On the Road: Los Angeles 2024 – The Record Collector

Last summer I came across an SFGATE article about an old record store in Los Angeles and its quirky owner. It was an entertaining read. I saved a link to it on the desktop of my computer thinking that someday it would be fun to see the place but with no immediate prospect or plans for a trip to LA. I’d forgotten about it until my recent somewhat impromptu trip to the city suddenly made a visit to the store a possibility. The Record Collector turned out to be about 20 blocks from my hotel but a straight run down Melrose Ave – a fact that would later prove convenient. 

My son and I had planned to spend the day, my second day in the LA area, in Pasadena because I wanted to see the Norton Simon Museum and to show him the famous Pasadena Playhouse, where my father studied and performed between 1948 and 1951. I had proposed visiting the record store the night before and over a quick breakfast we decided to go, despite a little nervousness as the owner of the store is a notorious curmudgeon. Although he offers thousands and thousands of LPs (and LPs only), mainly jazz and classical, he does not allow casual browsing. He expects you to know what you’re looking for when you walk in. 

I had sent the SFGATE article to my son ahead of time, so he knew what to expect. We both made lists of what we were interested in and had them ready on our phones. We parked several blocks away and strolled down Melrose Ave., stopping in thrift stores, used clothing stores, and head shops along the way but eventually arrived in front of The Record Collector. 

When I walked in, the owner, Mr. Chase, probably in his late 70s, was slumped a little in a wooden chair near the cash register, which appears to be his customary spot to wait for customers, giving the impression of a spider in his web. 

The walls of The Record Collector are lined floor to ceiling with records. Most of the floor area is occupied by bins full of more records, many of them new-old stock (old records but still unopened). Movie posters are displayed on the ceiling. At the back of the main sales area a small hallway connects to a much larger storage room with, according to Mr. Chase, five times as many records as in the front of the store. Mr. Chase owns the entire building. 

Contrary to his reputation, he turned out to be quite friendly and talkative – very talkative. Maybe I should say that, in keeping with his reputation, he was friendly and talkative because I announced as I walked in that I had a list. Being a classical listener and collector, I was hoping to find obscure pressings of some favorite releases or releases by particular performers. I had prepared a list of specific discs with labels and catalog numbers noted, but Mr. Chase’s mental inventory of his stock is not built that way; he wanted to know what compositions I was interested in, so I switched gears and started by offering that I was interested in Bartók and particularly a recording of the Violin Concerto in the Bartók Béla Complete Edition series on Hungaroton. He called out to the back and Henry, his assistant, a tiny, elderly man with a full grey beard, emerged. 

When bidden to find and produce the recording I mentioned, Henry disappeared into the back and returned with a ladder as big as he was. Mr. Chase offered no help. Henry, despite his apparent age, seemed to need none. Without hesitation, Henry navigated to a spot in a back corner of the store, planted his ladder and climbed unexpectedly nimbly to the highest level of the stacks. He soon came down with a big handful of records, including the recording of the violin concerto, which Mr. Chase proceeded to claim was a $100 record – rare, and that he would sell it only to someone who would really appreciate it. I willingly went along for the ride, although I knew this particular disc, in mint condition, was available on line for less than half as much. I was buying an experience as much as anything tangible. I decided to buy the record and chose a couple others, similarly overpriced relative to online offerings and what I consistently find in thrift stores. I didn’t mention prices but the mention of thrift stores set Mr. Chase off on a speech about how they offered no selection while he had virtually anything you might need. Mr. Chase clearly does not understand the pleasure of wandering around in a store, the pleasure of a serendipitous find. I didn’t argue with him about any of his opinions. I was in a relaxed, expansive mood.

We chatted as we went from bin to bin, a new bin every time I mentioned another interest. Mostly I listened as Mr. Chase talked on – about the evils of digital music, the evils of streaming music, about how young people today have ruined their ears because digitally delivered music is all they know, about how he has never sold a single CD in the 50 years he’s been in business (The Record Collector is the oldest record store in Los Angeles), about his days as a violinist, about the books written by his concert pianist wife or mother (I didn’t catch which). I didn’t argue. As Mr. Chase and I talked and moved around the store, my son began looking for jazz records, with Henry in tow. Both he (my son) and I eventually settled on a few items of interest and gathered together our purchases. We paid and left and laughed about the experience, which turned out to be more fun than we had anticipated. 

Normally when I buy used records, I carefully inspect them before buying. In this case, the records I chose were still factory sealed (despite being 40–50 years old), except for the violin concerto, which, Mr. Chase assured me, would “play like new.” I took him at his word. When I got back to the hotel, however, I was disappointed to find that the disc was badly scratched. I was willing to overpay for a fun morning and a mint copy of a record I’d been looking for for some time, but I felt cheated. I blamed myself and was prepared to chalk it up to experience, but eventually decided I should take the record back. And so I did on the morning of my last day in the city on the way to the airport to catch my flight back to Sonoma County, although I was nervous about how he would react.

The bus that runs down Melrose Avenue, past the Paramount Studios complex, dropped me in front of the open door of The Record Collector at a bus stop I hadn’t noticed on my first visit. Mr. Chase was in his web when I arrived. He bridled when I complained. He said he didn’t offer refunds. He went on about how the noise was in the original recording, not understanding that I hadn’t yet heard the record, that I had no record player in my hotel room, that I was objecting to the physical condition of the disc not the sound. He demanded to see what I was talking about. He nearly snatched the record from my hands as I pulled it out of the bag I had carried it in. He backed down eventually after peering at the surface of the LP and allowed me to choose a few to take in its place. I made my selections and he somewhat grudgingly agreed to the trade I proposed. Before I left, he offered to let me hear the Bartók disc, but I was on my way to the airport and I couldn’t spare the time. I still overpaid for what I ended up with, but in the end was satisfied enough to let it go. The Record Collector has dozens and dozens of one-star reviews on line. They are rather entertaining to read. I particularly liked one that compared Mr. Chase and Henry to Dr. Frankenstein and Igor.