Swan song for ?a local gem – A Wee Blether

Technology keeps spawning new gadgets and services to entertain, engage, connect, track and even anticipate us, making for interesting times. But along the way, progress must chew up and spit out the occasional victim, making our tech march bittersweet.

Progress is poised to leave behind a Baton Rouge icon. The Compact Disc Store, gentle entrepreneur Brad Pope’s 26-year labor of love, is scheduled to close in January, rendered obsolete by the ubiquitous digital download.

Unlike some other locally owned specialty record stores—like Aladdin’s Lamp, which specializes in vintage vinyl records—The Compact Disc Store has continued to compete with the big boys, offering a full array of new music, outlasting many chain stores along the way.

When it opened in 1984, The Compact Disc Store was on the frontier of technology, offering its eponymous plastic discs to a city just starting to wean itself off tapes and LPs. The store prospered, offering a generation of musical treasures in a decidedly un-corporate sanctuary. Incense-scented air and a music-loving staff welcomed customers to browse the stacks, while a groggy dog named Junior and a sleepy cat named Uncle Bud napped under foot.

Regulars spent countless hours flicking through hand-scrawled dividers, inching along the aisles on reflective, slow-motion treasure hunts.

Occasionally, a divider would be empty, which meant you appreciated when it wasn’t. Today’s downloaders never experience that want. Musical discoveries may not be as sweet these days because the quest for them is rarely as tangible, the hunt never as arduous or surprising.

Even big chains whose inventories dwarfed Pope’s never could match his selection of hard-to-find classical, jazz and Louisiana music. And none ever held a candle to his and his staff’s knowledge and enthusiasm. His staff of intuitive 20-somethings—whose lives revolved around music—guided us to discoveries, replaced now by cold algorithms buried deep within iTunes and Pandora.com, which point customers to potential purchases.

The Compact Disc Store was doomed the moment scientists began developing the MP3, which officially debuted in 1993. Vinyl enthusiasts staged a modest comeback, but it wasn’t enough. Not even the success of his business partner in the store—John Elstrott is now chairman of the board of Whole Foods Market—could stave off the inevitable.

Music downloads are just too cheap and easy to make record store visits necessary for most people. Pope still clings to the slim hope that some young entrepreneur with enough game and energy will buy him out, develop a viable niche and keep “the kids” employed.

For now, though, Pope has marked down everything in the store. Christmas shoppers will get to browse for one last season of gifts at bargain prices, get good guidance from employees who know and care about the music, discover some cool band on the store stereo, and once more savor the Nag Champa as it wafts into memory.

Then, one day next month, after the last customer saunters out, Pope will lock the door. The great American era of the local record store will have ended in Baton Rouge.