People ask me all the time how Spank Records is still open. Usually they phrase it more politely than that, but the subtext is clear: how is a physical record store surviving in 2026?

The honest answer is that it’s not one thing. It’s about fifty small things done consistently for twenty-two years, most of which aren’t particularly glamorous.

The Rent Conversation

Let’s start with the thing nobody wants to talk about. Rent in Melbourne’s inner north has roughly tripled since I opened in 2004. Every lease negotiation is a reality check. Every year, the gap between what my landlord thinks the space is worth and what a record store can actually generate from it gets a little wider.

I’ve survived because I’ve had two landlords in twenty-two years and both of them have been reasonable. Not generous - reasonable. They understand that a long-term tenant who pays on time is worth more than cycling through pop-up shops every six months. That’s luck as much as anything else.

Other small retail operators I know haven’t been as fortunate. A mate who runs a secondhand bookshop in Northcote just lost his lease. Twenty years of building a community, gone because someone wanted to put a bubble tea shop in his spot. That’s the reality of bricks-and-mortar retail in Australian cities right now.

What Actually Keeps the Lights On

Records are the core business, obviously. But the margins on new vinyl are tight. Distributors take their cut, freight costs have gone up, and there’s a ceiling on what customers will pay. The real margin is in used records, and that’s where curation matters most.

I buy collections. Someone’s dad passes away, someone moves overseas, someone just decides they’re done with vinyl. I look through the collection, make a fair offer, and then spend hours grading, cleaning, and pricing each record individually. It’s labour-intensive work, but the margin on a used record I bought for $3 and sell for $25 is significantly better than a new release where my cut is maybe $8 on a $45 record.

The other thing that keeps us going is events. In-store performances, listening parties, launch nights. These don’t make money directly, but they bring people through the door. Someone comes in for a free live set on a Saturday afternoon, browses the racks while they’re waiting, and walks out with three records they didn’t know they wanted. That’s the bricks-and-mortar advantage that online will never replicate.

The Community Thing Isn’t Just Marketing

Every small business talks about community. Most of them mean it as a marketing strategy. For a record store, community is the actual business model.

My regulars aren’t customers in the traditional sense. They’re people I’ve known for years. I know what they collect, what they’re hunting for, what they’d like if they heard it. When something comes in that I know suits someone specific, I put it aside and send them a text. That’s not scalable and it’s not efficient. It’s also why they keep coming back instead of buying from Amazon.

I talk to other small business owners about this constantly. We’re all dealing with the same fundamental challenge: competing with convenience. A bloke I know who runs Coastal Cleanings up on the Sunshine Coast said something that stuck with me. He said the businesses that last aren’t the cheapest or the most efficient. They’re the ones where the owner actually gives a damn about the people walking through the door, or in his case, the homes he’s looking after. Same principle, completely different industry.

The Adaptation Nobody Sees

People think record stores are frozen in time. We’re not. The business I run in 2026 is fundamentally different from the one I opened in 2004, even though it looks roughly the same from the outside.

I sell online now. Not aggressively, but enough that it accounts for maybe 20% of revenue. Discogs, my own site, Instagram DMs from interstate collectors. That revenue stream didn’t exist when I started.

I’ve changed what I stock based on how the customer base has shifted. When I opened, it was mostly blokes in their thirties buying rock records. Now it’s a much broader mix. More women, younger buyers, more diverse taste. My hip-hop and electronic sections are three times the size they were ten years ago because that’s what people want.

I’ve also learned when to say no. I don’t do merch beyond a few t-shirts. I don’t sell turntables anymore because the margin was terrible and the warranty claims were a nightmare. I don’t stock CDs. Every time I’ve tried to be everything to everyone, it’s diluted what makes the shop worth visiting.

The Honest Summary

Running a small physical shop in 2026 is harder than it’s ever been. Rent, freight, digital competition, cost of living pressure on customers. All of it’s real.

But the shops that survive are the ones that understand what they actually are. We’re not retail outlets. We’re cultural spaces that happen to sell things. The transaction is almost secondary to the experience.

Twenty-two years in, I still open the shop every morning and put a record on. Still get a kick out of watching someone discover a band they’ve never heard of. Still believe that a room full of vinyl, curated by someone who cares, is worth preserving.

That’s not a business strategy. It’s just what I do.