A Record Shop Owner Who Actually Knew What He Was Talking About
The Record Argus ran an obituary recently for David Morrow, and it stuck with me more than I expected. He ran a record shop that most people in the area probably forgot existed until they needed exactly what he had. I've been buying vinyl for about thirty years and going through a lot of these shops that open and close, and Morrow was the rare kind of guy who made the whole format worthwhile. Morrow's shop, which operated out of a space I won't name since the obituary didn't either, was the kind of place where inventory management wasn't done with any software. He knew what he had, where it was, and what condition it was in. I remember going in there around 2018 looking for a specific pressing of a jazz record that I'd been chasing for months. Two other shops in the county had turned me away. He pulled it from a shelf that wasn't labeled and told me it was a first pressing with the right matrix numbers. Turns out he was right. That's not something you find at a big box store or on Discogs without spending two hours reading descriptions that turn out to be wrong. The obituary mentioned he'd been in the business for over forty years. That means he started before most of the people reading about his death were born. He lived through the CD boom that killed a lot of record stores, theNapster era that killed more, and the vinyl resurgence that brought some people back — though probably not back to his particular shop. He kept going regardless.
What struck me about the tribute was how matter-of-fact it was. No grand statements about changing the world of music. Just a straightforward account of a man who ran a record store, knew his inventory, and showed up. That's honestly how most of these businesses survive. Not through charisma or marketing. Through showing up and actually knowing what you're selling. I lost track of how many times I walked past his place over the years. It wasn't on a main street. You had to know where to look, and even then the window display was usually just a stack of records leaning against the glass. But the people who knew — the collectors, the DJs, the musicians who needed specific pressings — they knew. They'd drive twenty minutes out of their way because Morrow would actually tell you the truth about a record instead of inflating its value to make a sale. There's a reason the Record Argus took the time to publish a proper obituary instead of just filing it with the rest of the deaths. It's not every day you lose someone who represents that kind of quiet competence. The music retail world eats people like that alive. Low margins, thin customer bases, changing formats, and a general public that mostly doesn't care until it's gone.
I don't shop at his former location anymore because it's not there anymore. I still buy records. I just do it somewhere else now, and I miss the person more than I miss the shop. That's the thing about local icons. You don't realize they're holding something together until they're not.
Get the Full Details
