You enter to the sweet song of two metal-heads arguing about music. “Okay, name me one decent album in the last five years,” says one. “No, they’re all shit,” says the other. On your right, a white board details prices and policies. At the bottom, it reads “Dirty Looks Free.”

There’s just something about vinyl. Something about hearing every warble, pop and hiss; something tangible. While 8-tracks are mocked, CDs are sold back and cassettes appear more often as ironic tattoos, records are coveted. Traded among friends, entrusted by departing roommates, fought over by fomer lovers, the record remains the