Revolutions: A Love Letter To The Princeton Record Exchange

Tucked away, in a desolate corner of town, the Princeton Record Exchange, filled with music in every physical form, sits against a vacant parking lot, guiding music lovers to a euphoric world of wax. The clerks up front greet you with a sturdy wave, and when my dad visits he is honored with a grand, “Hello, Dan!” Upon my entrance, I dart for the new arrivals section. Zooming past the random music-related knick-knacks that line the back shelves, I sneak a glimpse at the rare records behind the desk. Quickly, I reach eight congested bins of used records with no price, condition, or genre restrictions. The thrill of the dig is exhilarating. 

Fingers flickering, I master the pace of getting a peek at every vinyl before moving to the next section. One could find a torn-up Beggars Banquet or a pristine Thriller, and one day I hope to find the infamous Beatles’ Butcher Cover. When entering the stickered doors of the Princeton Record Exchange, I am dropped in a sea of vinyl, browsing and collecting without boundaries. In the harmonious nature of the store, I feel invincible. 

The exchange is filled with every type of music enthusiast: there’s the punk posse, the classic rock clan, the blues bunch, the pretentious classical collective, and my favorite, the soul music syndicate. Along with these groups are the regulars, the people you see every time you visit regardless of time or day. Most of the regulars tend to roam, revolving from the used Jazz bins to the new releases. Nomads, they are not bound by genre. These regulars rummage through the cardboard dollar bins placed haphazardly on the carpeted floors like booby traps. I dance through the aisles and jump over the nomads like an Olympic event. Bumping shoulders never ends well. They’ll slam their stack of records over the bin I had hoped to dig. Yet, I still admire their passion for vinyl. 

The familiar smell of wax and plastic sleeves pleasantly stings my nose each visit. Moldy cardboard tickles my nostrils when I peer through the Pink Floyd bin. Unlike gum in an old baseball card pack, the resilient vinyl of the fifty-year-old The Dark Side of the Moon sounds the same way it did in 1973. Two bins over, sits the Nirvana section, smelling of 1990s grunge. LPs after the 90s lack the attic scent of previously owned classic rock records. 

When I paddle through older records my fingertips transport me to the album’s era. The soft aroma of plastic sleeves convinces me to buy the record; however, the filth of a dusty sleeveless album sends me to a studio session with The Beatles or The Clash. 

I am mystified by the ebb and flow of twice-weekly trips to the Princeton Record Exchange. Never knowing if I will find a sealed Blonde or an original Rumors, settles an exhausting day of school. I am accompanied by my record-aficionado father every Tuesday; his deep knowledge of records and their rarity leads us to buy a vision-blocking, wobbly stack. Nevertheless, the warmth of vinyl heals the pain of any splurging.