To those wondering about Chewy's dedication in the URL, Sam Sniderman, the "Sam" of the Canadian record store chain "Sam the Record Man" died earlier this week at age 92.
The late-night record shop referred to in the lyrics of this song, according to the composer Stephen Page, was indeed Sam's. I don't think it's possible to explain to people outside of Toronto or below a certain age how big a deal this guy was. A three storey cathedral to music of an almost infinite variety. Sam's had by far the most knowledgeable clerks of any store I've ever been to. You could (badly) hum a tune and the guys could find the song you were looking for. You could ask for an out-of-print import album, or look for an indy release on cassette or search for Macedonian polkas and Sams would have it.
I bought my first album at Sam's and for decades made the annual Boxing Day pilgrimage to Sam's for their legendary one-day sale. People would line up for hours to get in. On Dec 26. In Toronto. Yeah.
As Jian Ghomeshi recently said, when it took 3 hours to go by bus downtown and back to get an album, there is a bond you can never get from pushing a button to download it. You'd savour cracking open the cellophane shrink wrap, devour the liner note and lyrics. You'd know the album before you ever set it on a turntable.
And always, there would be Sam, overseeing the melee. Asking anyone who dared bring in a bag from a competing records store "What the matter? Don't you like music?"
We did, Sam. Yes, we did. |
The Smiths Songs by Lyric
Religions in Canada
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