Exploring the neighborhood’s record-shop history

Roughly 40 years ago, Bruce Bonifaci was living on Capitol Hill and commuting via ferry to downtown Bremerton, where he owned Penny Lane Records & Tapes, when he spotted a ‘For Lease’ sign at 618 Broadway E and decided to open a Penny Lane store closer to home. Opened in the summer of 1984, the store was later renamed Orpheum Records in “tribute to the demolished theater and an allusion to Orpheus, the legendary musician in Greek mythology,” Bonifaci explained. “I ran the place, and my wife, Barbara Baker, did the office stuff, including the books. We employed her brother, Ashley, as a manager.”

For nearly 20 years, Orpheum Records served shifting musical tastes—from 1980s new wave to 1990s grunge—and hosted countless in-store performances and record signings.

Nirvana’s Kurt Cobain shopped at Orpheum Records. “Every rock star would at least stop through, but Cobain was a regular,” one former employee told Seattle Weekly. “He would come up and be like, ‘What’s new, man? What can you show me?’ At the time, that was like absolute, utter heaven. I was like, ‘You’re asking me?’” In 1992, Cobain and his wife, Courtney Love, stopped by the store, with Love incensed by all the Nirvana bootlegs for sale. She left a terse note for Orpheum employees: “I need for you not to make extra money off my husband so I can feed my children. Mrs. Cobain.” Cobain scrawled his own message: “Macaroni and cheese for all. Love, Kurdt Kobain.”

“I was at home when the counterperson called asking for my permission to simply give Courtney the Nirvana bootlegs,” Bonifaci explained when asked about that note. “People who claim their issue with bootlegs is the financial harm inflicted on artists are off base. Buyers are the very definition of fanatics, typically already owning every last bit of the available licensed material out there. Maybe Kurt agreed, scribbling [his] postscript at the bottom.”

Bonifaci added, “The funny part was that he was in there searching for a particular Negativland album the label had officially recalled due to some legal kerfuffle—in other words, contraband. And, no, we didn’t have any on hand.”

Orpheum Records closed in 2003. Today, the restaurant Lionhead occupies the space.

Bonifaci and former employees Peter Greyy and Jack Dourakos shared their Orpheum Records experiences for this final installment of my series on the neighborhood’s late/great record shops, which has included Bomb Shelter Records, Broadway Record Centre, Fallout Records & Skateboards, Mt. Olympus Imports, Rubato Record & Espresso, and The Record Library.

Bruce Bonifaci Orpheum Records Owner (1984 to 2003)

“Our share of celebrities visited the store. It was always a thrill for the staff.” Having Cornish College kitty-corner from us certainly influenced our inventory, and the students proved a great resource in terms of staffing. Broadway was bustling at the time—lots of vitality—and we got great support from the immediate neighborhood. People elsewhere did know of the store, a vivid example being the groups of tourists from Japan who used to show up, displaying the guidebooks that led them to us. I will refrain from name-dropping, but our share of celebrities visited the store. Some were casual, like a musician on tour; others [came in] more regularly. It was always a thrill for the staff, and often the reason they liked working there. It’s difficult to pick favorite [musicians or bands] who played [in-store], but I vividly remember Chris Whitley and Tanya Donelly. Among the record signings, I remember The Replacements and Belly as being particularly insane, with lines down the block.

“Running a [record shop] is no fount of glamor. There’s a share of tedium.” [Owning a record store] ain’t all beer and Skittles—fictional accounts leave the dull stuff out. Running a business is no fount of glamor or nexus of excitement. There’s a share of tedium. We tried to hire knowledgeable music enthusiasts who could cater to our diverse clientele. Rather than drawing from any strict demographic, the aim was to attract customers of all stripes.

“Can you say Napster?” [Orpheum Records closed in the] summer of 2003 due to a deteriorating business climate—Broadway was rapidly changing complexion—and adverse cultural trends. Can you say Napster? It was time to get out. Casting off anything you’ve invested yourself in is tough, but you just consider it the end of a chapter.

“As much as I enjoyed owning Orpheum Records, it’s ancient history now.” Once in a while, I’ll cross paths with people who knew me in the context of the record business. It’s kind of disorienting, but it’s always nice to do a bit of catching up. I’m not a nostalgic type. As much as I enjoyed particular aspects of owning Orpheum Records—the interaction with staff and customers being the main thing—it’s ancient history now.

