The music industry greedily continues its shameless promotion of the almighty compact disc. Consumers continue to be inundated with images aimed at encouraging our expensive, technological travel on the super-highway toward better sound. But not everyone has acquiesced to the thrilling convenience of the multi-disc CD changer. In fact, some of the champions for vinyl often congregate in a non-descript building in the heart of downtown Burlington.

Flex Records, in a cubbyhole store at 161 Main Street, has kept the turntables spinning at a time when the LP has virtually disappeared from music-store racks. While they’re not exactly saving vinyl single-handedly — some small alternative labels still favor the seven-inch single — they’ve managed to turn on a new generation: the Skateboard Nation.

They flock to the store, mostly young males with boards in hand, bobbing hat-covered heads to the thundering rhythms of reggae, dancehall, techno or house. In just 18 months, Flex has become a crucial gateway to the area’s underground music scene — and a headquarters for its deejays. Co-owner Eric Heise, 28, stretches back in his chair, tosses an improbably long, white-guy dreadlock behind his ear and muses that, someday maybe, the store might stock CDs along with its typical cache of 16,000 seven-inchers and 2500 LPs. His partner, 22-year-old Rhett Punt, isn’t so sure. “I’m totally opposed to the whole CD situation,” he says, shaking his head. “Vinyl still has the best sound.”

What started with a $300 investment and a small collection of the latest reggae releases back in March 1994 has exploded into a $5000-a-month business. Heise, who plays bass for The Queen City All Stars, originally wanted to distribute Jamaican reggae singles, and started a small mail order business. When it outgrew their shared apartment, Heise and Punt rented the tiny, narrow room that is now lined with albums, T-shirts, posters and other paraphernalia — including the obligatory horseshoe.

The lucky shoe may or may not get credit, but in its short lifespan Flex has become the nation’s largest direct-mail company for singles. And it hasn’t stopped there.

“In New York they’ve got some huge vinyl shops, and we can’t even compare,” says Punt. “But here we’re the big fish in a little pond and we give people what they need.” Releases come from around the globe to make Flex the area’s number-one store for lovers of the hypnotic sounds known as dancehall, techno, disco, tribal, house, jungle, acid house and acid jazz.

Some of the faithful are teenagers, but, Punt points out, “It’s mostly guys in their early 20s. They’ve got the cash to support “the habit.” That habit is the addiction of a performance artist known as the disc jockey. But the self-absorbed deejay who laughs raucously at his own jokes over the rush-hour airwaves couldn’t be further from the description of Burlington’s local spinners. One of the most popular club deejays — he spins at Pearls — is 24-year-old Craig Mitchell. He doesn’t need a microphone to get a crowd going — it’s all in the mix. Onstage he’s as much a performer as a live band.

“If they see me having a good time, they’re more likely to get sucked into my sound and let themselves loose,” Mitchell says. “It is very much an artistic process.”

The stacks at Flex also feed DJ EK’s creative juices. Originally from Bangkok, Thailand, EK was caught up in the breakdancing crowd at the age of 14. From his moves on the dance floor to the pursuit of a business degree at St. Michael’s College, the 24-year-old deejay has learned the value of a good time. “I try to create the mood for an escape from everyday life,” he says.

DJ Chris “Patti” Pattison stands in front of Flex’s turntables like a potter at his wheel. His hands glide over the spinning disc as a sculptors might, forming a new sound with every back spin and scratch. Like many performers, deejays need the participation of an audience to fully realize their craft. While Mitchell is able to spin regularly in Burlington, many deejays are hired for the sporadic private parties known as raves.

Unfortunately most guys — spinning is pretty much a male affair — are left to practice on their sets at home. With the notable exception of Pearls, most local clubs focus more on live music than deejay nights. Despite fierce competition for limited gigs, deejays seem to be a mutually supportive subculture. “If more people get into it, either by hiring deejays or mixing at home with friends,” says DJ EK, “the more opportunity there will be for everyone. Experimentation and different sounds is what we’re after.”

And what about the money? The business can award superstar deejays up to $25,000 for a night’s work in New York. But at local raves that can feature up to 10 deejay in one room, the spinners are sometimes lucky to walk away with $50. Whether or not Vermont’s spinners are headed for fame and fortune, their passion is making its mark. Punt believes Flex’s imminent move into a larger space across the hall — and an even larger, broader selection of records — will ensure their continued success. Flex also serves as a sort of booking agent for local spinners. “Our phone number is a deejay hotline,” says Punt.

Does it mean Flex is party central? Maybe. But one thing’s sure: Vinyl isn’t going away. “If it all comes together,” promises Punt, “vinyl will be rooted so deep in the scene that it can never die.”

This article appears in October 11 • 1995.