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FLEA MARKET START

It was approaching winter when Rob Snopek carefully loaded up the back of his pick-up truck with over 2000 vinyl records. A collection cobbled together thanks to years of careful searching, lucky finds and generous friends, he was ready to bring his prized albums out of his apartment and into the marketplace.

On this particular Saturday in 2006, he drove his record-laden truck down to the flea market, and threw open the tailgate. “One dollar each,” he said to any buyer or bystander dropping by to bargain. A steady stream of shocked visitors found themselves the new owners of early Beatles albums and mint condition Pink Floyd records, and by the end of the day, Rob’s truck had nothing left in the back except for a few lonely Anne Murray albums.

“I had no idea what any of that stuff was worth,” Rob laughs. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of records I let go for a dollar.”

Over the next year, after posting dozens of “records wanted” flyers up in local Laundromats, Rob’s record collection slowly began to grow again. By the time I came across Snopek’s legendary supply in the autumn of ‘07, the number of records was estimated to be well over 30,000, and his personal reserve was already turning into the new mecca for Vancouver vinyl hounds.

DISCOVERIES

“Private vinyl showroom,” said the ad. “Thousands of records, old and new! By appointment only.” The bizarre combination of words intrigued me. I had been idly collecting records for a few years, and felt I could use a fresh new source, outside the traditional musty thrift stores and overpriced retail shops.

The phrasing of the ad made me cautious. Craigslist has the bad habit of attracting boatloads of creeps, and I wasn’t in love with the prospect of showing up at a “private vinyl showroom” only to discover that private, vinyl and showroom had very different meanings than what I was expecting. I pitched the idea to my friend and fellow vinyl-liker Harrison.

“Why is it by appointment only?” Harrison wanted to know. “Why is it in his apartment? Where did he get all those records?”

“These are very good questions,” I responded. “It sounds like it could be a trap. Maybe he’s an axe murderer.”

“Let’s do it,” Harrison replied. “Could make for a good story. On the news. After we die.”

I picked up the phone to make an appointment. The voice on the other end supplied directions, and said he’d be waiting in the parking lot for us in one hour.

PRIVATE VINYL SHOWROOM

Wearing a denim jacket and blowing cigarette smoke into the October fog, the man was waiting for us as we pulled into the parking lot of a high-rise by Lougheed Mall in Burnaby. I couldn’t have known it then, but the sight of Rob Snopek, king of Vancouver vinyl, waiting at the base of his apartment complex would soon become an iconic sight.

“Hello, great to meet you!” said Rob, extending his hand. He spoke with a faint but implacable Eastern European accent, and his demeanor exuded a hospitable pride as he prepared to welcome us into his showroom. He gestured for us to follow him.

“So what types of records d’you like?” Rob asked, as we darted down down a short cement stairwell. He held the door for us at the bottom, and we stepped into a smokey hallway, the sounds of a sports game and clinking glasses drifting over from a basement bar to our left. “Um,” I said, trying not to give away my lack of education on the matter. “Been really getting into the blues lately,” I tried. Harrison stepped in for the save: “I’m specifically looking for early funk and soul records,” he declared, as Rob unlocked a door across the hall from the bar. We entered another hallway, this one dimmer than the last, and the door shut behind us. “Motown albums, Curtis Mayfield, that kind of stuff. And I’d also love to find anything by Nina Simone or Billie Holiday.”

“Perfect,” said Rob, pausing in front of a set of imposing, medieval-style wooden doors. He swung the doors open, and we stepped inside the Private Vinyl Showroom.

Tables and boxes overtook our vision. From ground level to waist height, along every wall and every spare surface, U-Haul moving boxes had been carefully stacked, tops opened to display the thousands of records within. Some boxes featured filing-style dividers indicating genres or artists, others had Sharpie’d labels on the front. Looking closer, each record had a transparent plastic slip-cover, with a small label in the top right corner. Every record was hand-labeled with the year of its release, the album’s genre, and this particular record’s key features, whether it was “first edition” or “coloured vinyl.” It took a second for the fact to sink in that this entire collection was curated by one individual.

