ERIN HAYES
Gargoyle co-editor-in-chief
Posted Wednesday, Dec. 5, 2007

A FEW DAYS ago, I had my first venture into the world of what fictional record store owner Rob Gordon calls “fetish properties.”

From what I can tell, his use of the term refers to musical material that is collectible, rare or otherwise hard to come by. And it would seem that, at least in the eyes of Rob, the trade of these “fetish properties” is a quintessential characteristic of the American indie record store.

In fact, Rob defines the clientele of his shop based on their continual search for these items; they are “mostly young men, who spend all their time looking for deleted Smiths singles and ‘ORIGINAL, NOT RE-RELEASED’ underlined Frank Zappa albums.”

So what came over me recently? What prompted me to join the ranks of obsessive, record-store-loyal young people in the supposedly masculine pastime of music scavenging?

Two original-release, imported Nirvana singles straight from 1993, that’s what.

I first spotted them on a trip I made to our local indie record store, Exile On Main Street, Sunday afternoon. I thought they were cool, but I was busy inquiring about pre-owned Blur, and examining a copy of Sonic Youth’s adventure in Esperanto, “Invito Al Cielo.” I was somewhat distracted.

I ended up leaving the record store, but from the time I arrived at home, the thought of those singles being bought by somebody else plagued me.

It’s actually kind of perverse how much those two little CDs took over my life. For one day, those singles were what I was about. Every few minutes, I would think, “I am going to kick myself if I don’t get my hands on those!” I was paranoid that they would fall into another person’s undeserving hands.

This need to own the out-of-print French import of “Heart-Shaped Box” and the similarly out-of-print German import of “All Apologies/Rape Me” prompted four visits to Exile in a 24-hour period.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Four visits to Exile in a 24-hour period.

Now, to explain myself a little, the two middle visits were cut short by the fact that the store was closed, so it’s not as though I’ve been hanging out there nonstop. But the fact remains that I made all those trips.

“Now Erin,” you must be thinking, “what’s wrong with you? That can’t be healthy. What possible reason could there be to obsess so much over some music? It’s not like you can’t just download those songs, or buy them from iTunes or something.”

And those are valid questions that I’ve been asking myself.

“Heart-Shaped Box,” “All Apologies,” and “Rape Me” are all well-known Nirvana songs, and aren’t exactly uncommon. Even if I wanted them in their single form, there have been re-issues of these CDs that would probably be easy to find. In fact, the “Heart-Shaped Box” single was re-released as recently as 1998, according to Amazon.com.

The thing is, I’ve come to the conclusion that this craving for “fetish properties” isn’t exactly about the music — at least, not about the music in and of itself.

For me, it’s about trying to replicate an experience that is out of my reach.

Because I was only a toddler during Nirvana’s heyday, I was oblivious to their music. In 1991 — “the year punk broke,” as they like to say — I was nothing but a baby. Instead of listening to songs with titles like “Rape Me” by the time I was 3 years old, I was reciting nursery rhymes.

When Kurt Cobain died, merely days before my fourth birthday, I was still too young to have ever heard of Nirvana (or Sonic Youth, Pixies, Dinosaur Jr., etc.), and had effectively missed out on the entire birth movement of what we now know as American alternative and indie rock.

By purchasing the same singles that a Nirvana fan bought, listened to, and probably relished in 1993, I am making myself about as close to that cultural phenomenon as I could ever hope to be. I am fingering the same album art that anonymous fan did, hearing the exact same recording with all its quirks, reading with indescribable satisfaction the same tiny words “Printed in Germany.” I am living vicariously through the faceless, nameless human being who never would have dreamed that this band they knew and loved would eventually be snuffed out by tragedy.

It is fascinating to think about, and even more fascinating to do. Aside from the aspect of slightly excessive attendance at the record store, I would highly recommend dabbling with “fetish properties” to anybody who is passionate about a certain band, or a particular time in music history. As long as you manage the obsession levels, scavenging for collectible music — and then listening to your treasures — can be very rewarding, and is well worth it.

Note: An earlier version of this column was published as an entry in the Gargoyle staff blog.