This is Sergey, Montreal's most elusive record seller

This story originally appeared in URBANIA, an online magazine based in Quebec focused on pop culture and society.

Every collector community shelters its own elusive legends—those shadowy figures who dwell within labyrinths of artifacts, drifting through the dust in thrall to their all-consuming passion.

The world of vinyl records is no exception. It, too, harbours its share of the enchanted: treasure hunters driven to chase down every last destination like a final Klondike, propelled by a singular obsession to unearth the rare groove or the impossible bargain. The line between compulsive hoarding and golden find is often razor-thin. And at the heart of this sprawling empire of the uncanny stands Sergey’s place: a babel-like outpost, halfway between an attic and a diamond mine.

DJ Jerome Kobal sums up this word-of-mouth Montreal shrine with typical flair: “When you go to his place, it’s far and it’s a fucking mess, but you always come back with something in your hands.”

"It’s far and it’s a fucking mess, but you always come back with something in your hands."

A friend first took me there maybe ten years ago. I remember digging up some pretty lousy British industrial new wave, but the act of digging itself—sifting through endless titles—was one of the most intense experiences the city had to offer. I recall a heavy stack of records collapsing onto my head. Since then, I’ve gone back multiple times with different companions to share this too-well-kept secret. Sometimes the visits were wildly fruitful, sometimes disappointing—but our host remained nearly invisible, always busy sorting boxes in the shadows. I couldn’t shake the urge to know who was hiding behind all those tons of vinyl.

Because he operates on the fringe of the official shops network, rumours about him are everywhere. Some say he’s the gruff owner of a clandestine shop, with hidden warehouses or garages scattered across the Sud-Ouest. Others whisper about mysterious pallets arriving from Sweden. He’s allegedly dealing all kinds of contraband—military gear, vintage porn mags. He’s said to clean out houses and ship the contents to Russia, where the value multiplies. His English? Supposedly incomprehensible. His temperament? Unpredictable. His shop? Outlandish. All of that—or none of it.

Over the past week, I prepared for our meeting by reaching out to a few figures from the Montreal record scene: a compulsive picker, an after-hours DJ, a neat-freak collector, a record store owner, a beatmaker. They all know Sergey, the “Russian of Lachine.” In a world where knowledge is currency, every insider has paid him a visit. But how much do they really know about him? Nothing. A ghost in an upside-down mansion.

In the world of vinyl, most of the time, you have to be willing to get your hands dirty to find that unexpected gem.

Open by appointment only, the place keeps a low profile—no name, no signage, just a few sun-bleached sleeves in the window of a battered avenue worn down by modest poverty. The Stooges are blasting from the speakers as I slip past a gate jammed open by towers of half-busted boxes. At first glance, the chaos is intimidating, maybe even off-putting. But in the world of vinyl, most of the time, you have to be willing to get your hands dirty to find that unexpected gem.

At Sergey’s, you might have to climb over mountains of records, crawl through a labyrinth of blocked-off corridors, even dare descend into a basement where the smell hits like a punch and the only light comes from your phone. It’s a flipped mirror of the Apple Store minimalism. There’s little to no organization—conditions range from pristine to swampy. In short: a delicious playground for any serious music archaeologist.

There are said to be over 300,000 records, though the official number is impossible to pin down. You’ll find records stacked from floor to ceiling, but also DVDs, thousands of CDs, endless 7-inches, dead stock, comic books, audio cartridges, figurines.

“I’ve got a bit of everything. A collection nobody else around here offers,” the seller tells me right away.

I have to agree—during my short visit, I spotted Norwegian musique concrète, Moscow synth-pop, a Soviet pressing of Gambian music, a 7-inch of a Castro speech, Deep Purple bootlegs, even a 10-inch Folkways record of Appalachian dulcimer ballads performed by Jean Ritchie. A trashy amusement park for the seasoned music lover.

"I want the music to shine first. To share my enthusiasm."

As I flip through the records, I’m reminded of a former customer from my days working at a record store—a quiet guy named Ivan. A Russian sailor who worked on cruise ships and told me he’d fill his cabin with one-dollar vinyls, hoping to turn a tidy profit back home. Buying in bulk and reselling by the piece: a fairly common modus operandi.

