By SHAUN McGANN | “It’s the holiday season…and I’m really aggravated because Atomic just closed their doors forever…” Wait. That’s not how that one goes, is it?
I guess not, but that’s the song waiting for me when I get back to the car, though I’m certainly in no mood for any Andy Williams Christmastime drivel, not after unknowingly showing up an hour late for some holiday record shopping and instead finding the doors to one of the best mom and pop record shops on the Jersey Shore, or anywhere else for that matter, locked forever.
Apparently I need to start paying more attention to Facebook because when I get home I find the following farewell in my news feed: “Atomic will be shutting its doors for good on Sunday, 12/9/12 at 6PM. Thanks to all our customers and friends for an awesome 13 years. It’s been fun!”
There aren’t many places like Atomic around and now that it’s gone I’m disgusted with myself for taking it for granted. This place really had everything—yes, there was vinyl—it was the classic record shop stuffed with rows of frayed-edged stowaways looking for someone to take a $3 chance on them, as well as glistening new releases wrapped up in plastic just daring you to drop a needle on them. But beyond that, any open space in the store was crammed with paintings, jewelry, toys, sculptures, vintage clothes, books, old fanzines, furniture, Halloween masks and wigs, even soap. Pickle Soap. I know because I bought a bar, but was never brave enough to use it.
The point is, this wasn’t a store, that’s too sterile a word. Stores are gray, Atomic was hot pink. Just like the best places where you never knew what you were going to leave with. Last year around this time I went into to buy a few records as gifts and wound up leaving with three necklaces, a bracelet, a painting, a fan-book about Paul McCartney from the early ’80s, and a mint copy of the Scrooged Soundtrack on vinyl.
What made it special was that they weren’t just selling what was in the store, they genuinely cared about it. They hosted art shows, in-store performances, scavenger hunts, and drum circles. I never left without a flyer promoting upcoming local shows dropped in my bag. Now, pictures on Facebook show the final hours of business—empty shelves exposing the walls, a few shirts and jackets still dangling from clothes racks, a leftover painting or two, but otherwise the place looks like it has been looted.
So Atomic is gone, swallowed into the black hole of 2012. Aand the Jersey Shore just got a little less weird.
