Before there was an Apple Store, there was the Apple Cafe—on paper at least. These ambitious concepts from 1996 depict how the high-tech location would have looked.
Quentin Tarantino working at video rental store, Video Archives in California circa 1985.
Definitely someone who judges your choices.
The mall from DAWN OF THE DEAD (1978).
Photos of 1980s record stores (HMV mostly).
I don’t want to sound like an old-timer, or maybe I do, but there was something special about walking into a record store and buying an album. You were basically buying a memory: the trip to the store, maybe you ran into a friend that day, the sights, the smells, the weather, the pretty girl behind the counter that made you feel overly aware of yourself, the serious, funky-looking guy hunched over the racks with obscure 45s, the trip home with your prey in a bag that carried the record store logo, that little magical moment when you heard the intro to the first track and studied the album cover: the art, the font, the photos, lyrics, the credits even. “Oh, so that’s who’s playing the fiddle…”
I don’t have many memories of buying digital music. “Oh man, that time I pressed ‘Purchase’ on my computer, what a day.” But that’s how it goes. And I’m not complaining. Because…
Crap. It’s raining. You arrive at the store, all wet and feeling weird. With soaking steps, like an alien that just landed, you walk to the right section and flip through the records. It isn’t there—that record you want, it isn’t there. You check again, and again more frantically, but no, it didn’t magically appear out of the blue in the meantime, they really don’t have it. Unbelievable. You ask the girl behind the counter. The moment she says she’ll check on her computer, you want to turn around and walk. But that would be rude, so you nod and stand there waiting like a wet stray dog. The girl says there should be one copy left, so together you walk back to the scene of your disappointment and browse those same racks again. Still the record hasn’t magically appeared. The girl suggests that someone might have misplaced it and quickly checks here and there. You stand there, undergoing this. Then she says that awful thing. You’ve been expecting it, dreading it. And now here it comes. You prepare yourself.
Her lips part, they are starting to form a shape, you know what’s coming, you hate it, you sweat, you twitch, you want to scream and run, but it’s too late: “I could order a copy for you.” Now the path has been split in two. If you say “No”, it’ll be like saying, “Fuck you and your store.” But if you say “Yes”, you’re stuck—you could end up having to wait an agonizing 3 weeks; you’ll be 3 weeks older, sadder, you might not even be around anymore, it’s like the distant future.
You used to just say “Yes” and simply never return, avoiding the store forever afterwards. Until your mother, who always had to sort out the mess, intervened: “Look,” she said one day, “just tell them you’ll look around a bit more. Then leave and look elsewhere. You can always return to order a copy if nobody else has the record you want.”
Looking at the floor, not at the girl, like someone on trial, you say the words. They come out of your mouth like you don’t know what’s happening to you, but she accepts them and leaves you alone. You’re free again. You don’t leave the store right away however. A kind of weird, misplaced politeness, passed down from your ancestors, forces you to hang around the store for a few minutes more, pretending to browse records. Then finally enough time has passed, and you disappear.
To your joy, you do find a copy at a different store, one that you always avoid because you once placed an order there and never showed up; but to your dismay, it’s crazy expensive. What is it made of, pure gold? You can’t really be happy with it now. The new price has been plastered over the old one; peeling it away a bit, you see the record used to be significantly cheaper. You wonder if the price went up because word got out someone has been looking for it.
But you don’t have much of a choice, so you buy the record, avoiding eye contact with the clerk who examines you suspiciously.
It’s still raining. You run into Billy Bouma. Billy is the scourge of the area, a big-boned kid who looks like a 45-year-old construction worker. He attempts to come after you but he’s unsuccessful, something he can’t get used to early enough. You wonder if these guys ever have places to go to or things to do, or if they have just been inserted at various sites along the road to make life harder for you.
When you arrive home, your dad’s there. “Found a record I wanted,” you say, holding it up. He immediately checks the price and lets out a sound. “What is made of, pure gold?” You walk up the creaky stairs to your room, change clothes, then put on the record.
After listening to the album a few times, you realize there’s not one song on it that you truly like.
Mall interiors from the 1970s/1980s.
My mother hated them, but to me, a kid, malls were exciting. They looked like small sci-fi colonies mixed with ocean liners, with their blood-red carpets, gilded railings, jungle plants, and crooked floor patterns. The mall, that’s where you found your precious toys. It’s where humans lived, and promises were fulfilled. Take an 1980s teen flick, and there’s a scene in a mall.
George A. Romero’s DAWN OF THE DEAD shows one in all its kitschy glory.
I was about 12, when I saw her again: she was hanging out with her friends near the fountain. A blonde elf-like girl, the sun around which the other kids orbited, she laughed a lot. Whenever her friends laughed though, she seemed quiet, troubled even, biting her thumb; that’s when her eyes caught me. In a dark corner, two 16-year-olds, who seemed like real adults to me, were playing an arcade game and eating french fries; I wondered how they could play with greasy fingers. One burped loudly, but they didn’t laugh. Eyes on the game.
Suddenly these two kids rush past you on their bikes. You know one of them, he is an enemy. He gave you the finger once, the first time you saw anyone making that gesture. “Asshole,” he says. Someone tells them they can’t ride their bikes here, they shout something back.
