Record Store Day 2034
Don't Lean On Me Man, 'Cause You Can't Afford The Ticket
The line is already miles long when I show up.
I would have arrived here earlier, but got hung up picking a T-shirt. I was after something glammy and retro, like Slade or The Killers or maybe Chappell Roan.
My Record Store Day go-to won out again. Ziggy Stradust always gets nods from other music fans wandering the aisles, and even a few cool kids behind the counter.
I got mine at a Spiders From Mars show last week. Mick Ronson was a guitar god that night, but all eyes were on Bowie’s hologram as he slithered and slinked around the stage with his spiky red mullet and skin-tight jumpsuit, warning the capacity crowd that the world would end in five years.
He was only off by half a century or so.
I replay the video stream from that show while waiting for the store to open. The band is vamping the outro to “Suffragette City” when I hear a voice behind me.
“Dig your shirt.”
She’s tall and thin with feathered blue hair, leather motorcycle jacket hanging open, weathered jeans, and checkered slip-ons. Tiny beads of light shimmer across her bedazzled Blondie T-shirt.
“Yours is pretty great too.”
“Got it at Retropalooza.”
“Nice. I missed that one. Had to work.”
“Your loss. What do you do?”
“I’m, uh…I’m an explorer.”
She lets out an adorable snort.
“An ‘explorer,’ huh? First time I’ve heard that line…”
A robotic voice rings out from the mounted speakers lining the endless sidewalk.
“We’re letting 10,000 people in at a time. You’ll have 15 minutes to browse before you’re moved to the registers. No exceptions.”
I turn back to my new friend, but she’s gone—replaced by a godlike figure featuring shaved eyebrows and a “snow white tan.” A gold foil ticket flutters between his thin white fingers.
“Congratulations,” he says in a droll British accent, lips on the verge of a mischievous smirk. “You’ve been chosen for a front-of-the-line pass based on your previous purchase history.”
I thank Ziggy for the upgrade, snap a selfie for my collection, and head for the entrance. Grumbles erupt from the front of the line as I’m escorted inside. Colored beams of light dance across racks bursting with the hottest releases. A new Nirvana single blasts overhead as I push forward, mingling with the hum of excited shoppers.
I pass a crush of tweens encircling their favorite KPOP star. She freestyles a single on the spot, effortlessly inserting the names of her adoring fans into the lyrics. The AI-generated track is automatically released as a “flash single”—only available for the next 15 minutes. Every one of those kids rushes straight to check out.
I feel a twinge of sadness passing the barricaded Beatles shrine. There was a time when that would have been my first stop—but their music was outlawed when all religions got banned. You can still find tracks on the black market, but face serious consequences if you get caught. I’m not risking three years of hard labor in a cobalt mine just to hear “Yellow Submarine” again.
I scan the list one more time. My daily stipend will barely cover all of it, but what else would I spend it on? The Corporation provides housing, meals, and sanctioned entertainment. Gene tests deemed me “unfit for procreation” long ago, so I have no kids to worry about. And what’s the point of saving for a future that’s so uncertain?
I grab Weezer’s 40th anniversary Blue Album deluxe edition featuring all the song ideas Rivers Cuomo had in the early ‘90s, but never got around to actually writing; a 137-hour extended beat mix of every “Hallelujah” cover ever recorded; The Complete Taylor Swift (AI Version), and this month’s Guided by Voices album.
The leather-clad stranger from outside is behind the register when I arrive.
“Find everything you were looking for?”
“Probably more than I need, actually. Thanks for the upgrade, by the way.”
“Who says I had anything to do with that?”
She winks. I smile.
“New here?”
“Just transferred from the London store.”
She rings up a total that almost empties my digiQash account. There’s just enough left to splurge on two concert tickets.
“Hey. What time do you get off work?”
“Why?”
“I was thinking about seeing the Spiders From Mars reunion again. Interested?”
“Hm. Seven o’clock show or midnight?”
“Let’s say seven. I have to work in the morning so I can afford to pay for all of this.”
“I guess an explorer’s work is never done…”
She hands over my bursting bag, our fingertips almost brushing. I feel the frustrated stares of a thousand impatient shoppers boring into the back of my skull.
“So, what do you say?”
“I’m more of an Earthling girl, but okay. See you in front of the club around seven.”
She waves to the next customer. I head for the exit, stealing glances over my shoulder. The bag should feel heavy, but I’m practically floating as I step outside.
***
I pull the headset off, rubbing my sore eyes. Space recedes to infinity outside the capsule’s viewport. The nearest planet looks like a disco ball, spraying lonely stars.
The other explorers are fast asleep in their pods as I silently command my implants to play all of the music I acquired in the simulation. We’ve got years to kill before reaching our final destination. That’s when the real work begins.
For now, I need to rest up for the big show. I can hardly wait until Record Store Day arrives again tomorrow.
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"this month's Guided By Voices album . . . " 🤣🤣🤣🤣
Enjoyed this, Steve. So much fun visiting the future, almost makes the present look good!