WaxPhil L.A. #14: Burbank’s Atomic Records, Sanford Clark’s Modern Romance

WPL.A. graphic by Vivian Martinez

Our city has a continuing history thick with vinyl love, now more than ever with record shops opening their doors instead of shuttering. Each week, Gubala breaks down a fresh new wax purchase, and writes about the record store as well, mapping it as part of L.A.’s history in the making.

When LA Weekly named Atomic Records the “Best Record Store for Actual Records” in 2011, I couldn’t help but secretly celebrate in their honor. They opened up shop in 1996 and managed to weather the great record store obsolescence at the turn of the century, keeping their doors open through the ravages of the early mp3 era. And with that article, Atomic had finally been acknowledged for its greatness. The cheerful Burbank storefront on Magnolia Boulevard boasts playful neon signage, and upon entering, the shopper is treated to an eyeful of wall to wall media. DVDs line the back wall, a library shelf of CDs bifurcates the shopping area, and the “actual records” of which the Weekly spoke are plentiful and compelling in their timeless nature. Jazz vinyl occupies as much space as rock n’ roll, organized neatly to the left of the CD shelf. Atomic subscribes to no scene, none of the frantic “hottest shit in town” competitiveness of some of L.A.’s younger record shops, and for that, it’s blissful.

As I entered Atomic this past Monday, I was quickly taken by the depth of the store itself. I had grown accustomed to the intimate size of stores like Mono, Vacation and Jacknife, where you shop under the gaze of whomever is manning the counter, for better or for worse. While I enjoy the camaraderie fostered in such situations, I was struck with an odd relief as I plunged into the Electronic/New Music section near the back of the store and felt truly alone with the records. I carefully flipped through each one, fondling Steve Halpern’s Zodiac Suite and a flamboyant record called Symphonic Slam. Pencil drawings of the cosmos and metaphysical icons adorned cover after tantalizing cover, and as I reached the end of the bin, I found myself at the beginning of their spectacular Rock section. Beach Boys and Beatles bins were densely packed, to be sure, but each section contained myriad oddball records with stunning pedigrees and compelling cover art. Dutch band Alquin and classic rockers American Flyer seemed logical sitting snugly alongside one another, as did KXLU band Moses Campbell and Sanford Clark, an understated folk singer who caught his big break when Lee Hazlewood, a Phoenix radio DJ, discovered him in 1956. Each of the bins seemed to contain a stunner or two–some relic of a Los Angeles past like the Neil Young-produced Elyse from Elyse Weinberg, or Bad Religion’s Recipe for Hate–and I found myself hypnotized by the odd familiarity of each of these strange records.

I had pulled a pile of about ten records that I forced myself to whittle down to four, pulling teeth deciding over which rabbit hole I’d choose. I passed on an ’83 Bobby Womack cut and a Frank Zappa project called Good God, but opted to take the aforementioned Sanford Clark record, as well as a simple and affably-priced reggae comp, a goofy Danny Cox double LP, and a peculiar pink selection from a band called Fabulous Poodles.
Sixteen photographs adorned the cover, each one a shot of a smiling face donning lense-less pink eyeglasses, and track titles included “Bionic Man” and “Anna Rexia.” It was completely bizarre and commanded my attention, so I made my way to the counter with my scores. The two record clerks behind the counter shared buying and selling powers, and as one clerk rang up my order, the other appraised another patron’s classical CD collection. He stole a glance at my selections and smiled when he spotted the Fabulous Poodles record. He had apparently caught them live at a California Rock Fest sometime in the early ’80s, and, per his information, they had been lost in the shadows behind bands like Def Leppard and Cheap Trick. I wasn’t sure what to expect, as there was no available listening station in the store, but something about the mystery, the gamble of it, is thrilling.

When I finally plopped each of my picks onto the turntable for evaluation, it was with bated breath. The Poodles proved fun yet inconsistent, interweaving a thin fiddle through their raucous power pop. Danny Cox was a bit of a letdown, as it was mostly his countrified Beatles covers and unnecessary melisma. The reggae comp was solid gold, finally providing me the gorgeous “Breakfast In Bed” by Lorna Bennett, but the Sanford Clark was absolutely breathtaking in its elegance. Clark’s vocals are restrained yet robust, masculine and patient. The simple guitar work is comfortable on the ear, telling of its 1950’s vintage, allowing Clark himself to intrigue his audience in the foreground. It’s clear that Lee Hazlewood drew much inspiration from Clark, and after two listens through all 20 tracks, I found myself hungry for more of his lyrical wisdom and summery melodies. I was the lucky one that afternoon at Atomic, snatching this gem out from under my fellow patrons’ noses, and I can only imagine what they scored in turn.

Atomic Records in Burbank is full of treasure and free from pretentiousness, and I hope they continue to stick around for a long, long time. Make the trip and get lost in their supreme selection.

Tuesday, June 26 2012