Gino is this thin, moustached hothead with tight stonewash jeans and big white sneakers, and a permed mullet. He doesn’t walk, he bounces, like a Muppet; he moves fast, like someone who’s on his way to punch someone. He smokes and has a gold-colored necklace with his name, but better not joke about it, because Gino is the kind of guy who doesn’t get jokes. Your brother referred to him once as “Evil Freddie Mercury”. He always seems to be everywhere: when you go ice skating, you run into him there; when you go swimming, he’s at the pool; when you’re playing football in the field behind your school you know he’s going to show up. He looks at you—whenever you look at him, his eyes always immediately shoot back—but he leaves you alone and trots out of sight. You’re vaguely relieved to see him go.
The wall with flickering TVs plays an MTV video, you kind of watch as you wait for your mother to return, but not really. The two 16-year-olds have finished their game, they mumble some curses, one smacks the arcade machine, and they leave. You see Sebastian’s mother—Sebastian, the kid who stole money once. She passes you and you feel her eyes, but you pretend not to see her.
The lady in her mobility scooter, her bags of groceries tied to the handlebars. She is rotund and can hardly walk, and always takes the elevator. Sometimes people help her get in, more often they don’t. You cracked cruel jokes about her once when you were here with your brother, but really you just felt sadness.
You realize every kid is there with friends except you, and just when you’re about to discover some great truth about yourself and the world around you, your mother returns and you go home, your toys in the plastic toy store bag that you tried to hide from the blue eyes of the elegant blonde elf, who’s still laughing with her friends, and who, though nobody would have guessed it, would go on to play such a major part in your life years later.
These are just some memories I have of the mall. Stories of my childhood unfolded there, and I remember everything.
Supermarket concepts from circa 1960.
Brigitte Bardot at a department store circa 1962.
Photos of 1980s record stores (HMV mostly).
I don’t want to sound like an old-timer, or maybe I do, but there was something special about walking into a record store and buying an album. You were basically buying a memory: the trip to the store, maybe you ran into a friend that day, the sights, the smells, the weather, the pretty girl behind the counter that made you feel overly aware of yourself, the serious, funky-looking guy hunched over the racks with obscure 45s, the trip home with your prey in a bag that carried the record store logo, that little magical moment when you heard the intro to the first track and studied the album cover: the art, the font, the photos, lyrics, the credits even. “Oh, so that’s who’s playing the fiddle…”
I don’t have many memories of buying digital music. “Oh man, that time I pressed ‘Purchase’ on my computer, what a day.” But that’s how it goes. And I’m not complaining. Because…
Crap. It’s raining. You arrive at the store, all wet and feeling weird. With soaking steps, like an alien that just landed, you walk to the right section and flip through the records. It isn’t there—that record you want, it isn’t there. You check again, and again more frantically, but no, it didn’t magically appear out of the blue in the meantime, they really don’t have it. Unbelievable. You ask the girl behind the counter. The moment she says she’ll check on her computer, you want to turn around and walk. But that would be rude, so you nod and stand there waiting like a wet stray dog. The girl says there should be one copy left, so together you walk back to the scene of your disappointment and browse those same racks again. Still the record hasn’t magically appeared. The girl suggests that someone might have misplaced it and quickly checks here and there. You stand there, undergoing this. Then she says that awful thing. You’ve been expecting it, dreading it. And now here it comes. You prepare yourself.
Her lips part, they are starting to form a shape, you know what’s coming, you hate it, you sweat, you twitch, you want to scream and run, but it’s too late: “I could order a copy for you.” Now the path has been split in two. If you say “No”, it’ll be like saying, “Fuck you and your store.” But if you say “Yes”, you’re stuck—you could end up having to wait an agonizing 3 weeks; you’ll be 3 weeks older, sadder, you might not even be around anymore, it’s like the distant future.
You used to just say “Yes” and simply never return, avoiding the store forever afterwards. Until your mother, who always had to sort out the mess, intervened: “Look,” she said one day, “just tell them you’ll look around a bit more. Then leave and look elsewhere. You can always return to order a copy if nobody else has the record you want.”
Looking at the floor, not at the girl, like someone on trial, you say the words. They come out of your mouth like you don’t know what’s happening to you, but she accepts them and leaves you alone. You’re free again. You don’t leave the store right away however. A kind of weird, misplaced politeness, passed down from your ancestors, forces you to hang around the store for a few minutes more, pretending to browse records. Then finally enough time has passed, and you disappear.
To your joy, you do find a copy at a different store, one that you always avoid because you once placed an order there and never showed up; but to your dismay, it’s crazy expensive. What is it made of, pure gold? You can’t really be happy with it now. The new price has been plastered over the old one; peeling it away a bit, you see the record used to be significantly cheaper. You wonder if the price went up because word got out someone has been looking for it.
But you don’t have much of a choice, so you buy the record, avoiding eye contact with the clerk who examines you suspiciously.
It’s still raining. You run into Billy Bouma. Billy is the scourge of the area, a big-boned kid who looks like a 45-year-old construction worker. He attempts to come after you but he’s unsuccessful, something he can’t get used to early enough. You wonder if these guys ever have places to go to or things to do, or if they have just been inserted at various sites along the road to make life harder for you.
When you arrive home, your dad’s there. “Found a record I wanted,” you say, holding it up. He immediately checks the price and lets out a sound. “What is made of, pure gold?” You walk up the creaky stairs to your room, change clothes, then put on the record.
After listening to the album a few times, you realize there’s not one song on it that you truly like.