2449 N. Lincoln Ave.

I never really fit in—at least on the surface. It was the clothes. Never partial to the neon colored hair, piercings and crudely-ripped clothes of first-wave punk, I looked quite the outsider with my feathered hair, aviator wire-rim glasses and waffle-stomper hiking boots.

I screamed mainstream. No. Worse. Suburban mainstream. But those were just clothes. The inner (and more-important, to my way of thinking) connection to the music was as absolute as an ARC weld.

In fifteen short years my favorite music had gone full circle—f rom rhythm and blues-inspired two and-a-half minute singles through the excesses (not all of them bad) of the acid and art rock era back to concise, highly danceable singles.

And when the record reviews in Trouser Press lit an inner fire that demanded their purchase, the place to get them was a two-flat on Lincoln Avenue with a white, glazed brick facade. That was where Wax Trax! lived, and where a five-year battle over my discretionary income would ensue.

Clearly under the influence, I bought freely. Some might even say lavishly. Rent? Car repairs? Food? Meh. They could wait. How were such mundanities supposed to compete with the new Jam single? Or that 7” Clash EP? Or an import copy of A Kiss in the Dreamhouse, its cover art a million-times more radiant than any domestic printing plant could manage?

Those were important.

And so it went in my youthful, inverted world.

As my appearance shifted ever so slightly (I lost the feathered hair and replaced my Yes and Led Zeppelin concert tees with ones from the Psychedelic Furs) and my visits bordered on weekly, I gained an ever-so-slight amount of cred from the Wax Trax! clerks. They pointed me towards Magazine and A Certain Ratio and the Fall.

And despite my lack of enthusiasm for the sartorial considerations of punk and new wave, it should be noted that when on multi-store shopping trips, other record store's purchases somehow always ended-up within my Wax Trax! bag. Go figure.

Self-conscious artifice? Fashion? I leave it to you, dear reader.

But change is the only constant, and spurred by Wax Trax's high-profile success, they soon had multiple competitors. And, it shames me to admit, most of them were easier to get to. And park at. And whether it was cash flow problems or managerial ones or the success of the in-house record label, the up-to-the-minute inventory began to lag.

The import 45 fixture with yellow dividers painstakingly hand-lettered with red and black felt-tip pens became dog-eared and neglected. Things were changing. Most-tellingly, guys who looked like me sat behind the counter.

Wax Trax's moment had passed.

But like so many groundbreaking things, its impact isn't measured in duration. It's measured in, well, impact. And Wax Trax! left a giant footprint on Chicago's music community.

Sadly, I found out too late about Julia Nash's online petition to have the store front at Lincoln and Montana designated as a local landmark. 

Here's hoping.