The Hip > Hipsters > Flippers

The morning air was cool; the overnight temperatures had dipped into the low 50s and were slow to recover.  After some token resistance, the clouds ceded to the sky early, allowing the sun to rule the day.  The twenty-minute drive from my house was pleasant on the uncongested freeways. 

Saturday, April 20, 2024, was Record Store Day, a bi-annual event that began in 2007 to "celebrate the culture of the independently owned record store."  That isn’t exactly what I encountered that morning, nor is it what I expected when I got up early to join the vinyl-enthusiast fray.

Record Store Day quickly became Black Friday for hipsters. However, instead of stampeding Walmarts across the nation for deals on flat-screen televisions and video game consoles, vinyl enthusiasts descend upon independent record shops in search of limited editions, pressed and released specifically for this event.  Most of the time, hipsters can pull this off without any fistfights or anyone getting trampled.

Worse than hipsters are flippers.  These are the low-rent capitalists that gobble up as many records as they can.  They have no intention of listening, but instead, reselling them at premium prices.  Though the practice is perfectly legal, it’s ethically repugnant and makes flippers the bane of the hobby.  As far as I’m concerned, they occupy the same strata as human traffickers, puppy farmers, and lifetime politicians.

Ordinarily, the concept of any kind of crowd packed into small spaces would repel me like mustard gas.  However, 2024 was different.  My favorite band, The Tragically Hip, in conjunction with serving as the Canadian ambassadors for RSD, released a limited edition pressing of a live performance from 1993 at CBGB in New York City.  If I was ever going to climb out of bed early on a Saturday morning and stand in line, this would be the year.

When this release was announced a few months ago, I figured my chances of landing a copy were slim. Oklahoma is not a hotbed for The Hip and the local shops didn’t figure to go out of their way to have stock when the day came around.  Discogs and eBay would remain options, albeit pricey ones.

However, one local store asked customers, via social media, which titles they’d like to see stocked.  Figuring this was my best shot, I put in my request. I was astonished to see it not only acknowledged but also confirmed. When an Instagram preview revealed two copies on the shelves, I was not only delighted but also obligated to endure the crowd and make a purchase.

When I arrived twenty minutes before 9:oo, a decent line had already formed.  No camping gear was detectable from the parking lot, which I took as a good sign.  Odd, however, was the lack of hipsters in the line. No wool caps, tat sleeves, or iPod-wearing dudes existing in their own universes, tracking real-time aftermarket prices on Discogs. In fact, with a skin fade, Jordans, and a can of Celsius, I might’ve been the closest thing to a hipster in the queue.  There wasn’t even a single Starbucks cup in the line. I had chosen my location wisely. 

 

8:40 am and the task ahead

The serpentine line reminded me of how concert tickets were purchased before the Internet. We would watch as the line would inch forward, seemingly for hours, hoping tickets would still be available when we reached the window. In addition to fans, we had to deal with another type of customer–those intending to buy up as much as possible to resell them at a sizeable markup.  The ticket scalper.

Interestingly, I came to learn about this on a chilly December Saturday morning with my dad. While in line at the Astrodome waiting for the box office to open with REO Speedwagon tickets, I noticed two black gentlemen in their early 20s.  Both looked sleepy and were wrapped in blankets speckled with dead grass.  It was clear they had been there most of the night.  Most fascinating, they were in a line parallel to ours where Willie Nelson tickets were about to go on sale.  Now I realize Willie transcends many traditional boundaries, but I did not see these two men as ticket-buying fans.  Certainly not committed enough to camp out.  Hence, my father explained to me the dirty capitalistic underbelly that is scalping.  Now these people are called resellers because these days sensitive language is required even for assholes.

I happened to be in Chicago in June 2007 when the iPhone was released.  I also happened to be on the north side of the Allerton Hotel, open window overlooking a few dozen tech geeks camped on the sidewalk, glistening with pre-ejaculate in anticipation of being among the first to purchase a device that would one day exceed 50% market share.  Though I was several storeys above the techie campout, I heard moments of cacophony. The enthusiasm was a bit much for me, but as William Blake said, “the fool who persists in his folly will become wise.”  Sure enough, the iPhone has virtually become my 79th bodily organ in the ensuing years.

*    *    *    *

The line was plodded with extended stretches of motionlessness.  I watched as every ten to fifteen minutes a customer would emerge carrying records secured in brown bags, looking like old-time parcels from the dry goods store. Few shoppers appeared to be a threat to my record.  Flippers, though, are far more difficult to spot.

The store had enacted rules to safeguard against this and other unsavory practices.  Customers were allowed only one copy of any record.  The number of people in the store was limited in an attempt to combat versions of some of the recent Black Friday behavior such as stampedes and aisle wrestling.   This was well and good, but wouldn’t help me much.  It would come down to luck.

A man and his elementary-age daughter stood behind me in line.  They maintained a quiet conversation for the duration of their wait. I had invited my daughter to join me, but she found the concept of waiting outside for two hours on the off chance you get the opportunity to purchase a record stupid. Particularly on a Saturday morning.  I instead took a book to keep me company.

Ninety minutes after joining the line, I was waved into the store by the de facto doorman. Feigning etiquette, I resisted the urge to bum-rush the RSD release table.  Instead, I meandered around the room for a few minutes.  I considered it akin to opening the card before the gift. However, it was all for show and nobody was watching.  The reason for my visit was specific.  It was time to find out if it would be a success.

At the designated RSD tables, the selections had been heavily picked through, but as I stole a glance over the shoulder of a woman, I spotted two bright pink album jackets.  When the opportunity arrived, I reached in and pulled one out.  I tucked it under my arm securing it like a football and made another cursory trip around the room before checking out.  I thanked the owner for ordering the record and marched outside like the others before me, carrying my brown paper-wrapped treasure.

Success!

A couple of dozen people maintained a craggy line along the sidewalk when I emerged from the shop. I was done.  My mission was a success.

Though I was eager to get my much sought-after record onto the turntable, I wasn't far from my mother's house so I stopped to see my mother on the way home. At her dining room table opened the record packaging for a look at everything.  Before cutting the plastic wrap, I told her I was forgoing double my purchase price by breaking the seal.  Sure enough, I saw that same record listed on eBay for 95 dollars that afternoon, roughly nine hours later.

Because flippers are so unhip.