Swan Dive

I got my first job when I was thirteen years old, working Saturdays at a local record shop called Looney Tunes. This was in the mid-1970s, and the shop sold new and used vinyl, along with what was euphemistically called “paraphernalia.” Rolling papers, roach clips, bongs. I was so naïve at that age that I didn’t even know what a bong was for.

Not that I had to know.

My duties at Looney Tunes included opening boxes of new records, keeping the bathroom clean, running out for sandwiches at the Greek deli around the corner and most importantly, making sure the album racks were in alphabetical order. That’s how I got the job, actually.

As a customer, I was in there every Saturday. As I’d browse, I’d be alphabetizing, almost unconsciously. A Blue Oyster Cult record mistakenly put in the Blues Magoos section? Back it would go. Gentle Giant fraternizing with Genesis? Not for long.

The part of my personality that craves order and logic was in place at an early age, and I had a natural aptitude for filing.

Also, I had a little crush on the young woman who worked at the store. Since I was shy around the opposite sex, I would ask her questions about albums while I browsed, without really looking at her. “Which Strawbs album would you recommend?” “Have you heard the latest David Bowie record?” Over time, I think she took a liking to me, as did the two guys who managed the shop. When one of the managers noticed me straightening out the racks, he made a joke about needing to hire someone like me. And that’s how it began.

Since I was too young to be legally on the payroll, I was paid in records. Which was fine by me. Mostly, I’d take home arm fulls of used discs, because I could try them first. If I didn’t like what I heard, I’d bring them back the following Saturday. This is how I learned about music. It was an ongoing study program.

In time, as I became more comfortable at Looney Tunes, I’d answer customers’ questions and make recommendations. I can remember how great I’d feel when someone came in and asked, “Who sings that song with the line that goes “Let them eat cake she said, just like Marie Antoinette . . .” and before anyone had a chance to reply, I’d be marching a copy of Queen’s Sheer Heart Attack to the customer. Or better yet, someone would be trying to decide between the Allman Brothers’ Eat a Peach and Live at the Fillmore East, and I’d steer them toward the latter, which is a better album.

A few blocks down the street from Looney Tunes was another record store called Graymat. We were hip, they were square. I would only go into Graymat as a last resort, if Looney Tunes was out of stock of some album that I had to have right that minute. The clerks there were snooty and didn’t know Steely Dan from Steeleye Span. Their prices were also about a dollar higher on albums. It became a matter of pride to know that I was working at the cool record store, and when occasionally, one of the Graymat clerks stopped in Looney Tunes, I gave them an equally snooty, “Can I help you?”

For two years, I spent my Saturdays at Looney Tunes (toward the end, it was renamed The Record Exchange), listening to music, keeping the racks in order, and building up a huge record collection. The shop eventually went out of business. I never really understood why, though I think it had something to do with the managers not paying their bills.

For me, it was a completely wonderful experience, and one that shaped my love of music and record collecting. Even now, certain records can take me right back to those Saturdays at the shop. Crime of the Century by Supertramp. Court and Spark by Joni Mitchell. Selling England by the Pound by Genesis . . . suddenly I feel the urge to reorganize my CD collection.