Rob swept his arm across and room. “Dollar bins are under the tables,” he said. “Discs sorted by artists are on the left, and records by genre are right here,” he said, tapping the table in the centre of the room. “These boxes,” — he touched the row of boxes on the right — “contain fresh arrivals I have just finished pricing.” He pointed towards a turntable at the back. “I can put on any record you want to listen to, and if you have any questions or if you are looking for anything, just ask me. Okay?”

Harrison and I moved like magnets towards the boxes. The record collection in front of us was a veritable museum of music history. Like portals into the past, the album art was transporting us into times we never knew. As I flipped through the Jazz section, I saw Ella Fitzergald send a wink in my direction, and nearby in the blues box, Muddy Waters had a serious bone to pick with me. I saw Johnny Cash stomping his foot at Folsom Prison, while Jimi Hendrix was wrestling a guitar that looked like it was on fire, and meanwhile, four hippies were in mid-stride on a British crosswalk.

It only took about twenty seconds for Harrison to find his Nina Simone, and maybe thirty for me to pick out the blues record I wanted, but it took us two more hours to emerge from our trance. Harrison had selected 30 albums to bring home, and was only paying $30 for the whole set. I had found an original, mint condition pressing of Bitches Brew (a timeless Miles Davis double album from 1969), and in addition to Abbey Road and a couple other standouts, my bill came to only $20. For price, variety and style, the private vinyl showroom and successfully upstaged every record-hunting experience I’d had at places like A&B Sound, Beatstreet Records, thrift stores, pawn shops and eBay. I knew I’d be coming back.

ON THE MOVE

From the record player at the back of the showroom, over the speakers around the room, a bassline was keeping a messy band on track. It sounded like surf music meeting James Brown, or maybe like Weezer meets the Clash, on the inside of a tin can. “What is this?” I asked.

“It’s the Blues Magoos!” Rob replied. “1967. British psychedelic garage music. Amazing band. This is the first edition, very rare.”

Rob was not even ten years old when this Blues Magoos vinyl was released, yet he is able to rattle of encyclopedic info on it as if he had been waiting at the record store on the day of its release. He can provide this kind of snapshot on virtually record in his possession, whether it was released last year, or some time in the 1940s. “I have been loving vinyl almost since the day I was born,” Rob says. And it shows.

Since moving from Czechoslovakia (the Slovakia part) in the late 70s, Snopek has remained settled in Vancouver, but his love of vinyl has kept him constantly on the move. “I pretty much have to hunt all the time,” he admits. “I’ve traveled to Alberta, through the States, all over the place, trying to find records.”

Reciprocally, his customers come from as far away from San Fransisco to pick through his collection. Thanks to the web, word of his business has spread faster than his early Laundromat-ads could have done. In recent months, he has sold and shipped batches of over 5000 records to two separate buyers in the States, and still, his collection remains sophisticated and diverse.

It’s hard to find new sources to dig up good vinyl for the showroom, but for Rob, it’s a worthwhile endeavour. Before Rob’s records ever roped in any real revenue, he worked as a GIS Technologist, performing digital mapping in real-time environments. These days, Rob only needs to find the occasional mapping contract to keep him afloat: selling records brings in 90% of his income.

“A lot of people have tons of records, just sitting in their basements, and they just think they’re junk,” Rob laments. “I need to find those people.”

ELEVATOR MUSIC

The gentleman sharing my elevator was eyeing the two records I had tucked under my arms.

“Are those LPs?”

“Yup,” I replied. It was early 2008, and I was just returning from another successful visit to Snopek’s showroom. An Ella Fitzgerald/Oscar Pederson collaboration was my prize discovery, and the other was a Louie Armstrong live double-album.

“Neat,” said Elevator Man, trying to make conversation. “I have a big whole box of records down in storage.”

I wished I had a card to hand him, but all I had was Rob’s name and a story too long for an elevator ride. For all Elevator People of the future, dutifully hoarding un-spun stashes of records, and for those of us on the hunt for vinyl old and new, appointments to drop by Rob Snopek’s showroom can be made over email at robsnopek@shaw.ca.