Just off the Square in San Marcos, camera flashes exploded over a thrashing mosh pit of punks, misfits and everyone in between. Punk music rattled the walls of Alchemy Records — a record store, a music venue and, for many, a second home.

The air inside was thick with sweat and the smell of old records. Every square foot of floor disappeared beneath bodies thrashing to the music, the only light besides the flash of cameras coming from the hallway as attendees packed the building tighter than a can of sardines.

Tables holding crates of CDs, vinyl records and cassettes shook as speakers blasted music from the four bands that packed the venue with noise and emotion. Performers included Nexttojackiekennedy, a Denton-based band that drove down to join the chaos, alongside Sulk 11 and Rose Ceremony. My Dad Died, a local favorite, played the final set, pulling the crowd into one last, frenzied mosh.

After the final encore, the crowd braced for the usual send-off: “Neon Moon” by Brooks & Dunn, a tongue-in-cheek tradition meant to empty a room full of punks via a country ballad. On this night, no one moved to leave. Friends and strangers linked arms, slow-dancing among the records, the memories and the traditions. As the night wound down on Saturday, April 26, Alchemy Records wasn’t just a place to buy music or see a punk show — it was where a community said goodbye to its home.

Alchemy Records wasn’t supposed to become a venue or a second home for the city’s alternative scene. It started simply, with one person’s love for music, a few crates of records and a belief that everyone — including the outsiders — deserved a space in San Marcos.

“We weren’t trying to market toward the masses. We were building a central hub of ideas — but hopefully just for the [expletive] weirdos,” said Walter Thorington, owner of Alchemy Records.

Thorington spent years working at other Texas record stores before founding Alchemy. In 2021, he was selling records out of a friend’s coffee shop. When that arrangement ended, he found the storefront near the Square almost by accident, spotting the vacancy the same day a Zumba studio moved out.

What followed was something few expected. Within months, Alchemy grew beyond a record shop, becoming a refuge for punks, vinyl collectors, art kids and anyone looking for a place that felt like home.

Shows were booked between the record bins, friendships were formed over obscure album finds and for many, Alchemy offered something even rarer in San Marcos — a third space that wasn’t a bar or a coffee shop.

“We do work, but it’s definitely more than that,” said Macy Stewart, an employee at Alchemy Records. “I got to help build something really special.”

The shift from record store to unofficial venue started by accident, after a local show lost its booking and asked Thorington if they could perform inside the shop.

“We just moved stuff out of the way and let them play,” Thorington said.

From there, the shows kept coming — hardcore nights, emo sets, experimental noise. Alchemy became one of the few places in San Marcos willing to give young and alternative bands a stage.

Despite the growing crowds, Thorington opted to give whatever money came in at the door straight to the bands or to benefit shows, including the final event, which raised funds for Trans Mutual Aid in San Marcos.

For Joan Johnson, a local organizer in the do-it-yourself punk scene, Alchemy filled a deeper need.

“Alchemy wasn’t just a store — it was the place to be,” Johnson said. “It was affordable, queer-friendly and filled with good music and good people.”

Even as crowds packed into shows and customers flipped through the bins, Thorington foresaw a harder future ahead. With the cost of living rising and economic uncertainty looming, he believed the community would soon have to choose between survival and hobbies like vinyl collecting. Rather than watch Alchemy fold under future financial pressure, Thorington decided to pause the storefront while the community was still strong.

“I’d prefer you help your neighbor pay rent than to come and buy records,” Thorington said. “This is my town, too. I want everyone to be okay. We’re going to weather the storm, we’re not dying. We’re taking a break.”

Despite the growing crowds, Thorington opted to give whatever money came in at the door straight to the bands or to benefit shows, including the final event, which raised funds for Trans Mutual Aid in San Marcos.

For Joan Johnson, a local organizer in the do-it-yourself punk scene, Alchemy filled a deeper need.

“Alchemy wasn’t just a store — it was the place to be,” Johnson said. “It was affordable, queer-friendly and filled with good music and good people.”

Even as crowds packed into shows and customers flipped through the bins, Thorington foresaw a harder future ahead. With the cost of living rising and economic uncertainty looming, he believed the community would soon have to choose between survival and hobbies like vinyl collecting. Rather than watch Alchemy fold under future financial pressure, Thorington decided to pause the storefront while the community was still strong.

“I’d prefer you help your neighbor pay rent than to come and buy records,” Thorington said. “This is my town, too. I want everyone to be okay. We’re going to weather the storm, we’re not dying. We’re taking a break.”

Alchemy Records plans to continue vending in the area at pop-ups and conventions, with possible plans for musical performances under the name Alchemy Presents, keeping the spirit alive without a permanent home.

As the last notes of “Neon Moon” faded into the darkened shop, the people dancing between the record bins knew it wasn’t just an ending. It was a promise to carry what Alchemy built into whatever comes next.