What Tower Records Meant to Me

Word of Russ Solomon's passing has left me thinking about Tower Records throughout the day. As a kid, when a career in hoops or baseball finally sailed away, music quickly became my biggest passion. I mean, I'd had some solid introductions as a child. My dad used to throw raucous parties in the 70s and 80s, and the sounds I heard careening off the walls of his Jersey home: Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, The Beatles, Stones, Seger; they all not just peaked an early interest, but became the foundation for a musical exploration that's now hit four decades.

First few years of high school, many weekends (and weeknights) were spent about ten miles down the road at Tower Records in Paramus, New Jersey. Before we had driver's licenses, our parents would drop us off, and return hours later. We'd walk into a mecca of music: CDs, vinyl, music magazines, books, singles, EPs, rarities. Every genre under the sun. But we were mostly rock kids. Raised on classic rock, but starting to find our own ways. We started to go to shows. Many of the predictable classic (and newer) rock acts of the day: Steve Miller Band, Steve Winwood, Genesis, Allman Brothers, Phish. But those of us who were really drawn in started to edge a little deeper. I went on a date to see Tom Petty. I ventured into the city to see Neil Young. And we were buying records like crazy.

It'd only be a half truth to say that I was won over by Tower. I was one of those snotty record collectors (wait, was?), who opted for the indie record stores. While still in high school, I'd spend full weekend days scouring used CDs at Soundtracks in Ramsey, New Jersey. They knew me by name. And what I liked. Tower had it all, but it also felt like a behemoth. But it was always there. We'd edge down Route 17 on the way to the mall, or the movies, and someone would hint at a stop. And hours would pass. We'd miss the movie. Every single time I stepped inside that Tower, I went straight to the wall of listening booths. Those seven or eight listening stalls (six CDs each, if I remember correctly) turned me onto countless records. I'd listen to song-after-song while reading the Tower magazine, The Pulse. I'd go straight to the readers' "Desert Island Discs" and read every single top ten. I submitted about 15 top tens to the address. Mailed 'em in. Never made it. But I checked every month. And man did I discover bands via those booths. And then I'd hit the singles section. There was something about a single that felt unique, maybe rare. I remember buying Springsteen singles. Then the magazines. Racks and racks of music fanzines. Even got a few articles in one of those magazines after college. Man did that feel like full circle.

But again, I had a weird relationship with Tower. When I started spending more time in the city, I'd visit Pier Platters in Hoboken. Now THAT was a record store. Tom Prendergast of Bar None opened it, I believe. In Manhattan, it was Sounds. Well, both Sounds. And Kim's. And a thousand others. But there sat Tower. The one on 4th was just a block from quite possibly the most high brow record store I'd ever visited, Other Music. That place just downright intimidated me. I discovered the band Spain walking through their tiny aisles. I loved that place for life just for that one discovery. But Tower loomed down the block. And it was a monster. Must've been five floors. This was about 10x the size of the Jersey one. I'd spend every available dollar I had, that wasn't spent at Sounds or Other Music, there. Then we'd hit a bar after and dive through the liner notes. This may have been after college and not during or before. The timelines get muddy.

While in college up in Boston, there was Newbury Comics. Again, just like Other Music, right down the block from Tower. I'd start at Newbury and then close out at Tower. I went to "midnight madness," which, for those who aren't old enough, is when record stores would open up at midnight the day of album releases, which fell on Tuesdays. After discovering Uncle Tupelo, my buddy Brian and I drove to midnight madness to buy Wilco's first record, A.M. We each bought another 5-6 CDs that night. And we stayed up until the sun rose drinking and listening to Wilco. Little did I know...

We did the same the night the first Son Volt record was released. And over time, we all realized that Tower had kinda pulled us in. We resisted, but it was futile. Tower had everything. I still have a long-sleeved Uncle Tupelo t-shirt that I bought at Tower/Boston. Must've been 1994 or so. Now that was a find. When we heard that Kurt Cobain had died, Brian and I were actually driving back from Tower. I think someone put on Bleach. The new CDs would have to wait.

Tower was excess. And as we moved into young adulthood, and the indie scene was exploding all over the country, and definitely in New York, Tower could quickly fill the need. The Strokes, Pavement, The Roots, Interpol, all those alt.country records, Dylan reissues, MOJO Magazine; it was all there. If I look back on my childhood, college, and post-college years, I don't think there was a retail shop I visited more than Tower. Actually, I know there wasn't.

When I moved to California in 2005, I spent my first year in Sunnyvale. I'd spend most weekends at the Tower in Mountain View. I think Beck's Guero was the last CD I bought there. One weekend afternoon, I pulled into the parking lot and it was shuttered. When I was in Japan last year, I visited one of the remaining stores. It's just a big as the ones I saw on the East Coast. Maybe even bigger. But it wasn't the same. In my head, it ended somewhere in the mid-00s. But what a run. What a staple of my childhood. Sure, I looked at them a bit cautiously, but in the end, Tower delivered. And man am I lucky to have experienced their run.