There is a distinction I want to make here at the top between two words that might seem interchangeable, but they’re not: There are records, and then there is vinyl. To me, and perhaps to you as well, there are “record stores” and then there are “stores that sell vinyl.”
Stores that sell vinyl are for those enticed by a colorful suitcase turntable. Record stores are for those of us with lists of sought-after records. A store that sells vinyl serves trends. A record store is for the passion and deep love of music.
Ghost of Eastside Records is a record store. Ghost of Eastside Records is a great record store, perhaps the last great one, and they are closing their doors.
There will still be a record store at 45 W. Southern Ave. in Tempe; Darren Skarecky, of Gilbert’s Grace Records has bought the business and will be making it the second Grace location as of July 1.
But Mike Pawlicki, the owner of Ghost of Eastside Records, is retiring. Since the time of Eastside Records from 1987 until 2010, and its rebirth as Ghost of Eastside Records just a few months later until today, the store has been a staple of the Tempe music scene. Pawlicki has certainly earned his retirement. He rarely takes days off, and if you ever visit the store, he’s there behind the counter, usually pricing a recently arrived stack of records. He loves to talk, and he and his store created a community of loyal customers.
What’s the draw of Ghost of Eastside Records?
“If you’re good with the people, they will keep coming in,” Pawlicki says.
Pawlicki started working in record stores in the early 1980s, eventually managing one of the original Zia Records spots before leaving to help open Eastside Records in 1987, alongside the managers of two other Zia locations. At the time, independent record stores were becoming cultural hubs, particularly for punk, indie rock, hip-hop and underground music scenes that existed outside of mainstream radio and retail. Ghost of Eastside carried that spirit forward long after much of the culture around records changed.
“We were always intentionally, without trying to be, pretty much out of step with everyone else,” Mike says.
That separation from trend-chasing became part of the store’s identity. Ghost of Eastside never transformed itself into a boutique built around vinyl nostalgia or collector culture. Pawlicki openly resisted many of the industry shifts that other stores embraced, especially the increasingly commercial evolution of Record Store Day.
“We came out of the punk rock underground, the hip-hop underground … a different aesthetic,” he says. “That shit has always meant something to me. I’ve always kept it kind of that way.”
For Pawlicki, the store was never about maximizing profit or chasing one-day hype events. It was about the people who showed up consistently.
“I’m looking for the people who come in here in August when I’m getting my ass kicked financially and buy stuff,” he says.
That commitment built something increasingly rare: a real community. “We knew everybody,” Pawlicki says. In the 1990s especially, Ghost of Eastside became more than a place to buy records. It became part of the infrastructure of the local music scene itself.
“On the weekends in the ’90s, Friday night particularly, kids from all the bands that were known back then were coming in, meeting in the store, then going out wherever they were going,” Pawlicki says. “It was a regular thing to stop in on a Friday night or Saturday night, meet your friends, then go off to whatever show you were going to.”
That atmosphere extended far beyond Arizona musicians. Over the years, the store became a stop for touring artists and legendary bands passing through town. Mike casually rattles off names that would make most record collectors stop breathing for a second: The White Stripes, Beastie Boys, Nirvana, Pavement, Ramones and even Paul McCartney.
The stories spill out in rapid succession. Members of the Ramones found a tribute album featuring a band dressed like them and jokingly asked whether it was meant as admiration or mockery. The White Stripes browsed while Mike played an obscure Detroit punk reissue over the speakers, and he looked up to see Jack and Meg, standing together, nodding along in unison while flipping through records. Pavement hung around the shop for hours before a chaotic show later that night that somehow ended with Pawlicki’s friends physically fighting the band onstage.
In all of his stories of these encounters, he always describes each of the legendary musicians who have passed through the store as “good guys” and “nice people,” which reveals a central truth about the store: Ghost of Eastside was deeply embedded in music culture. Touring musicians came in for the same reason everyone else did. The store had taste. It had a reputation. It had authenticity.
“And once it was known that we knew all that stuff, we kind of became a thing with the people who were deeply in that culture,” Pawlicki says.
Part of that reputation came from Pawlicki’s relentless commitment to finding records and treating people fairly. He spent years driving across the Valley to estate sales and collections, paying more than competitors because he believed relationships mattered more than squeezing every dollar out of a transaction.
“When people I knew forever were selling records, I was just gonna pay them really well,” he says. “They supported me for years.” Despite the store’s longevity and times of great success, he laughs at the idea of himself as a businessman. “I’m not a great capitalist,” he says.
I remember the first time Pawlicki greeted me by name. It felt strangely meaningful, the way it does when you realize a place has quietly become part of your life. When I mention this to him, he shrugs it off. “I genuinely enjoyed the people,” he says. If you took the time to shop at the store and talk to him about music, he eventually remembered you and what you like. It wasn’t uncommon for him to see a record he knew you might want and set it aside for you.
As the economics of independent record stores became increasingly difficult, Ghost of Eastside survived largely because of that connection, but even the community has limits against decades of changing consumer habits, rising costs, shrinking margins and an economy that has become steadily more difficult for small independent businesses.
“When they talk about the economy going bad on the news, it’s something we feel real quickly in a place like this,” Pawlicki says. Eventually, after years of grinding through increasingly difficult summers and slower business cycles, Pawlicki decided it was time. “It’s weird. It’s gonna be weird,” he says about closing the store. “I have never been able to not work.”
When I try to ask Pawlicki about what people will miss about Ghost of Eastside Records, he pushes back. “I don’t care about that,” he says with a laugh. “I don’t mean that in the mean way. That’s up to them, and I appreciate it. People have already been honestly too nice about it. I’m okay with myself, but that’s for them to decide. I have no idea. It’s not something I stop and think about. I’m just kind of doing what I do, and I don’t really think about it that much beyond that.”
Ghost of Eastside employee Marshall Wereski says the shop is “just the kind of place that makes people remember what they love about music, and everybody just shares.” She pauses for a moment, then continues, “I don’t know how to explain it. I mean, it’s like a community space. People come in here, and they might be from three different generations, but they start talking to each other all across the store. They didn’t know each other before they came into the storm, but now they do.”
When people talk about the loss of a music scene, they’re usually referring to a venue closing, and Arizona has certainly had its share of those. But without the record store, a truly great record store, none of us would fall in love with the music that draws us to those venues. There will continue to be a record shop in the space, but Pawlicki won’t be behind the counter. The walls and shelves will exist, but things will never be the same.
As Wereski put it to me: “I feel like people come in here because Mike owns the store and they love Mike.”
Pawlicki’s retirement and the end of Ghost of Eastside Records is a loss to the music scene because it’s not just a record store, but a great record store. His presence behind the counter and the stories he told will be missed dearly.
Ryan Novak
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