A few months ago in the heart of Northeast Minneapolis' arts district, a record store opened to some fanfare, deserved, since it was the first new brick-and-mortar shop to hang its shingle in over a decade. News spread far and wee, over hill and dale of this magical place of cylindrical black delights. Shit, I have got to get more sleep.
Anyway, I thought it was worth an investigative look. Since I somehow haven't managed to blow almost every penny from my last paycheck, surely I needed an excuse. While easy to find, it's not exactly a convenient jog from downtown St. Paul. The neighborhood is inviting and quiet, and the storefront unassuming. I parked my car across the street, and went in.
Given that half of the store's name is 'records,' I found the used section surprisingly paltry, with nothing I haven't seen thousands of times at Cheapo, the Fetus and Treehouse. Small jazz, blues, soul and R&B racks competed for floor-space. Thing is, why do I keep seeing the same Kinks, Springsteen and Stones albums? Shuga subsidizes its income with hefty online sales, but their more immediate merchandise still has to attract walk-in customers in order to justify the shop. I found, listened to, and returned a copy of Talking Head's Remain in Light, priced at twenty-dollars. A good album, yes, but one that I'll see again more than once in a lifetime.
It's clear they have plans for diversification, too: a large bin sat empty, ready to be filled with posters, while a smattering of books and magazines lined another wall. Still more turntables, receivers and speakers were stacked to the rafters to the right of the service counter. The overall effect was clean, new, cluttered.
Another wall (I'm making it seem like the place is octagonal) was filled with records for fifty-cents, a very appeal ling price, but all I saw as I scanned the racks were bunches of Neil Diamond and Jim Croce records. Don't get me wrong, I like Cracklin' Rosie as much as anybody, but...
'We have thousands more records in the back,' said Will, looking out from under his newsboy hat. I tried to peek behind the bed sheet curtain separating the stock room from the store, and thought of asking him why they didn't make those accessible to paying customers like me. He told me of a Pavement single that they were selling for $350 dollars, and agreed how astronomical some album's prices have gotten.
Here's the thing about collecting: There is no predetermined, fixed price on any album, anywhere, no matter how rare. That limited edition album of Pope Benedict singing Elton John tunes in the bathtub is worth only as much as someone is willing to pay for it. Bidding starts at one dollar.
The new selection was likewise small, and inconveniently located behind the counter, beyond reach. Nearly every new record was around thirty-dollars, which is top-dollar for what I'm willing to pay for something I can usually find online for less. Still, the staff was very helpful and conversational. It's not every day you find someone willing to talk about animal collective for forty-five minutes. Sure, it's their job, but I got the sense they weren't having me on; that they actually cared. Like me. At my job. Everyday.
If they discriminate more in their used selection and expand as intended, Shuga records could become a popular destination, and not just for their neighborhood customers. Play it now, play it now my baby!
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