Stephen Mejias

I should have known by the looks in their shining eyes. When people told me that I'd probably enjoy it, that it was probably a good idea for me to go, they were being coy. But never mind: No words could have prepared me for the enormity of the event, for the knee-weakening prospect of innumerable treasures. And so, on Saturday morning, when I decided to go to the WFMU Record Fair, I was entirely, woefully, indubitably unprepared. I am reminded of my first Consumer Electronics Show. You can't know what it's like until you've been. And only after it's over can you pretend to prepare for the following year. I will begin pretending to prepare for next year's event today—taking for granted that next year will exist—but, until then, I'm left wanting a do-over, wondering why didn't anybody tell me it would be like this, while nevertheless enjoying the few treasures I did come home with.

Sunday morning in my apartment felt like the day after Christmas.

But first I'll tell you what I can about Saturday. Saturday was the second day of the event, which was held in the Metropolitan Pavilion at 125 West 18th Street. (That's between 6th and 7th Avenues, and conveniently located near several banks and ATM machines.) Single-day admission was an incredibly fair $6. If you wanted to beat the heavy traffic, $25 would have gotten you in on Friday at 4pm, and given you unlimited re-entry all weekend. (Something to consider for next year!)

You walk up to the white counter and you're greeted by the most gorgeous pair of red lips. Say hello and smile. She'll take your money, give you a ticket, and offer you a bright yellow bag. Inside the bag, you'll find a dealer list and floor plan. You will later use this bag to hold your beautiful selections. You'll notice other shoppers, however, with suitcases and hand-trucks and it'll come as no surprise if you actually see a wheelbarrow. You walk in a slow kind of daydream-daze and turn the corner and walk through the doors. Give your ticket to the second most gorgeous pair of red lips and get your hand stamped for re-entry. Good thing for that stamp because you'll have to leave in just a few minutes to hit an ATM and withdraw much more money than you were prepared to spend. Disregard the feelings of guilt because, after all, the WFMU Record Fair only happens once a year and you've already seen about a hundred or so records that you just can't live without. Plus: By spending money on records at the WFMU Record Fair, you are not only feeding your soul, you are supporting the world's greatest radio station.

WFMU is a listener-supported station, broadcasting at 91.1FM out of Jersey City, NJ. I have been in its hallowed halls, sat high atop its wooden lofts scattered with cables and microphones and snare drums and sleeping bags, listened to bands play live in the studio. Whenever I walk by the station, I pause for a moment, get down on one knee, and make the sign of the cross upon my forehead. God bless WFMU.

There were nearly 200 vendors (individual dealers and businesses) listed on the flyer. Had I known what I was getting into beforehand, I would have visited the Record Fair's website, consulted the dealer list and mapped out my attack route. Instead, I spent the first half-hour of my visit simply walking down the long aisles, attempting to take it all in, storing mental images on the desktop of my mind. I probably had a stupid grin on my face. I saw:

Jazz, blues, bluegrass, soul, rap, avant-garde, classical, rock and roll, kitsch, soundtracks, adult, psych, weird, horror, comedy, 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, dance, disco, alt, indie, thrash, metal, African, Cuban, Mexican, French, Indian, spirituals, funk, punk, and lots more. I saw:

Posters, books, portable turntables, headphones, masks, toys, balloons, skateboards, Two Boots Pizza, Budweiser, and lots more. I saw painfully beautiful women. I saw:

High heels, short skirts, v-necks, purple tights, leopard-skin prints, leather, lace, corduroy, wool, denim, cotton, black hair, blue eyes, pink lips, perfect skin, perfect skin. Perfect. Skin.

Beautiful women love vinyl. This is good to know. I tried talking to one.

I was flipping through some tattered Nigerian sides, when she asked the dealer if he had any Afrobeat or Highlife. I saw her hands dancing along the record sleeves. Her fingernails were painted purple. She shuffled right across Ray Barretto's El Rey Criollo.

"Do you like salsa?" I asked.

"Hmm?"

"Salsa."

"Yes," she smiled.

I kind of fell in love.

"That's a great album. That Ray Barretto album. El Rey Criollo."

"Really?"

"Yup. I would go so far as to say it's essential. You should buy it."

She pulled it from the crate and studied the album art.

"What's it like?"

I took a swig from my Budweiser. I was nervous as hell.

"It's pretty early salsa, so it's got soul elements and some boogaloo. Barretto was an amazing conga player, born in New York City, of Puerto Rican descent."

"Hmm. Thanks."

She put the record to one side and kept looking through the crates.

"You don't have to buy it," I said. "Don't feel obligated or anything."

She laughed.

I wanted to talk more, but I didn't know what else to say. I kept searching through the Nigerian stuff. They were ten dollars a pop, but in horrible condition. They looked as though they had floated across the Atlantic on a piece of splintered wood. Instead, I decided to spend my money on records that could be played. There were plenty of them to be found. Two zillion, if you believe the flyer. I wouldn't be surprised if two zillion was just about right. While there were hundreds—maybe thousands—of records priced at just a dollar, there were also many records selling for well over a hundred dollars.

I got down into a crouch and started searching through the crates that were lining the floor beneath the tables. I was down there for only a few minutes when a knee came crashing into the right side of my ribcage. The place was packed with people trying to get from booth to booth, searching for certain treasures. Vinyl is not dead.

"Sorry," someone said.

I had barely felt it.

I spent several hours walking the long aisles, digging through many-colored LPs, selecting a few to call my own. I became dizzy and sore and dehydrated. Finally, I decided, it was time to go. I had no more money. With yellow bag in hand, I moved swiftly towards the exit. I stopped and smiled once more at the beautiful girl at the door, and made my way into the cool air. It was now dark and raining softly. For a moment, I felt relieved. Before I had made it to the end of the block, however, I wanted to turn back and do it all over again. There was something I'd forgotten.

Next year, I'd be ready.