Every once and a while we get a fantasic comment on an older post that, since it’s been pushed off the front page, largely goes unnoticed. We got one of those comments today about Aron’s Records closing up shop and I thought it was worth reprinting so more people would see it. Chris Checkman writes the following, it’s longwinded – but worth it:
“Of course the death of any sort of indie record store is an occasion for true sadness, as it signals yet another step on the march toward the great bland lowest common denominator that will surely claim us all.
Fucking sad. Yet…
I cannot say I am shedding all that many tears for Aron’s, nor do know I many indie-store lovers who are, either.
But, first, a bit of backtracking here:
For a number of years, I was co-manager of a little indie store in Mar Vista called Record Rover, which was located at 12204 Venice Bl. Unfortunately, we went out of business because the cunt landlord (Grace) wanted to renew our lease at nearly another thousand dollars per month– which meant that Rover, being a store that served the poky local community and was very much a niche store, had to die.
Yes, one could say downloading, even back then (we closed at the end of June ’02) may have had something to do with it; but, in the end, it was that graying, twisted old cunt Grace that just decided to fuck us out of our existence.
Hey, it happens….
So what, if anything, makes me an expert on the demise of Aron’s? Well, several things, since you are asking….
From a consumer/seller standpoint, count me as one of the many who felt the staff at Aron’s was just the worst. Long before I got the job at Record Rover, I was among the many either selling or trying to buy at Aron’s– and, every fucking time I was met with nothing less (or should I say “more”) than some sort of standardized, pushy-assed snotty attitude; as though I (as a patron) were somehow blighting their quasi-hip lil’ fake ‘alternative’ universe!
Believe me, folks, this did not happen merely once; but, every last goddamn time I ventured into that store– and this goes back to the early/mid 90’s. If I was selling, I got nothing but attitude from the cunts behind the counter; and the same story goes when I was buying.
It was like they were conferring upon me some sort of great favor by even deigning to look at my shit for sale, or ring up my purchases; when, in reality, they were nothing more (and actually far less) than a collection of ready-made cliche stereotypes of what an Australian filmmaker might dream of when trying to think of what a Hollywood record store might be like: Overly tattooed dimwits weraing crisp, new “Gang Of Four” shirts while sporting as many facial piercings as their balsa wood heads could support– and all of them with their “ooh, we’re trying to be dark and moody!” disapproving glances, as though anyone gave a shit….
Sure, it must be said that we at Record Rover would ourselves make jokes at customers expenses in terms of what they were trying to sell or buy; but, the difference was that we usually did it after they left– and those we were cunts towards to their faces got the full measure of our disdain because they popped off at us first. When this was the case, it was every man for himself, right?
At Aron’s, there never was such a line to walk or cross, as everyone just got shit because the staff was beyond being so full of themselves.
What made it all so funny was the self-appointed nature of their collective grandeur: Just because some fop dude or cunt possessing X amount of tats and piercings mixed with just the right-for-the-moment newly minted Bauhaus t-shirt does NOT make them some sort of cultural avatar– it just makes them more entrants in a line of cookie-cutter idiots who think they’re the shit because they’re the guy(s) with one pinky nail painted black, or they’re the pushy fat chicks with multiple piercings manning the register with that blank-eyed stare requisitioned from central casting– as though any of that shit ever made them unique, or pre-qualified to make any of the rest of us feel like assholes for patronizing their little slice of poseur heaven.
It did not. It just made them goofy-assed laughing stock for those of us who decided after awhile to never go there again. And, it was that (not Amoeba, nor dowloading) which eventually killed the smug cunt on the hill that was Aron’s Records.
Piss off enough people, and enough people will stay away.
Three plus years on, and I still miss Record Rover, as there was never any better place to work (if you like doing this type of shit for no real money, I mean), listen to music, get high, listen to more music, and deal with customers who, in some cases, are NOT dimwits, and are as much music geeks as I was then, and always will be.
Despite Amoeba, Best Buy, WalMart, downloading and all the other things that some might see as an impediment to a truly indie record store, my dream is to, one day, open such a store of my own.
Maybe it succeeds, maybe it fails; but, as the owner of such a possible future enterprise, I would hope no applicant cites as an influence Aron’s Records, as they will immediately be disregarded on hat fact alone. Period.
Yes, in theory, any mom-pop shop taking the long dark train sucks; but, from my experience with Aron’s, I can only be gracious enough to say…
“Bye-bye, assholes. Fuck you for all your fake snide wannabe attitude; and good luck to everyone trying to either re-enroll in Cal Arts or eke out a job as the snottiest bag person EVER at Trader Joes”….
While it is, yes, sad another small record store has gone; the fact that it is Aron’s makes me ask only this question:
What took so long?
While a number of people kissed their feet during their existence, I always wondered why anyone would suck the butt of such a bunch of fashion-first/function-second dipshits, as it made no sense to me:
Fairly lame selection, incompetent/insolent staff who didn’t care anything about issues other than how their piercings and mascara looked as they themselves looked down oon those who populated their mysteriously popular store…
I just didn’t get it.
Bye bye, you one-dimensional carboard cutout shits. See you in hell…