The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

by Todd Smith   ::   posted on Sep. 30, 2008 - 8:53am

Note to Rake Readers and the Mpls Music Community:  I sincerely apologize for offending anyone in the original posting of this story.  My intention was to celebrate the diverse wackiness of Roadrunner and it's patrons.  Not rip on a guy I hardly know.  I would never consider myself better than anyone.  Please read my piece entitled "Pharma Chameleon" to see how much of a freak I am.  That being said, the proper edits have been made to the following piece.  Once again, I apologize.

A dude named Daffer bumbled into Roadrunner Records, a south Minneapolis indie music store, looking for some vinyl records. After an hour of feverishly scrounging through the bins, he was exhausted. So he plunked himself down right in the middle of the aisle, used his expedition sized backpack as a pillow, and went to sleep. When veteran Roadrunner employee Tim McFadden noticed Daffer sleeping contently on the floor he casually shrugged his shoulders.

"This isn't Best Buy," McFadden said, referring to the luminous Twin Cities based mega store. As he sat behind the cash register, McFadden further illustrated Roadrunner's anti-corporate sentiment by taking a pull off of his fresh bottle of Summit Beer.

If the Electric Fetus - the nationally recognized Twin Cities record store - is the house of worship for local music fans, then Roadrunner Records is like your cool uncle's basement. It is a communal gathering spot, a place where idiot savants mingle with old time record hounds and young Emo dudes. Roadrunner Records looks exactly the way a record store should look. The store windows are blanketed with rock posters and album covers, the inside is adorned with layers and layers of unique memorabilia (Paul Westerberg's guitar, Ramones cover art, a massive Luscious Jackson concert promo). When customers walk into the store, they are immediately greeted by a huge cardboard cutout of a snarling Jonny Rotten that stands behind the door. A little farther down, they are welcomed by an autographed Wilco picture that hangs on the back wall. The two items are placed strategically, and make a pair of awesome bookends for the shopping experience. But mostly, there is a local flavor at Roadrunner that can't be found in any other music shop in town (owner John Beggs is supposedly the last person to ever see Replacements Bob Stinson alive).


As Daffer took his siesta on the floor, a stream of devoted patrons trickled in. Roadrunner employee McFadden stood behind the counter ready to serve the people. The blustery forty-five year old Irish punker, dressed appropriately in black Chuck Taylors and a Queers t-shirt, held court at the raised counter, which served as both a retail space and a community pulpit. The night's in-store music theme was Rock-fused Ska music, so McFadden turned The Specials up to volume 11.

"There would be no such thing as Rock n' Roll if it wasn't for the Beach Boys," McFadden spouted from his perch. He laughed at himself for sounding like such an old-timer blowhard. After cracking open a second beer, he was playfully riled up. He dropped some serious Rock n' Roll sacrilege.

"Fuck the Beatles. Write that down for your little bitchy blog. The Beatles made a bunch of songs that sell Volvos. I'll take the Rolling Stones' Some Girls album over anything. "

This type of good humored music commentary is what makes Roadrunner Records a breath of fresh air in the milquetoast world of retail music. In today's digital climate, everything is one mouse click away and there is zero human connection. Music lovers can get lost in a labyrinth of downloading and burning and cyber chatrooms. McFadden stands behind the counter like a beacon for those muddling through all the crap. He takes several customers on mini tours of the store, walking them down the aisles like a docent.

"Your favorite band is the White Stripes?" he asked a college-aged guy after an initial inquiry about the dude's taste in music. "Then you need to hear the Black Keys. Same set up: one guitar and one drum. But the Black Keys don't dress like the Addams Family. They'll just rock your face off." The kid nodded his head appreciatively.

Later, a bookish man stepped up to the counter. He wore pleated khakis and was nerdy stiff, as if the confines of his corporate cubicle were still pressing in on him. "Um, my friend got front row tickets to see the upcoming Neil Young concert. He asked me to go, but I don't know any Neil Young."

"No problem," McFadden said, as he popped off his stool and set down his beer. "We can get you started right here: With Neil Young's Decade Album."

It was musical democracy in action; feather-haired classic rock gods Journey (sing it with me now, "The wheels in the sky keep on turning...") sat in the bin next to Teengenerate (a Japanese punk group), which was next to an album by Big Black titled Songs About Fucking, and the new album by pop rock stadium giants Coldplay sat on top of the shelf.

Through all the whopping rock music and talk of "Desert Island Picks," McFadden completely forgot that Daffer was sleeping on the floor in the back room of the store. When there was a break in the music and the buzz tingling in the air died down, a hog like snore could be heard.

"Daffer!" Tim McFadden jokingly yelled. "Dude. You're snoring!"

Then Daffer let out one last snort and choked himself awake. He stumbled to his feet, scanned the room, his eyes swirling in his head. Daffer hitched up his pants and casually walked out of the store like the whole thing never happened. McFadden leaned against the cashier counter and smirked. It was just another day at the kookiest little store in South Minny.