Jack Dourakos Orpheum Records Employee (1997 to 1999)

“I wouldn’t leave the interview without the job. ” In 1996, I was living on Capitol Hill and needed a job. There were so many record stores back then, but Orpheum Records was my favorite. It was a cultural center. It was open until midnight. I just kept giving them my résumé. In May or June of 1997, Bruce Bonifaci interviewed me. I remember thinking I wouldn’t leave the interview without the job. He gave me a questionnaire of 20 artists and asked me to tell him one thing about each artist. He wanted to see how knowledgeable I was about music, learn more about my personality, and see if I would fit in with the Orpheum crew. In my mind, Bruce looked like the music teacher on The Simpsons. I worked weekends, and he understood if I needed to take a Friday off so my band, Severna Park, could play a show. He wanted musicians who were part of the scene working at Orpheum.

“It was like being 10 years old and working at Toys ‘R’ Us.” One of my co-workers would rip the wrappers off new CDs and say, “Let’s hear what this sounds like.” I said, “We can just open new stuff and listen to it?” He told me, “We work at a record store. We can do whatever we want.” I felt like I was the luckiest person on Earth. It was like being 10 years old and working at Toys “R” Us.

“Stealing and flipping CDs was the easiest way to make heroin money.” We constantly stopped people from robbing the store—especially on Capitol Hill, where heroin was such an epidemic. Stealing and flipping CDs was the easiest way to make heroin money. Half our job was keeping our eyes on people stuffing their pants and coats with CDs. Someone wearing a coat in the middle of summer would walk into the store and down the aisles. We would lock the front door, which I don’t know if that was legal for us to do. They would try to run for it but couldn’t get out of the store. Then we would call the cops.

“While the CD played, I acted like I was stocking the shelves.”

One day, Sub Pop co-founder Bruce Pavitt walked into Orpheum Records. I moved to Seattle because of Sub Pop. I didn’t want to push Severna Park’s CD on him, so I asked my co-worker to put it on the store’s stereo. While the CD played, I acted like I was stocking the shelves. Eventually, Bruce went up to the counter and asked, “Who is this?” My co-worker at the counter said, “It’s a local band, Severna Park.” He ended up buying the CD. That made my day. [NOTE: Pavitt responded via e-mail: “Ha-ha. I don’t recall, but I was a regular customer…I’d go with it!”]

“That box [of CDs] is an insult.” Some people at Orpheum Records were snobby about music. A tall, skinny guy named Paul had started working at Orpheum before me. I was so intimidated by him. His opinions on music were just—he liked what he liked, and if he didn’t like it, he wasn’t having it. There was a box full of free CDs for employees in the back of the store. But the music was garbage. Nobody wanted it. Paul would say, “That box is an insult. I don’t even want to talk about it.”

“Orpheum was an epicenter for [dance] music.” Orpheum Records’ dance music section made the store stand out among other record stores. That whole upstairs section was hip-hop and dance music. Because Capitol Hill was a gay neighborhood and its club scene was so vibrant, Orpheum was an epicenter for that music.

“Working at Orpheum Records was the best job I ever had.” Talking about it now, I realize all my memories of living in Seattle and working at Orpheum Records are mostly emotional. They’re more about how I felt. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my life. Working at Orpheum was the best job I ever had.

Peter Greyy Orpheum Records Employee (1992 to 2002)

“I was extremely lucky to get the job. Everyone wanted to work there.” I moved to Seattle in 1992, as a bunch of us from Eau Claire, Wisconsin, caravanned out here. None of us had jobs lined up or any place to stay. As a nightclub DJ, I figured I could find work the quickest and help everyone while they tried to find work in their chosen careers. We all had to take jobs outside of our chosen career paths, and ironically, I was the last person in our group to find a job. That job, for which I needed to pass a very difficult music knowledge test, was as a clerk at Orpheum Records. I was extremely lucky to get the job. Everyone wanted to work there.

“I saw how the music industry sausage was made.” For the better part of a year or so, I mostly worked nights and weekends and got the fullest blast of 1990s Broadway possible. Consider the eyes of this small-town Midwesterner opened delightfully. I was promoted to “tracking/reporting/receiving manager”—a great job, a great place to work, and a great time to do so. I saw how the music industry sausage was made.

“I certainly have many fond memories of working at Orpheum Records.” The writing was on the wall for mom-and-pop, brick-and-mortar retail. Margins were too thin, demand was dipping from peak years, and most people abandoned physical media for the convenience of MP3 files and, later on, streaming. I certainly have many fond memories of working at Orpheum Records.

Capitol Hill resident Todd Matthews is a writer, editor, and journalist whose work has appeared in more than two dozen publications in print and online over the past 25 years.

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