I've had a head full of trouble for the last several days. I can't really get into the details, but there have been two developments in my life this week that have completely thrown me off balance. The first is an annoying and frankly ludicrous situation that sprang out of something at The Job. It will invariably make for a great anecdote that we can all laugh heartily about sometime hopefully very soon, but at the moment, I'm not finding it very funny. The other is on the familial front and significantly more troubling. Like I said, I don't think I should really get into either of them here (sorry), but when the time is right, perhaps I'll divulge. Maybe remind me at some point.
In any case, as a result, I've been a bit shell-shocked, depressed and in a bit of a haze as I wait for the respective resolutions of both situations. But, y'know, life goes on, especially when you have two little people crawling around your apartment, wondering why Daddy is looking so glum. Feeling a bit stifled this morning, Peg and I loaded the kids into the strollers and sought out an accommodating bistro wherein to treat ourselves to brunch (not always an easy feat when you've got a three-year-old and a one-year old in tow). As we headed West -- smarting at the still wintery chill in the air -- we remembered that the Cornelia Street Cafe on --- wait for it -- Cornelia Street was once very nice to us when we brought little Charlotte there about two years ago. That became our destination.
Cornelia Street was the first location in Greenwich Village that I ever spent a decent amount of time at. A friend from grade school, Walt, lived in a then seemingly-newfangled condo on the otherwise old-wordly street with his father for a while in the mid-80's. His dad's apartment was on the second floor and looked out over 6th Avenue, directly across from those fabled basketball courts that attract so much hoopla (pardon the awful pun). As such, Cornelia Street was my base of downtown operation for a while (given its proximity to shops like Bleeker Bob's, etc.). It was actually on Cornelia Street that I first heard Killing Joke. I remember Walt and I sitting in his dad's living room, watching some cable access show (it might've been George Tabb's Destroy TV, but I'll never be sure) and the video for the `Joke's "Eighties" came on (from that instant to this day, my very favorite song of all time). I vividly remember standing up and being glued to the screen. Minutes later, I raced across the street to a tiny, basement level record shop and bought the 12" single. That little record shop -- I don't recall what it was calling itself at the time -- became Subterranean Records.
Much like the shops I detailed in this weepy, sprawling post, Subterranean became a regular stop on my weekly village-pillages (usually accompanied by my friend Rob B.) True to its name, the shop was a dank, cramped little hole in the wall, with stacks and stacks of records (and, later, compact discs) furtively stored and displayed around the cave-like interior. The place was run (and, presumably, owned) by this dude who Rob and I came to refer as "Winter Hours" (if only because that was the name of his band, and we were never polite enough to ask him what his actual name was --- turns out it's Michael Carlucci). We'd duck down into the shop, rifle through the selections and climb back up and out into the sunlight. It was a great shop that -- like I said about 99 Records in that other post -- when you stepped into it, it really felt like you were entering some underground network, rather literally.
I hadn't been to the shop in quite some time, let alone down Cornelia Street any time too recently. When Peg and I turned off 6th Avenue today, I was immediately struck. Around the steps leading down to the shop was now a high, locked gate (see pic below, taken with my crappy phone). The shop's beat-up sign was noticeably missing, and there were absolutely no signs of life nor activity. The possibility that yet another of my beloved record shops has closed was an extra little kick in the teeth to my already maudlin mood.
I did a little research when I got home. I found their website, but it doesn't look like it's been updated since 2002, and there's nothing else out there. I called the number, but it just rang and rang. I fear the worst for the place.
In any case, perhaps another one has bitten the dust. Pour one out for Subterranean Records.
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