God I miss second hand record shops.
Those lazy afternoons flipping through endless rows of pristine and not-so-pristine vinyl while two hairy dudes at the other end of the store fight over who’s gonna take home the signed copy of Frank Zappa’s “Only In It For The Money”. Your olfactory senses in overdrive with the scent of used and imported gate fold rarities. Feeling your pulse quicken when you come across that super scarce album you’ve been looking for for 10 years. Taking the vinyl out of the sleeve, gently, checking it out to make sure there are no scratches or warps; and after hours of perusing the isles, satisfied and spent, bundling your choices under your arm and bringing them to the front counter to be totaled up by the cashier. Maybe even getting a nod of approval for one or two of your choices. Sweet validation! Getting the records home, gently placing them on the turntable and playing them for hours while you read every single liner note and lyric, taking in every power chord and relishing every harmony. Once finished, placing the record in one of those milk crates you scammed from behind 7-11 for safe storage after, of course, you slip it in one of those protective plastic outer sleeves.
Those were the days…