He spent 25 years building his vinyl catalogue, then the L.A. fires reduced it to ashes

LOS ANGELES — Scott Dudelson, 45, peers out over the shelves of Santa Monica vinyl shop Record Surplus. First opening its doors in 1985, its been his home away from home since childhood. While other kids were popping CDs into their center consoles, Dudelson thumbed through bins of one-dollar records. It was a luxury he could afford, given that the going rate for the then-new, compact technology was anywhere from “$12 to $18” per disc in the late ’90s — a far cry from what he had stuffed away in his pockets.

There’s a lingering despondence in his expression. Perhaps it’s because just a week earlier, on Jan. 7, he watched hellfire climb over the Palisades hills, eventually trickling into his community. It would reduce his home to ash along with his vinyl record collection, tallied at roughly 8,000 albums and built over 25 years.

“Before the fire was even reported, I walked outside and I smelled the fire,” Dudelson says, recollecting details over the phone, with his girlfriend by his side to corroborate the account. “10 minutes later, I just saw the smoke rising over my hills, right over my community. And I knew at that point, that this was really, really bad.”

Indeed it was. The fires went on to destroy nearly 3,000 homes across Palisades and Malibu. Just 20 miles away, Altadena was hit with a similarly disastrous fate, where wildfires consumed well over 9,000 structures since the blaze began.

But Dudelson remained composed in the moment, as he and six other residents were “toying with the idea of staying.” After all, just three weeks ago a house he’d been building — and planned to move his collection into — near Pepperdine in Malibu survived a series of fires. He’d lost around 1,000 records during that incident, as wildfire smoke, like mold, taints the thick paper board album covers, rendering them toxic over prolonged periods of exposure.

He’d also spoken with some of his peers who had saved their homes during 2018’s Woolsey Fire (his own survived with little damage, and 500 records were lost). He was naught to know that the Palisades and Eaton fires would go on to burn more than double the urban acreage that Woolsey had.

“I thought, if you’re smart about it, you could do it,” he added.

It didn’t take long for reality to set in: “I realized I’m not a firefighter and it’s time for me to go … so I left, I went across the street on PCH, and I watched my community burn.”

He ended up evacuating with the help of his ex-wife, Melissa, who’d ironically just helped him move his collection (a total of 55 boxes) out of her Latigo Canyon home due to renovations. She’d let him keep them there whilst his own future home down the road from Pepperdine was undergoing renovations of its own. He’d thought it was a good move as the canyons of Malibu were especially susceptible to burns: “Fire is part of the lifestyle,” he noted, having lived in the area for 20 years.

A video recorded earlier that day by Dudelson shows him panning across a room filled to the brim with records: “God-willing, all this stuff survives,” he says calmly while navigating the maze of boxes. “I feel hopeful. My house didn’t burn last time and it’s going to survive this time.”

The sobering reality of what had happened would only hit the next day when he glanced upon what was left of his home during a CBS News broadcast.

Together, he and his ex-wife saved six boxes, or a total of about 450 records. Thankfully, his previous experiences with wildfires left him well-prepared, labeling some boxes to rescue in advance based on anything from sentimentality to value to a gut feeling that it was worth hauling off.

“I set out two of my favorite albums of all time: Neil Young’s ‘Everybody Knows This is Nowhere’ and ‘On the Beach,’” he said. “These are not expensive records — I could go to any store and probably find a nice, clean copy for five, 15, 20 bucks.”

Others, like “The Psychedelic Sounds of The 13th Floor Elevators,” his Nick Drake albums, Elvis’ self-titled debut, a sealed “The White Album” from 1968, and Big Star’s “#1 Record” ended up in those boxes because they are worth hundreds to thousands of dollars each. But there is still plenty that he lost.

“I lost all my Smiths records, the mintiest, shrink-wrapped, original version of Slayer, ‘Reign in Blood,’” he recalled mournfully. “I mean, I lost everything. You name it … it’s all gone.”

Above all, Dudelson and the vinyl record community are music lovers who have a deep appreciation for the “unsung heroes” of the industry. He described the entire affair as “emblematic” of L.A.’s persistence to exist in the face of the Earth’s attempt to set it adrift.

“I’m never going to rebuild what I had, but I’m OK with that,” he says. “I had great memories with them. I learned so much about music. I read so many liner notes.”

“But I’m also a music junkie,” he confesses. “I’m never gonna stop buying music. I’m never gonna stop listening to music. I’m never gonna stop playing records all day.”