I miss Flying Out.

Kia ora. Seven weeks ago, my favourite record store closed. Below, a eulogy for something that felt like more than just another business. First, here are all the headlines you need to know…

• Dua Lipa? Underworld? Jungle? The Chemical Brothers? Again?!? Fake posters purporting to showcase the headliners for next year’s Electric Avenue music festival are spreading like wildfire. Director Callam Mitchell confirms none are real. “People love trying to predict who’ll be playing, and that’s a sign of how engaged our audience is,” he tells The Press. (I had my own stab at a prediction last week.) See those fake posters for yourself.

• Why are vinyl editions of major albums coming out on release day completely different to those available on streaming? The Guardian investigates why vinyl for Charli XCX’s music, fashion, film and Olivia Rodrigo’s you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love are riddled with errors, and finds extremely tight pressing plant deadlines are at fault.

• If last weekend’s Lollapalooza livestream wasn’t enough for you, then grab your TV remote immediately. San Francisco’s Outsidelands festival has two channels available on Prime Video including sets by Charli XCX, Turnstile, Wet Leg, The Strokes and more. When it’s bitterly cold outside, I can’t get enough of these US summer festival streams. Keep them coming please…

They were always up for a chat. Always. I didn’t once walk into that small space without spending at least 20 minutes scurrying down a musical rabbit hole with a staff member. Sometimes it was the paucity of Geese records. Other times it was the expansive back catalogue of the underground rap label Backwoodz. Once we tried to work out all the reasons why Robyn won’t visit Aotearoa on her current tour. They would always have an opinion and they would always be keen to share it. Basically, at the beloved, defunct record store Flying Out, they loved a good gossip.

I did too. By June I loved those chats so much I’d developed a very expensive habit. I’d browse through Flying Out’s updated and organised website, pick an album, then order it on vinyl. I’d choose to pick my order up, not to save money on delivery but so I could have more of those chats. During my lunch break each Friday, I’d walk down K’ Road to collect my order. Either Hunter or Matthew or Rosetta would be at the counter. It didn’t matter who. They all knew their shit and they all had incredible takes. More than once, I forgot to grab my record just so I could go back and have another chat.

I miss those chats so much. Seven weeks ago, the news came through. “Over the last few years, a pandemic, 3 festival cancellations, the effects of ongoing roadworks, the CRL construction and the continuing economic downturn has become an unpleasant, perfect storm,” they wrote. “This is the hardest thing we’ve ever had to write, but unfortunately it’s goodbye from Flying Out.” No one had said anything. There were no signs that Flying Out was on the brink. The website was being updated, pre-orders were coming through and my orders were being accepted. I was still getting the little thrill of those email notifications telling me to go pick up my records.

Since Covid, the concept of a “third space” has been on the rise. As this story on The Spinoff explains, it’s “the place you go that isn’t home and isn’t work”. Maybe it’s a library or a park or a gym or a beach. I have a few – a cafe I know and love, an indoor football team I’ve played in for years, a yoga studio to iron out the kinks in my spine. But Flying Out was the best third space. It wasn’t cheap. I don’t know how much of my small record collection came from Flying Out, but it was a lot. Each of those records came with a chat, or a story, or a yarn, and that made it worthwhile.

There are other record stores, of course. Flying Nun is just around the corner and has very good in-store live shows. Southbound has a huge back catalogue and knowledgeable staff. Real Groovy remains a stalwart. For some reason, I gravitated towards Flying Out, and I think I’ve worked out why. Sitting here on a Friday morning longing for one of those chats again, I realise it has nothing to do with the records. He tāngata, he tāngata, he tāngata. It’s the people. I hope that, wherever they’ve landed, they’re all doing OK.

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