarded fliers that lay on the floor.
I couldn't believe it. Just a few days before, I had been in the store to buy a gift for a friend, and now it was a ghost town.
I called some of the other Wherehouse stores in town to get an explanation. Apparently, Wherehouse Music went bankrupt two years ago and was bought out by FYE Music, a New Jersey- based company. FYE struggled, and in turn, it was bought out by Trans World Entertainment Corp., a New York-based entertainment-products retailer that purchased Wherehouse Entertainment for $40.6 million in cash and assumed all liabilities last September. Evidently, holding on to Odyssey Records was such a liability. Sadly for the store's employees, they were given just one week's pay and only four days notice to close shop.
In a way, maybe it's a good thing it happened so quickly, since it left no time for long goodbyes. Perhaps the building will be leveled and a Walgreen's will spring up, who knows. I still listen to all those gems I discovered in the discount barrel. Time might have moved on, but I haven't.