Sergey, though, turned it into a full-time career. “I buy in lots, for a lower price, and I resell at a low price. Buy cheap, sell cheap. I want the music to shine first. To share my enthusiasm. I refuse to raise my prices just to make a bigger profit margin,” says the man who’s owned the place since 2008, flipping obscure American rap promos.

I ask him why he settled in Lachine. “It’s where I landed. That’s all. I like the area—it’s close to the water.” His answers are fragmentary, succinct, in a scrappy kind of Shakespearean English. But to make sense of the present, you have to blow off a bit of dust.

Sergey Etingin was born in 1961 in the administrative district of Zelenograd, an enclave city in the Moscow Oblast, about thirty kilometres from the capital. His mother worked in a major manufacturing plant, while his father was employed in the radio electronics sector. Because of his father’s position, Sergey grew up in what was known as the Soviet Silicon Valley—a closed city until 1991. A “closed city,” in Soviet terminology, as Sergey explains to me, “was a town kept secret by the authorities, where access was restricted. Mostly inhabited by scientists working on confidential projects.”

It was in this science-fiction-like world that he managed, at the age of 13, to get his hands on his first vinyl records. “My first record was a live Steppenwolf album. Californian hard rock that was banned by the state at the time. That’s where it all started.”

“Everything was under the table, informal. The records came in secretly. I got arrested a few times. But I was young—so the police just confiscated my albums, only to go home and listen to them later that night.” Growing up under a communist regime was hard, he tells me in vivid English. “There were so many restrictions. I had to wait in line for hours just to get a handful of strawberries. Bananas were highly coveted. Pineapples—those were pure fantasy.”

“And then in 1994, with little money and no real connections, I left my homeland. With perestroika (the restructuring of the political economy of the Soviet Union during the late 1980s), the value of the ruble collapsed, and music was no longer a priority. People were getting rid of their old records to switch over to CDs. That was the end for me in Russia. I came here alone.”

And why Canada? “To find more freedom, more safety. And the climate is similar to my country,” he says, laughing. “When I arrived, I remember struggling to carry a big mattress up the stairs, and someone came over to help me. I was stunned. In Russia, things were so rough, everyone just looked out for themselves. Another culture shock was seeing furniture and objects left out on the sidewalk, ready for the trash. I had never seen that before—so I picked up everything I could.”

"Everyone has a little madness in them. Mine is records, and there’s no pill to cure it."

Indian raga takes over from Iggy Pop. A trade he started as a teenager and continued after crossing the ocean. He began buying entire collections—garage sales, bankrupt shops, including part of the inventory from Mars, a legendary den of grime known for its mad owner and massive porn stash. Sergey got hold of stock from shuttered distributors, radio stations—a whole cosmogony of hazy, varied sources.

“I don’t have a personal collection. Anything that’s interesting, I’m interested in. I listen to everything, but these days it’s mostly jazz, classical, and old rock.”

And the military gear—any truth to that? “It’s mostly coats, army surplus, or fur,” he says. “But first and foremost, I’m a seller and a music lover.”

And Sweden? “Of course!” he replies, visibly pleased. “I’ve been there about fifteen times. Stockholm is a beautiful city. I love to travel. Before the pandemic, I’d go to the U.S. regularly. An amazing country. I love their museums and their food. I’d always come back with huge batches of records.”

So the rumours aren’t that far off—but his genuine warmth makes the gossip feel overblown.

During the pandemic, like many others in the industry, Sergey shifted his focus online—with some success, according to him. “But I prefer when people come to my store, chaotic as it may be. It’s a better experience. Sometimes it’s hard, because I’m a bit hidden and far from downtown, but I always give discounts to my regulars.”

Despite having dealt in hundreds of thousands of records, retirement doesn’t seem to be on Sergey’s radar.

“I’ll keep going as long as my back holds up. Discovering new music every day makes me feel young. Everyone has a little madness in them. Mine is records, and there’s no pill to cure it. I just hope people see me as an honest merchant, someone who wants to make his customers happy.”

I leave with a few titles on my bill, including a Japanese pressing of Can’s second album in excellent condition—an extraordinary find at a price I couldn’t pass up. As I step out of his time-warped lair, Sergey is already tucked away again, deep in conversation with a fellow countryman. A new batch of cassettes is set to arrive soon.

With this kind of passion, business never stops.

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