![]() It’s miraculous to me how long he kept it going,” says Trevor.īut Trevor was inspired by Shayne’s passion for the business, and the longer they talked, the more he wanted to help. Because of debt that had been carried over from before Val’s death, Shayne was limited in his ability to buy new stock which in turn led to a reduction in sales since there wasn’t much left in inventory. “This time last year, things were going really well, but then the first quarter was a ghost town, and it was looking really bleak.” Shayne explained that Val had somehow managed to scrape by every year, but he didn’t realize how bad things were until she passed away, and “he saw how the sausage was made.”Īs Trevor came and went with Jaxon and spent more and more time at the store, he and Shayne got to talking about the current challenges. Jaxon started working here, and we immediately developed a great rapport.”Īlthough Jaxon provided some much-needed assistance in the store, Shayne still faced the enormous task of keeping the business financially solvent. ![]() She casually mentioned to Shayne how working there would be Jaxon’s ideal job, and Shayne replied that he could really use some help. Shayne had been managing the store singlehandedly for a year when Jaxon came in to browse one day with his mother. So what’s the link that brought these two unlikely friends and business partners together? The answer is Jaxon Toppen, Trevor’s teenage son. Currently, he lives in River Forest with his wife and two sons and works as a turnaround consultant with Kugman Partners. ![]() Trevor studied accounting at Michigan State University and has owned several businesses. Like Shayne, Trevor grew up in Michigan, but their lives have followed very different paths. But another fateful meeting, this time with Trevor Toppen, altered his plans. It’s been almost twenty years since that day, and after struggling to keep Val’s halla Records afloat since Val Camilletti’s death in July 2018, Shayne feared the time had come to shutter the business. After moving to Chicago with the dream of owning his own record store, his life took a momentous turn when his banker heard his story and said, “You’ve got to go meet my friend Val.” It was serendipitous timing since two people gave their notice just as he was starting, and Shayne jumped right into full-time employment. He still recalls the Fisher Price cassette player he carried around when he was a toddler and the goofy version of “On Top of Old Smokey” that it played. A trip to the toilet means being watched by hundreds of sets of come-hither Elvis eyes – from album covers, PEZ candy dispensers, newspaper articles and posters.Growing up in Michigan, Shayne Blakeley loved music. He rushed over to a framed black-and-white photograph on a wall near the rear of the store, showing a beaming Vlasta playing a huge accordion.Īnd Blakeley has preserved perhaps the best-known feature of the store – a bathroom Elvis shrine that traveled with the store when it was relocated in 2006 from South Boulevard to its present home on Harrison Street. When a visitor found a copy of the “John Paul II Polka,” pulling the old 78 out of a brittle sleeve the color of tobacco leaf, he instantly recognized the artist – Vlasta and Her Altar Boys. He has a near encyclopedic knowledge of music, having worked with Camilletti for almost two decades. “Val’s heart, soul and personality is imbued in every square inch of this place – as it should be and always will be.”īlakeley might be selling himself short. “Val taught me everything she knows,” he said. “When I was a lost teenager with little other than music to keep me going, Val’s halla Records was a harbor in the storm. Val herself has been a cheerleader for me and thousands of other misfits and weirdos who found shelter in her store and in so doing found a place for themselves in the world,” Caitlin Strokosch, now CEO at the National Performance Network/Visual Artists Network, wrote on Facebook when Camilletti died. Blakeley understands that much of it is about “Auntie Val,” the woman with the cloud-like coif and giant personality to match. So earlier this month, Blakeley announced the closing of a store jammed full of used LPs, 78s, CDs, cassette tapes, eight-tracks – where people of a certain age go to dust off memories of a first love, a legendary hangover, a beat-up stick shift with hand-cranked windows.Įver since, people have been pouring in, calling Blakeley at home, wanting to know if it’s really true. ![]() The fat stack of white envelopes near Val’s halla Records’ cash register offers a hint of the decades of debt Blakeley has been trying to corral. In July 2018, Val Camilletti – the woman who 47 years ago opened the Oak Park record store Blakeley now manages – died.
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