Crowdsurf Omaha
Two o’clock. Howard Street. Omaha. I had an assignation with a Corey Hart cassette tape.
Sure, I could have downloaded the musician’s entire oeuvre in minutes from the comfort of my laptop, no street clothes or even shower required. While waiting for it all to download, I could have hopped over to the Corey Hart wiki to learn fun facts like how “Sunglasses at Night” is featured in Grand Theft Auto and how he postponed a concert because of the Stanley Cup playoffs. (Go Habs!) I could have opened up yet another browser in YouTube to remind myself of lesser hits like “Eurasian Eyes.”
But I took a more linear path instead. An old-school path less traveled. A path along century-old cobblestones into the heart of the Omaha, Nebraska’s Old Market.
An area that served the transcontinental railroad in Days of Yore, today this neighborhood remains a hub for goods old and new: lots of art, fine Corinthian and other leathers at Overland Outfitters, McLovin — a Store for Men.
But wait…rewind –
What the hell was I doing in Omaha, Nebraska in the first place?
In a world where air routes lead to exciting cities like Miami and London and of course New York, why would anybody not working for Warren Buffet or related to a Nebraska Cornhusker voluntarily fly to Omaha’s Epply Airfield?
To buy a Corey Hart cassette tape, that’s why, among other reasons. While in Omaha, I also:
Contemplated the purchase of a real concert t-shirt, one without ironic howling wolves or an “Urban Outfitters” tag
Pondered my fellow shoppers- the students, the record geeks, the tourists-and taking surreptitious glances at their purchases. That librarian-esque woman with the PBS tote bag listens to Henry Rollins? Rock on, lady! The cool kids plucking through “Toxic” and “Baby One More Time.” Walk with pride, young ones. It’s Britney, bitch — own your musical taste.
Talked to the clerk at length about the one album in the Replacements collection that I had yet to track down
Perused the flyers on the walls, the DIY ones curled up at the edges, the ones for the sweaty speed metal shows where you leave sticky with draft beer and bruised from crowd-surfing
Because you can do these things in smaller cities.
Imagine the rent on just one crate of vinyl in London. Not even a hedge fund manager could swing it. Or one of those bars with dollar drafts and the neighbor kid’s punk band. Yeah, not even in Brooklyn anymore. More like 20 dollar cocktails with artisanal bitters and a corporate sponsored Mumford and Sons banjo quartet.
The Apple store has replaced the record store. Amazon has replaced the record bin.
Sure, you can do a lot of this stuff online — find out about concerts, chat with others about obscure mixed tapes. And Homer’s Music does have an online presence. But can you admire the album art that reveals more than a link in the iTunes store yet conceals at the same time, leaving a fine veil of mystery in today’s age of #wokeuplikethis? Can you surreptitiously admire your fellow shoppers’ fashion choices, because the Ghost World girls with the lunchboxes still walk among us? Can you while away an entire afternoon in an album-flipping reverie, followed by European pastries down the street?
Not so much. Ironically, the larger the city, the less of an opportunity to mingle in places like Homer’s Music with like minds. The rent is just too damn high.
Even if the aisles do get crowded and hot in the summer, even if you do have to wait for that guy to move his ass away from the imports section, there’s something to be said about connecting with fellow music aficionados in person, beyond Pitchfork. You may never actually strike up a conversation. You may never buy that t-shirt. You may never visit that punk bar with the dollar drafts down the street, the one you wouldn’t have heard of otherwise because it’s not on your Facebook friends’ radar and you’re just not cool enough for Snapchat. But you know you could if you wanted to.
So never surrender, Omaha and Homer’s Music. Never surrender.
Omaha is just the beginning.
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