Rex Manning Day
Empire Records: A Power Chord in the Key of Adolescence
Shoutout to Spotify user zerOspace who curated this complete and accurate soundtrack to the film.
For Pete and Rosa
Empire Records is a defibrillator for anyone who’s ever felt trapped between the ticking time bomb of youth and the anesthetic malaise of adulthood. This movie bottled the hormones, the heartbreak, the existential yearning, and the sheer sonic chaos of being young and clueless. Watching it today feels like stepping into a warm, nostalgic mosh pit where the soundtrack always drowns out the static.
Plot? Sure, let’s talk about the plot. The flimsy premise of saving a local record store from a soulless corporate takeover is the scaffolding for something much bigger — an unfiltered love letter to a generation that knew their world was about to implode but decided to dance on the rubble anyway. Lucas (Rory Cochrane) kicking off the story by losing the store’s cash in a failed gambling spree is pure punk rock. It’s rebellion with a devil-may-care grin, a chaotic spark that ignites the rest of the film.
Empire Records isn’t about plot mechanics or tidy resolutions. It’s about a squad of misfits holding onto their sanctuary for dear life, and in doing so, they’re holding onto themselves. The cast is pitch-perfect, a lineup of archetypes that somehow manage to transcend their tropes. Liv Tyler’s Corey is a valedictorian cracking under pressure, her polished veneer crumbling as the day wears on. Renée Zellweger’s Gina is a live wire, burning bright with a confidence that masks her insecurities. A.J. (Johnny Whitworth, who should have been a household name what with that jawline and magnificent head of hair) is pining for Corey with the kind of romantic fervor that only makes sense when you’re 17 and still believe in the transformative power of a mixtape (discussed gloriously here).
Lucas, the Zen anarchist holding the center of the storm. Rory Cochrane plays him like some kind of Gen X shaman, spouting cryptic one-liners and daring the universe to strike him down. He’s the guy we all wanted to be — cool without trying, wise beyond his years, and unshakably loyal to his found family.
At its heart, Empire Records is a film about music. The soundtrack is its soul, a handpicked arsenal of tracks that bleed the frustration, euphoria, and reckless hope of adolescence. Gin Blossoms’ Til I Hear It From You is the jangly heartache of unspoken longing. The Cranberries’ How throbs with the quiet desperation of feeling too much, while Edwyn Collins’ A Girl Like You drips with the sly smirk of flirtation. These songs aren’t window dressing; they’re the emotional spine of the film, capturing what the dialogue can’t.
And then, naturally, Rex Manning. Oh, Rex Manning! Played with delicious self-parody by Maxwell Caulfield, Rex is the bloated corpse of rock stardom, a walking warning about what happens when authenticity is bartered for sequins and schmaltz. Say No More (Mon Amour) is as cheesy and hollow as its singer, but that’s the point. Rex is the antithesis of everything Empire Records stands for. His absurdity is a foil for the genuine connection the characters find in each other and in their shared love of music. In a scene that landed on the cutting room floor, Rex discusses his distaste for who he’s become, upset that his label wouldn’t let him play guitar on his most recent album. In yet another scene that never made the final cut, Rex joins the band on the roof for the climactic finale. With a goddamn guitar in his hands.
The beauty of Empire Records is that it doesn’t sugarcoat the adolescent experience. It’s messy, awkward, and sometimes painful. Debra (Robin Tunney) shaving her head isn’t a gimmick; it’s a scream into the void, an expression of the desire to feel something. Her quiet admission that she’s contemplating suicide is met not with melodrama but with a quiet, collective compassion. These characters aren’t superheroes; they’re kids, flailing against the current but refusing to drown.
For all its angst, the film is defiantly hopeful. It says, “Yes, the world sucks. Yes, you’re terrified. But you’ve got your people, and that’s enough to get through the day.” That message lands harder now than it did in 1995, when the Internet hadn’t yet atomized us into lonely islands of curated personas.
Watching Empire Records today feels like reconnecting with a long-lost friend. The CD racks, the flannel shirts, the DIY aesthetic —it’s all so beautifully, unabashedly dated. Hell, my daughter sent me this text message a few hours ago:
But the core of the film, its heart, is timeless. It’s for anyone who’s ever felt like an outsider, a reminder that belonging isn’t about fitting in — it’s about finding your people and raising hell together.
Celebrate Rex Manning Day. Play the soundtrack loud. And remember what it felt like to stand on the precipice of adulthood with nothing but a pocketful of dreams, a killer mixtape, and the absolute certainty that music could save your soul. Empire Records is a monument to that fleeting, electric moment in life when everything feels possible.
I wrote about Rex Manning Day last year on The Duchess Life!
I literally watched this last week. I grew up watching it because I have two older sisters (9 and 7 years older) who showed me the ropes of the 1990s culture.
My oldest sister and I bonded specifically over movies growing up (Do NOT get me started on Don’t Tell Mom The Babysitter is Dead).
Empire Records is still a viable resource referenced in our family 30 years later. The penalty for a response dissimilar to immediate comprehension of said resource will result in an array of verbal reparations for the offending participants insolence.