I spent my Valentine’s Day in a dimly lit concert hall filled with dusty milk crates. What better way to spend this Hallmark holiday than by participating in a form of consumerism a little more genuine than one made of cheesy greeting cards and freshly cut roses?
To some it may seem like a depressing alternative, but I don’t think anything could have suited me better than trekking down to the Black Cat to scour the stacks at the Fourth Annual D.C. Record Fair. And, in a way, what could be more romantic? Fourteen hundred music lovers sifting through decades worth of music in search of that elusive perfect record. Sure I may not have brought a date, but the sense of camaraderie at the record fair was more genuine than anything I’ve felt upon receiving a heart-shaped box of chocolates.
Entrance into the Black Cat and access to vinyl of all genres and sizes (mainly with a diameter of seven, 10, or 12 inches) cost a mere two dollars, but the bang for my buck came when I walked up a flight of stairs to the venue’s main stage—and I was immersed in an eclectic group of people, of all genres and ages (mainly around 18, 26, and 43).
The hipster youth was out in full force this afternoon, as they found their way to tables of every genre. Their ultimate goal: to expand their collections of obscure, hard-to-find releases so that they may be the envy of every Pitchfork-abiding D.C. citizen.
The hip-hop record collectors seemed to have a more genuine pursuit, in search of any worthwhile beats for old-school vinyl DJing. They tended to congregate in the corners, where vendors who specialized in rap had set up shop.
Then there were the elderly. They weren’t necessarily senior citizens, but they were probably just old enough to have once bought vinyl out of necessity rather than novelty. They spread out across the hall, searching through bins of blues, jazz, and classic rock, hoping to find that original ’75 pressing of Physical Graffiti.
But as evident as their differences were, each of the approximately 1,400 attendees had similar motivations. A vendor I met in the back of the hall, who claimed to be a veteran of these fairs, explained it best. Everyone’s personal background didn’t matter, they were all there for the hunt. They were there to find their favorite albums in their perfect forms.
Regardless of who may be right in the audiophile argument over sound quality, the record will always reign supreme both aesthetically and emotionally. The physical record is fetishized in a way that an MP3 audio file never can be. The weight of the object, the album art, and the liner notes combine into a cohesive experience. This experience is enhanced by the mechanics of the player—after all, turntables don’t have a shuffle mode. Quite simply, though technology has advanced, the record has far from outlived its purpose.
The romanticism of the experience extended far beyond the records themselves. I didn’t spend my Valentine’s Day flipping through dusty records, but at a party in a community full of passionate individuals. Perhaps the most passionate of these individuals were the ones who took the stage, particularly Animal Collective’s Geologist and D.C. legend Ian MacKaye. Each supported the scene, spinning some of their favorite records while the rest of us shopped, proving that vinyl culture is still very much alive.
