WPL.A. graphic by Vivian Martinez
“Waxing Philosophical, L.A.” is DUM DUM’s biweekly Tuesday column written by Christina Gubala, co-founder of L.A.’s premier cassette-tape label, Complicated Dance Steps. A die-hard vinyl collector, you can find her spinning records at local bars near you.
Our city has a continuing history thick with vinyl love, now more than ever with record shops opening their doors instead of shuttering. Each week, Gubala breaks down a fresh new wax purchase, and writes about the record store as well, mapping it as part of L.A.’s history in the making.
Echo Park’s Mono Records, positioned stealthily between the 2 Freeway’s termination and a gigantic wheat-paste rendition of George Carlin’s mug, piqued my curiosity the second it opened its doors in September 2011. Rumors circulated that the store was run by one of the members of Long Beach’s Gestapo Khazi and a former member of The Growlers. I’d also heard that their stock was culled mainly from record swap meets across SoCal, meaning the stock was not only likely to be unusual, but also inexpensive. Record swap meets, though perhaps the most overwhelming experiences in music retail, are incomparable resources for affordable vintage records of all genres. However, there aren’t many vendors that provide listening stations, so the physical quality control can be challenging. I felt a tinge of gratitude to the owners of Mono for doing the legwork and sifting through the warped, grizzled bins on their patrons’ collective behalf.
Upon entering the store a dense, nostalgic aroma greeted my nostrils, summoning to mind the NorCal basements from whence I imagine all good used records come. The space is undoubtedly modest in width and breadth, but it’s certainly not the square footage that makes a record store great, and within the “New Arrivals” bins, this was proved handily. My jaw dropped as I pulled out a 1990 compilation of Joe Gibbs back catalog productions, released by Joe’s brother and including tracks by Barrington Levy and the phonetically spelled “Carnell Campbell.”
There are no genre-specific bins at Mono, just placards with the alphabet scrawled in Sharpie, meaning that while you flip through the A bin in search of original Adolescents records, Horace Andy’s Skylarking jumps out and surprises you. The store’s branded postcards boast of their “rock n’ roll, jazz, reggae and punk” stock, and I found that each of these genres were intermingled and well-represented. To my unending delight, it seemed like every tenth record or so was reggae, and after perusing for about 15 minutes, I’d pulled a stack of 10 records to examine, including a Desmond Dekker ’90s ska remix record and the most “Yacht Rock” inspired John Holt record I had ever seen.
From the illustrious wall racks, 1970s original Brian Eno records stared down at me sporting $10 -$15 price tags alongside a fresh new release from the Tijuana Panthers (Mono does carry new releases on occasion, mostly from local bands). There was no shortage of ’60s and ’70s rock n’ roll either. I seriously considered picking up their $5 copy of Rubber Soul. But honestly, the alluring reggae interjections distracted me. I made it about halfway through the D section and realized that the stack of records I was pulling was becoming a little embarrassing, so I paused and relocated to the listening station, positioned neatly by the front window under the red neon “RECORDS” sign.
It had been a while since I’d visited a store and found myself so engrossed in the stock. I zipped through 15 records at the listening station and started stacking my intended purchases at the counter. Perhaps it was the lack of genre segregation, or perhaps it was the genuine ipseity of their collection, but either way there was something magical in the air that night at Mono. After getting only halfway through the store and completely bypassing the appetizing 45 selection, I had chosen no fewer than four records to purchase, all from Jamaica.
At the register, the glass counter case contained a handful of cassettes, including a recent Burger Records release by The Abigales (I would learn later that Warren, the gentleman behind the counter, was a proud member of those same Abigales, and that he was open to the expansion of cassette culture in retail). I couldn’t help but gush about my finds and how charmed I was by their strange authenticity, and upon departing, I sat in my car and poured over the records for a solid 15 minutes before heading home to give them all good listens.
That weekend I found myself at a Jamaican-themed barbeque at Green Machines Studios, home of Duppy Gun Productions. I’d been invited to DJ some of my favorite reggae jams, but I took it as an opportunity to test out my Mono Records score from the night before. The first record I debuted was The Best of Leroy Smart. I let fly his track “Marcus,” and within seconds, his soulful missive to Mr. Garvey enraptured the early partygoers. His voice has the earnestness of Otis Redding with the emotional weakness of Bobby “Blue” Bland, and with each cut, I loved him more and more. The last track on the album, “Jah Jah,” included a slow motion exerpt from Larry and Alvin’s “Your Love” (one of the sweetest rocksteady songs ever to come from Studio One), and I was sold. Linval Thompson’s Cool Down, a Lee “Scratch” Perry compilation, and the aforementioned 1990 Joe Gibbs comp all saw airtime that afternoon.
I am over the moon that Mono Records lived up to its rumored reputation and I am looking forward to cherry picking all of those delightful reggae records out of their bins. For lovers of vintage, interesting, and diverse wax released between 1965 and 1990, Mono Records will scratch the itch, and how.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012