RIP: The Last Record Store in My Town

Another one bites the dust...

Photo by Tim Mossholder

A few weeks ago, I was browsing vinyls at my local record shop when the owner put on a funk album. It was some collection of old jams that were recently repressed for the first time in decades.

It ruled.

The shop owner, Patrick, talked to me about the pressing, mentioned it was a new collection of rarities, and that he had just ordered a few to see how they would do.

So, surprising myself, I bought one.

Other than a brief affair with the Superfly soundtrack and James Brown’s greatest hits, I rarely crossed paths with funk outside of Beastie Boys samples. Right or wrong, I placed funk in the same mental category as, say, jazz or bluegrass: background genres I can listen to but can’t really speak to. I enjoy them, sure, but other than one or two classics that’s pretty much where it ends for me.

I took the record home, introduced it to its new family, and placed it on my turntable. A 1969 song by the band Dyke and the Blazers kicked on. I bobbed my head and realized I’d heard this beat before, this guitar track. It was sampled, like so many other timeless funk songs, but this time not for hip hop, R&B, or house music.

Then it hit me.

It’s used in “How You Like Me Now?”, that ubiquitous, alternative radio fodder that won’t get out of your head. It turns out, that song heavily leans on a (formerly) obscure funk sample.

“More,” I said. “I like you more now.”

End of the line

I wanted to tell you that story because just last week, that record store, Phantom Stranger Records, closed its doors for good.

It was a small, quirky shop only blocks from the ocean, a rare space for locals in a tourist town littered with sand dollars, sunglasses, and tacky trinkets. Its retail space was uninterested in corporate synergy. It was even too small for Record Store Day, which gave it its own fuck you kind of charm.

Best part? It was just down the street.

Look, I’m not naive. I understand this is the nature of brick and mortar small business, especially in this day and age. They come, they go.

Any businesses lucky enough to have locked into an affordable commercial lease before the pandemic are likely doing okay. But in general, small businesses continue to struggle against rising rents, increased overhead costs, and an unforgiving “disrupted” market that favors impersonal efficiency over local charm.

For Phantom Stranger Records, as far as I have come to understand it, the end came as a direct result of gentrification. Their building will soon be torn down to make way for new condos, another casualty in a war that indie shops have been fighting for decades. Ironically, it’s exactly the kind of thing punk rock warned us about (and perhaps more recently, Death Cab for Cutie).

Losing a record store is about more than losing a place to buy music.

For musicians, collectors, and music lovers alike, stepping into a record store is like walking into a living museum. You browse through shelves lined with history, where every album cover tells a story, and every groove, scratched or smooth, holds a dream, a memory, a spark. That kind of experience doesn’t happen when an algorithm feeds you recommendations based on what you already like.

It happens in the magic of physical space, where the unexpected funk finds you.

I can’t help but compare the loss of my record store to the loss of Blockbuster or Hollywood Video (or the endless, non-franchise movie rental businesses that provided a sense of place for families and film geeks on Friday nights). You had conversations, swapped recommendations, and bonded with like-minded people over shared interests. The owners and employees weren’t just clerks. They were curators, guides.

At Phantom Stranger Records, the owner got to know me and my tastes. He’d even set aside albums he thought I might like. Over the last few years, I developed a strange little side hobby of collecting James Bond soundtracks. It was something I never set out to do, but once I had a couple, I just kept going. Patrick picked up on that. Whenever he got another one in, he’d call me and let me know.

That’s something a push notification can’t replicate.

The algorithm might tell me a new release is available, it might even introduce me to something new and unexpected, but it will never compare to the thrilling spark of human connection, the simple act of a referral or a tip. My phone won’t remind me that my quirks are understood and valued by someone else in my own community. Phantom Stranger Records helped me feel like I belonged in this little beachside town, not just as a consumer, but as a person with distinct and weird tastes.

Now, Phantom Stranger Records is gone. For fucking condos.

Admittedly, yes, okay, I can drive 30 or 40 minutes further to visit another record shop. But it won’t be the same.

Supporting local businesses in your own neighborhood feels different. It’s about building a relationship with the places and people around you. Phantom Stranger Records wasn’t a tourist shop, but it wasn’t unfriendly to outsiders either. All were welcome, if you had the time and didn’t mind a few skeletons wearing eyepatches.

But, like the ocean it sat so close to, my little weird home record shop couldn’t withstand the tides of gentrification, inflation, and sand dollars. We talk a lot about progress, but not every change is a step forward. When we displace or out-price our small businesses, I believe we risk losing the very soul of our communities.

Rest in peace, Phantom Stranger Records. Thanks for all the records, tapes, CDs I didn’t need, but bought anyways. And long live the funk!

PS: The Phantom Stranger will continue via pop ups and DJ events. Give him a follow if you feel inclined to support! @phantomstrangerrecords