Episode 258
On a recent visit to a large German city, I didn’t buy a record. It wasn’t easy as I love to bring back vinyl trophies from city trips. But I managed. Record store number one was closed, record store number two didn’t have any good records, the third smelled too much of man, and they also cultivated that folklore of unfriendliness that record sellers are only too happy to horny at.
Then came record store number four. A small shop next to a café with the pleasant appearance of a lumber room, with a few old treasures draped in the narrow window. Also in the window was a large cardboard sign on which was written in bright letters “Entrance: Please go through the café”. I acted as requested and entered the café. Inside, a gentleman, presumably the café owner, was standing behind the counter eating cake. Just as I offered the local greeting (I was not greeted back), another gentleman, apparently the record store owner, rushed out of the makeshift vinyl store. There was sheer panic in his eyes.
“Shit!”, he exclaimed breathlessly, “People shouldn’t be asking about the record store in the café!” Irritated, I replied that the cardboard sign obviously showed the way through the café and that I had only greeted them. I looked at the café owner, but he looked at the wall impassively and was eating cake. “Yeah, sure, but people come in here all the time and ask questions,” said the record store man, a disheveled T-shirt wearer, suddenly sounding oddly mafia-like. Apparently the climate between the two shopkeepers chained together next to each other was not the best. The record store clerk folded his arms, blocked the passage to the store a little more and asked affably if I was looking for something in particular. I answered truthfully that I would rather find than seek. A mistake.
“Well, I really only have totally selected things. People come up all the time and say they’re looking for post-punk records. Are you looking for post-punk?” “Uh…” “I don’t have anything!” he snapped without waiting for my answer. I said I guess I wasn’t looking for post-punk that badly then. “Krautrock?” he shot out. “Phew, dunno, so…” “Absolutely zero!” he informed, which led me to the conclusion that he didn’t tend to keep Krautrock albums. he have jazz
All kinds of black music, some library sounds, that sort of thing. But right now it doesn’t fit so well anyway. At least now I was fascinated: The man obviously had not the slightest interest in selling a record.
A type of record store owner I hadn’t encountered before.
“Oh, you’re not even open right now?” I asked. Although I realized that I was obviously dealing with an absolute original, I still assumed that there was a misunderstanding. “Yes, yes, but another time would be really better.” “Unfortunately, I’m only in town today.” “I understand, but it’s really bad right now. You know, people come here all the time and want something. I don’t even get to finish my tracks anymore. I still make tracks too.”
Now the penny dropped: the man was primarily an artist! And like any good representative of this species, he gave absolute priority to his vocation over all lower mundanities. The crossed arms, the blocking of the entrance: that was no defense. Here someone protected their art! I said I understood all too well, and
would come back another time. “Cool!” said the record shop owner and went back into his little shop. To be on the safe side, this time I didn’t say anything when leaving the café. “Bye!” shouted the café owner.