On October 1, author Joshua Greenbaum releases his book, Exiled From Main Street via Selva Road Books. Preorder it here or ask for it at your local independent book seller.

In the twilight of the 1990s, Historic Ellicott City, Maryland, was a town defined by its historic past and unpredictable floods. It was also home to The Sound Exchange, a tiny record shop on Main Street that served as an underground punk and indie haven. Born out of a desperate search for belonging, the store quickly grew into an oddball ecosystem where punk kids, antique dealers, burnout locals, and lost souls all collided.

Exiled From Main Street follows local resident Josh from a displaced youth searching for refuge to the center of a volatile, tight-knit counterculture. Through late-night conversations, in-store shows, and a string of precarious decisions, he fought to keep the business alive while navigating a complicated personal life and an unpredictable internal landscape that constantly threatened to pull him under. It is a deeply personal look at the heavy weight of independence, and the high cost of chasing a dream when your own vulnerabilities and the world around you are fighting back.

Scored to a precise, pre-Y2K soundtrack, this is a raw, honest chronicle of community, identity, and resilience in a fleeting era of music history. It explores the overlooked corners of America where misfits build families of their own, documenting the difficult, necessary evolution that happens when the music finally stops.

Today, Ghettoblaster offers an excerpt of the book, which you can read below.

We sat in silence for the entire duration of the smoke. Even at the heaviest point in my smoking habit, I would never smoke the cigarette down to the filter. After a certain point, it didn’t taste good anyway.

However, this time, as Aaron and I sat there while the cars blurred past on Main Street, carrying people to places, my cigarette was not extinguished until I had inhaled every single trace of tobacco left, right down to the cardboard tip.

As I flicked my cigarette across the street, both my and Aaron’s eyes followed the butt’s arc as it flew across Main Street, landing on a pile of long extinguished ones at the base of the 5-foot-high stone wall on the side of the street opposite us.

“Alright,” I said, quiet calm in my voice. “Let’s get this over with.” We stood, brushed ourselves off, and turned toward the apartment building—but not to the blue door with the steep stairwell to upstairs. Instead, we faced the one beside it: faded blue panels, grimy glass, hours stenciled in peeling white letters. “Monday – Thursday: 11:00 to 7:00, Saturday: 11:00 to 9:00, Sunday: 11:00 to 5:00.”

I fished out my keys from my jeans pocket, fingers searching for the right one. When it finally slid into the lock, I paused, a deep breath filling my lungs, before turning the knob and opening the door, with the sound of a chain rattling on the opposite side. What lay before us was a disorderly mess.

Stubbed out cigarette butts and assorted trash lay all over the floor. The left wall was covered with shelves surrounded by partial remnants of posters advertising albums from various indie/punk bands. On the right wall were more torn posters and three white plastic strips leading from the back of the space to the front.

Two Fender amplifiers and various pieces of band equipment sat at the base of an elevated ledge at the back. The ledge bearing the weight of a pair of large wooden-paneled speakers was half buried in a pile of old zines. The front window looked out on Main Street, the ghost of vinyl letters still clinging to the glass. “Sound Exchange Records and Compact Discs.”

I turned to Aaron. “Why don’t you start with the shelves?” I suggested. “I’ll tackle some of the trash.”

Cover photo courtesy of Josh Greenbaum.