Interview: The Groove Merchant, Cool Chris

Groove Merchant 4-17-09

For International Record Store Day I caught up with Cool Chris, owner and manager of San Francisco's notorious Groove Merchant Records shop. Taking a tip from a recent Whatimseeing tribute, I biked over with my partner in crime to the infamous Lower Haight destination. The Groove Merchant is nestled among the richly colored Victorian buildings with a surprisingly unassuming appearance. One dollar milk crates and a sun drenched "bought and sold" street sign beckon passerbys who might otherwise miss the simply painted "records" in bubbly letters on the facade. Nonetheless, what awaits inside is nothing short of a mecca for seekers of the most killer black crack.

Producers and collectors of rare vinyl across the globe know this nook chock full of obscure hiphop, disco, psych, soul, funk, and Latin donuts. Trading, buying, selling, and shooting the shit, Groove Merchant Records is a loud marketplace for digging wanderlust.

Chris takes us on a trip down memory lane recounting the history of Groove Merchant Records and how he became involved. We then discuss the internet's increasing impact on local record stores, the many tensions developing in the battle between vinyl and digital music, and finally, the much argued over beginnings of hiphop on wax. Listen to the insight only possible from an expert 15 years deep in the bizness.


This interview was part of the inaugural celebration for our first Sanguine Sunday Radio broadcast on Pirate Cat Radio 87.9fm, the largest independent and community radio station in all of San Francisco! Our tenth episode, "Rapper's Delight", was an exploration and breakdown of the roots of hiphop on wax from 1979 and on.

Unfortunately, we're having some technical difficulties translating the show into mp3 format, but if you were lucky enough to hear us live, shout us out! Tune in every Saturday 8-10pm, stream live online, or peep the Sang Sun Radio website for archived podcasts (yes!).

The Digger

As a music lover with a knack for history, I love to dig. Unfortunately, when I dig into my pockets all I come up with is lint, which makes my visits to the expensive record collections in the Bay nearly null. Maybe one day I will get paid in full, or perhaps I will find a second hand record shop in San Francisco that rivals this one I stumbled upon in Brooklyn.


I typically experience an acute sense of shame that racks my whole body whenever I make a monetary transaction. I feel ridiculous receiving a service from a stranger for the exchange of some printed rectangular paper and stamped metal coins. What the hell do I need these things for, and why do these official papers give me such strange powers of commanding? Maybe I should go back home, anonymously buy some music on my internet, and hide my shame in a neatly swept corner of my bedroom. But alas, I am drawn into the labyrinth.


The caked on layers of history on a record sleeve lighten the load on my shoulders. They bring to mind mystical stories of previous owners - discarding Minnie Ripperton's crooning love joints after a horrible break up, letting go that Demon Fuzz funky psych in hopes of becoming a more 'serious' professional, or trading in that James Brown "Funky Drummer" making those last couple bones for another kind of music, crack - somehow the object gains a pummeling spiritual intensity.


My shame levels off into a muted ache in my stomach - I suddenly don't feel so alienated anymore. The imaginative journey applies its medicative ointments to my pathetic capitalist woes.


And so deep within the dusty tombs loom the many hallways and caverns of towering records, toppling over their sarcophagi milk crates, edging in on me from all sides. The ghostly stories grow louder and louder, shouting in my ears, booming with the energy of lives past and memories forgotten, waiting impatiently to be resurrected by the godly hands of the digger. The digger undertakes the responsibility of becoming the overtaker. We do not dig to bury but rather for the overpowering joy of bringing back! Will they find their final funeral oration through the swift shifting of my fingertips or be given a second chance at life by a sweeping grab?


Such is what is at stake for the digger.