For a teenager falling in love with indie rock, few things are more validating than approval from a record store clerk.
Growing up in the Washington, D.C. suburbs, I routinely dragged my mom to a shop called CD Cellar on the weekends. She would hover outside on the sidewalk or, more dangerously, by the door, while I nervously, albeit patiently, perused each bin, praying she didn’t clock the palpable mixture of weed and incense smoke permeating a thin, mysterious curtain separating the employee-only back room from the public retail space. I’d spend those interest-affirming journeys digging through the wax, fondling titles from artists I had studied on the blogs I devoured in the back of class: Girls, Guided By Voices, Caribou, Times New Viking. I distinctly recall the jolt of excitement that struck me every time I walked in. Scattered throughout the uptight, governmental Northern Virginia area, there were enough true heads lurking around to keep an outsider bastion in business.
On my first visit to CD Cellar, in the eighth grade, the person at the counter eyed my stack of records, which included material from Joy Division, Dinosaur Jr., and Animal Collective. A late bloomer at 13 with pudgy red cheeks and a five-foot-three stature, I surely resembled some degenerate elementary schooler who had raided an Urban Outfitters, which is probably why the employee said something along the lines of, “You must be more clued in than most kids your age.” In retrospect, his remark was clearly intended to butter me up to spend more, but regardless I bragged about that remark to my apathetic friends for months to come. Regardless of who gave a shit, that brief transaction had what it took to get me hooked on underground culture.
Across repeated sojourns to that dusty storefront, I got to know its staff in passing. They almost certainly would not remember me but left an impression that lasts to this day nonetheless. At some point, the cashier I interacted with on that fateful initial trip told me that he played in a band called Foul Swoops. He mentioned that they were opening for sooty San Francisco rockers Sic Alps at a bar in the city in a couple of weeks. As someone who had been obsessively acquainting myself with the Woodsist roster while many of my peers were playing team sports, I anxiously nodded, trying to disguise the fact that I was secretly a Sic Alps diehard. While I was clearly just a target for slow-moving tickets, it seemed like my entire last year of obsessing over music had been building up to that casual semi-invite: a 20-something finally deemed me worthy of local DIY show attendance.
The concert was ultimately canceled due to an unexpected hurricane, yet I still checked out Foul Swoops online. They were a scuzzy, agitated trio with grimy song names like “French Inhale” and “Colossal Sized Picassos.” Looking back, they’re an unjustly glossed-over standout from the late aughts garage boom. If they’d cut their teeth in the Bay Area instead of D.C., I have no doubt Foul Swoops would have enjoyed a level of recognition comparable to their West Coast counterparts such as Ty Segall, White Fence, and Thee Oh Sees.
Foul Swoops have only two releases on Bandcamp: a 2010 self-titled EP and a 2013 self-titled EP. They sit together seamlessly, but the former leaves me especially nostalgic. Across six tracks, yellowed guitar riffs burn atop tom-heavy drum grooves and warm, chugging basslines. One can practically hear the cigarette residue charing singer Sean Connell’s shouting, which could be ripped straight from a scuffed-up ‘60s 7-inch. It’s sweaty, nasty music, perfectly suited for the beer-soaked, immoral basement parties I spent my youth envisioning.
Googling Foul Swoops doesn’t turn up as much as I wish it did. Judging from a quiet presence on X, it seems as if they still occasionally saddle up for performances at divey DC spots. Not much ink has been spilled on them beyond a sprinkling of posts from mostly defunct regional magazines. However, the slim literature is glowing. DCist was a particularly loud champion of Foul Swoops, proclaiming them one of the Best Up and Coming Bands in D.C. and helping shine a light on their scrappy imprint Yeah Gates. Reading those press clips takes me back to the era when slipshod, homegrown blogs possessed the ability to place bands on a meaningful pedestal.
The malaise of adulthood is better anticipated than it is lived. In the eighth grade, I started a pugnacious experimental punk quartet with my four best friends and spent much of high school emailing promoters, label bosses, and editors from the back of the classroom. I hoped to find us a break, so we could skip continuing education to tour. Unsuccessful, I trekked off to a university in California, where I yearned to drop out and establish a creative identity away from film student ragers, although I ultimately finished my degree.
Now that I’m out of school, based in New York City, and gaining a bit of traction as a musician, I’m experiencing firsthand how stressful this life can actually be even when you are successful. The peaks are incredible: it’s amazing to DJ venues I frequent, get spotlighted on sites I grew up on, and share bills with artists I admire. But there are valleys I couldn’t have foreseen as a teenager.
Most accomplishments manifest as fulfilling one-offs rather than sustainable opportunities. The rent doesn’t pay itself, and, in a tough job market, I regularly juggle four disparate pursuits at any moment to scrape by in a merciless sprawl. Once I’ve found the chance to shut off my brain, though, I wouldn’t do anything else with my unencumbered prime.
One undeniably bright aspect of my constant grind is working at a record store. I landed the gig after reaching out to a connection who had opened a shop in Greenpoint; I needed to find a way to pick up some extra cash, and couldn’t fathom returning to the early mornings I happily put in the rearview when I left working as a barista. Even so, I couldn’t imagine how good it feels to sling albums I believe in to people in the real world, distinct from my work as a music writer. As I start a shift, I make a conscious effort to eschew the lackadaisical pretentiousness that all too often accompanies the vinyl-seller archetype. I owe a lot of my enthusiasm for the game to CD Cellar. That place showed me how invigorating it is to interface with knowledgeable human beings instead of algorithmic streaming recommendations.
One evening, as I was getting ready to close, a college freshman wandered in, elated to have stumbled upon a brick and mortar record shop. It was their first time in the city, and they told me that they were just getting into Radiohead and The Smiths. They asked if there were any other bands I thought they should be aware of. I suggested looking into Pavement and Cocteau Twins. I smiled to myself as they walked out; not much is better than paying it forward, putting enthusiastic newcomers onto potentially mind-expanding art. A decade and some changes down the line, I’m lucky to have found myself taking part in curating the type of space I worshiped as a kid.
Ted Davis is a writer, DJ, and overall music lover based in Brooklyn, New York. In addition to writing Bandcamp Daily’s monthly ambient column, he has contributed to Rolling Stone, NPR Music, Pitchfork, Stereogum, and elsewhere. He also produces esoteric house music under the moniker DJ STEPDAD. You can find him on X at @tddvsss.
