I used to work as a multimedia seller for Borders, so you could say I once was part of the problem. But please, I throw my hands in mercy: most of the money I earned in said retail store was cashed on albums I would never find in that cheerless, money-thirsty empire. In actuality, we’re all a little culpable. Every time one can’t resist the urge to download a leaked version of a master or bedroom recording, you instantly become a culprit in the eyes of record label executives and small independent labels. And now that the days of questioning the digital landscape are far from over, what’s left to ponder is how you decide to proceed with the power that you possess in your hands (or hard drive).
Brendan Toller’s far reaching look into the demise of the independent record stores across the U.S. hits right into your merciless soul. He introduces his thesis from personal experience: his favorite record store in Connecticut, Record Express, has been turned into a tanning salon. That’s the charm Toller employs in this horror tale, and although he delineates the reasons why record shops keep closing, he centers around the human aspect of the issue. The images he purports are plainly honest, giving us insight into the communal experience. Like pubs, people gather up at these music libraries to share interests and kill a little time to avoid the mundanity of everyday life. On the upside, it’s not uncommon to listen to testimonies of regular folk describing these gathering spots as “where I learned more about myself,” or “the place that saved my life.”
Toller digs into the long and problematic history of music distribution - from the days of payola prosecution to President Clinton’s deregulation of radio ownership in 1966, he surveys how music ownership has always been controlled to fit the demands of executives with canned goods to distribute on a large scale. Toller doesn’t cite one clear wrongdoer, opting to chronologically sequence the snowball effect - the MTV revolution, the effect of big-box chains (such as Walmart) on CD prices, and the inevitable rise of digital distribution. There has always been a cultural divide between collectors and casual listeners, and his observations about our current climate focus on how music listening is increasingly becoming a forlorn experience. While the Internet has provided a sturdy platform for a booming number of amateur artists to express themselves, it is a shame that the old linkages of chat and conversation are increasingly becoming extinct.
If you’re a music crit aficionado, you’ll recognize many of the usual suspects bobbing their thoughts on screen. There are those who still ignite a lot of passion about past memories of record shops: Mike Watt appears visibly choked up about the issue; Thurston Moore holds a few LPs in hand, wishing he’d own a record store; Ian MacKaye vociferates the crude realities with disdain while pitching the Dischord motto. Others aren’t as enthusiastic: Legs McNeil doesn’t find any point in meeting new people; Gleen Branca likes a good Amazon discount. But the sweetest testimonial comes from Lenny Kaye, who reminisces about how he developed a relationship with Patti Smith at an indie record booth.
At times, the subjects on “I Need that Record” talk about their record store adoration a bit too preciously. It sure doesn’t help when some lay a cockamamie behavior without much basis to back up their opinions. Logically, this is just a natural reaction to mend an unfortunate reality - if people stop buying records, there’s no profit for them. For such a wide topic, Toller did an admirable job in stating the facts without tugging between the rights and wrongs of this issue. The film isn’t really about the demise of the record store, but more about losing the symbolic value of our rituals.