We huddled outside the legendary building sharing our own Faust stories, waiting for a chance to revisit or discover the temple that is--or was--Faust Music.
The crowd was full of familiar faces: musicians, collectors and local historians, all hoping to leave with an artifact-- a little mildewy piece of the myth.
Distressed speakers, gongs and scuffed trombones flowed out of the door as they let a few more anxious buyers slip into the store.
We couldn't help but be a bit wistful seeing the doors of the vault be thrown open and pilfered. We were watching the end of a Kingdom.
Though Bill Faust was notoriously gruff, he was a force of nature and his store was an Institution. A Time Capsule. A crumbling fortress of ferociously protected trash and treasures.
As I snapped pictures and shuffled through the chaotic and exciting buffet of smelly gear, I wondered how Mr. Faust would feel about this: the trained and untrained, the young and inexperienced, the casual and the True Believers rubbing shoulders in his Museum.
It was sobering to say farewell to the peeling blue paint and signed photographs-- the ephemera of an incredible career. Instruments poured out into the streets, being taken to studios, garages, basements, storefronts and to the hands of kids all over the city--
Making way for a new generation of "Bullshit rock and roll".
We'll do our best, Mr. Faust.
Do you have a Faust story?