Farewell to the record store?

On the floor in the office at the back of The Compact Disc Store lies a pillow and a cushion sized for a small child. There, most afternoons, 62-year-old owner Brad Pope takes a quiet nap while his younger, music-minded employees handle customers. Junior, his 13-year-old pointer-border collie mix, has been sleeping in there a lot more these days, too.

This may be one sign that it’s time for Pope to step aside. He says there are others— like shrinking revenue in the face of rising utilities charges and cost of living in general. Also, the likes of Best Buy, iTunes, and illegal downloading have eroded his customer base, all of which have convinced Pope it’s time to sell the independent music outlet he founded on Jefferson Highway in 1985 at the dawn of the compact disc craze.

“The store is kind of ossified right now, you know, old school,” he says. “It is still viable, but it needs someone with fresh ideas. I’m a Luddite. I just don’t have those.”

Christian Street Market owner John Burns bought his first CD at The Compact Disc store in the 1980s. He’s been a regular ever since Pope recommended Joe Sample’s Carmel and it became one of his favorites. From jazz to rock to the newest bands, Pope’s staff offers unfettered opinions and almost encyclopedic recall of musical minutia. In short, Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity pretty much nailed it. This artful expertise keeps Burns coming back.

“These guys are so knowledgeable about new music, which is perfect because I want to know about it, and I want to know if it’s really any good,” Burns says. “They give great feedback on what’s going on.”

One of Burns’ go-to guys is Taylor Sullivan, a lanky 32-year-old with a mountain-man beard and an easy smile. Sullivan has worked at the store since 1999, right before downloading became “an issue,” he says. Sullivan orders the inventory and stocks the shelves, and he never thought online buying would threaten the independent retailer. “Downloading is like buffet-style entertainment. You’re not getting the whole experience,” he says. “It’s almost like the element of chance is eliminated.”

Pope and Sullivan both relish discovery—the idea of walking into a music store not with a specific title in mind, but with the desire to immerse oneself in a culture, a scene, and to delve into new music that, if it’s not as familiar at first, will be just as rewarding if buyers trust the clerk’s advice and their own ears. “We let customers sample anything they want,” Pope says.

And they are right about choices and chance discoveries. The city hosts a few small mom-and-pop shops specializing in hip-hop, rap, or blues, but The Compact Disc Store is the last of its breed, a large independent alternative with something for everyone. From local music to world beat, and Abba to Zappa, it’s all there.

If Pope doesn’t find a buyer for his store, the physical experience of music hunting will be virtually gone from the city. Baton Rougeans will have nowhere to go but blogs for reliable advice and access to a vast wealth of music to which they would have not been otherwise exposed.

The store’s impressive stock grew with the popularity of CDs themselves. When Pope opened in 1985 he did so with only two boxes of inventory, and those were mostly jazz and classical discs, the first genres to take up the new technology. As the only outlet of its kind in the city, The Compact Disc Store was an instant success. By the early 1990s compact discs were outselling vinyl records and cassette tapes. Business was booming, and Pope looked like a prophet with impeccable timing.

But ironies mount when outside influences necessitate change. A few years ago Sullivan convinced Pope to order new vinyl releases, and surprisingly, they sold. For a shop founded on compact discs, it was a watershed decision. As fast as Pope boarded the CD express, he admits the online music market has left him behind. “The store needs an owner who is savvy about the Internet,” Pope says. “I don’t even use a home computer.”

Last year iTunes music sales outpaced CD receipts for the first time. Pope’s profit margins have held steady, but since the celebrity of iPods and the weaponization of Wal-Mart’s bulk purchasing power, his sales totals have been in slow decline.

But The Compact Disc Store has lasted longer than many. More than 3,000 record stores have closed nationwide in the past five years. Across the board recording industry profits are tanking. According to Rolling Stone, U.S. consumers in 2006 bought 200 million fewer albums than they did in 2000. Now with the economy in a funk, people are spending less on music and more on food and gasoline. Current revenues are about half what they were in the store’s 1990s heyday.

But Pope has formed a number of lasting friendships with regular customers, and he understands the important patch his store stitches into the city’s cultural quilt. He believes there must be a way forward, but he is getting older and wants to pursue other interests. If he drove by the store and the lights were off and all the bins were empty, he would regret it.

“The last thing I want to see is it close down, but for its own good I need to leave,” Pope says. “I know I’m not the guy to take it into the future, but somebody out there is.”

Pope pays $1,700 a month for the 2,500-square-foot space. The current lease is up in January, and a new owner is almost guaranteed a higher note. Economics aside, Sullivan and his co-workers are holding onto hope that someone will step in and buy it. They aren’t ready to go down without a fight.

“Other than personal reasons of being out of a job, I just think Baton Rouge needs this record store,” Sullivan says. “The first thing I want to do when visiting a new city is check out their local record store. I think a lot of people are like that.”

Though nearing retirement, Pope understands their frustrations, even if some of his employees resent his decision to sell. In the 1970s Pope worked at Discount Records and Leisure Landing on Chimes Street. He lives for this, and he sees a little bit of himself in each of his employees. “They need to stay, because they are this place,” he says as he watches a handful of customers browse the racks and a large cat curl up nearby. “And that’s Uncle Bud. He comes with the store.”