Bargains for treasures and cultural artifacts found at P-Rex

If record stores could get up and walk to a record store, Princeton Record Exchange is the record store they would go to. It's a record store's record store. However, much like the surly and underfed changeling who works the cash register at the Record Exchange, a human observer would find those record stores browsing through the aisles feeling angsty and alienated. In the era of file-sharing's why-buy-the-cow mentality, the record store is increasingly a place to compile wish lists for the night's high-speed piracy rather than a place one goes to buy the latest Fleetwood Mac box set. Thank God. The remaining small record stores, though, are hardy survivors. While many of its kin have fallen to the giant chains, the Princeton Record Exchange counts itself among the remnants, the record store salt of the earth. And while it is no shocking news those small record stores survive by stocking hard-to-find stuff and cashing in on both local patronage and a hip designation, the unique variances of these sites (nay, American cultural institutions) are worth noting.

The Princeton Record Exchange's particular adaptation to the harsh music-consuming climate is its huge archive of super-cheap music and film, available in every recent format save eight-track. Even laser disc. Like the resale clothing stores that churn out the staple items of certain fashion styles, the Princeton Record Exchange's bin after bin after bin, laden with cheap old media, is a place to do some good pop-culture archaeology and come away with the surface adornments that we hope will both give us some kicks and impress others at the same time. For two bucks a pop, it's not unreasonable to buy an album or a dozen albums simply in order to deck out a dorm-room wall with the much talked-about "lost art of record sleeve art." Is that the right term—record sleeve? Anyone? The music itself is good, too. Though it's not hard to find any artist you might be into, it's the undeniable cliché of this type of place that it's the unfamiliar and incidental finds that are the most rewarding: I walked home with some forgotten Da Brat singles and an album called "U.S. Metal Vol. 2," a compilation of rare garage metal from the 70s. The Record Exchange's collection is truly impressive. Although their VHS section has been seriously picked over (previously, a good three quarters of the tapes were "so bad they're funny / classic '80s coolness" movies that are the favored form of entertainment for bookish stoners when they're not masturbating), I found a movie called "Fraternity Vacation," starring a young Tim Robbins and the guy who played Lloyd Braun on "Seinfeld." I thought the movie would be a lost classic of Rabelaisian T&A, beer and social typology. When I watched the tape, it turned out this lost classic of '80s coolness (the cars alone...) was in fact more of a Berman-esque psychodrama, a small, focused film about the tense dyads and triads surrounding an elusive and mysterious rich babe. You never know at the Princeton Record Exchange.

The lesson in all this is everyone should go over to the Princeton Record Exchange, give the shriveled emo-goblin at the cash register a hug, find the cool one-of-a-kind videos and record sleeves while they're around and even buy a t-shirt for your cousin back home ("I Found It at the Princeton Record Exchange," it reads. What exactly do we find? When we go into a record store, the t-shirt asks us, what exactly are we looking for?). Because the Princeton Record Exchange is just that, an exchange. I'll let the readers build on that in their sweet imaginations. An exchange . . .