Not too far from the outstanding Guestroom Records—a record store that, for all intents and purposes, completely looks and totally acts like a record store—sits Monkey Feet Records, 3801 N. Classen Blvd., on the ground floor of one of the nondescript office buildings that line the street, completely disguised as space for rent.
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Noticeable only from the small signage near the sidewalk—I’ve sometimes seen it with a balloon flopping in the wind—and open only on the weekends, once you navigate the parking lot and find the entryway through the lilliputian lobby, there it is: Monkey Feet, a series of small offices decorated with multicolored Rolling Stones memorabilia, autographed guitars hanging on the wall, and, of course, what I came for, the armloads of various records for sale...
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Gently shaking, in the first room I was met with various imports—mostly Japanese—a true cavalcade of foreign pressings, many of which I never expected. If I had the cash, I’d be rolling around in otherworldly platters, possibly nude. This room of Monkey Feet was definitely one for the hopes and dreams portion of my aspirations board; maybe someday, I thought to myself.
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Instead, I walked across the slim hall and into the starting set of rock records. As I was about to start digging—at “a”, of course—Ed Commander, the owner with a cool name, came through and told me that as this was my first time there, I get ten percent off, which seemed like a great deal.
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I was down for not only that money-saving surprise, but his easy-going demeanor as well. Despite a room that was beginning to surge with customers, he did a great job spreading the word about each room to me, with a grand tour where I ended up in a room that was filled with somewhat used but still beautiful stereo equipment.
I was in heaven as the Eagles—“Those Shoes”, if you were wondering—slightly blared as they were testing out a few rows of large speakers for one guy that, obviously, knew how to rock and roll.
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Understanding the format of the place a bit better, I had to get back to scouring for items off my list; after about twenty seconds of flipping, I found two Beatles bootlegs: the collection of alternate takes and different versions, 20 X 4, as well as an old Russian disc with the title of Rare Beatles which, upon listening, were actually great-sounding BBC cuts.
But what really got my heart beating like a big brass drum was Ringo Starr’s early solo effort, the misunderstood country album called Beaucoups of Blues. I had been searching for this one for quite a while, with the copies I’ve seen—many in far worse condition, mind you—priced upwards of fifty bucks. But here, at Monkey Feet, it was only ten bucks.
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I selfishly clutched it, as well as the other two titles, close to my chest, lest some other hi-def loser walks in off the street and has the same aural wants and needs that I do. I quickly walked into the office next door that doubled as a cash register and paid the man my good money; we talked for a few minutes and I promised him I’d come back soon.
On the way out, I noticed a stuffed monkey sitting in an office chair, saying hello and goodbye to the visitors that find the store. While the office look is definitely unique—possibly a first—you can’t help but feel comfortable doing big business is a setting like this; maybe next time I’ll even grab one or two of those imports.
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