My little corner of Brooklyn happens to have a terrific little record shop. I like it for the usual reasons: well-chosen merchandise, fair prices, fun music on the speakers while you browse. But I like it just as much because great record stores tend to resemble one another in more idiosyncratic ways, and this one has the earmarks of the great record stores of my youth. It’s run by a middle-aged guy with an ambiguous past, a lawyerly knowledge of recorded music, and the uneasy charisma of a carnie, and staffed by the guy’s teenage male acolytes, who comport themselves like insiders privy to a really stupendous secret. For those willing to hang out, it can be a place of authentic learning, like an impromptu grad-school seminar with Johnny Paycheck or the Mighty Diamonds on the stereo.
I learned about music in places like this one, having figured out that the occasional eye roll was worth putting up with for the information and knowledge on offer. I grew up at a time when music was obtainable mostly on physical media: records, CDs, cassettes. It was usually necessary to buy a recording in order to hear it, so one’s budget had to be apportioned impactfully. Reliable insider dope was crucial.
Today, the internet and streaming have revolutionized access to music in ways that are frankly thrilling (if not for musicians, then definitely for listeners). I teach college classes, and my
