I used to live above a record store, Revolution Records, on 8th Street in New York City. My friend Pete and I spent many afternoons in there, flipping through the stacks, our eyes reading the titles as fast as our fingers could flip. We'd take our goods back to my apartment and fire up the Califone portable record player I've had since my 10th birthday.
The moments are indelible to me even now: Bill Evans, "Waltz for Debby," pouring rain, bourbon. The weird, alive opening horns of "Mango Meat," by Mandrill, a record (Just Outside of Town) that we judged (correctly) by its amazing cover. Astral Weeks, by Van Morrison, whose voice was made for vinyl. I've got a new turntable now, and more records. A few thoughts on starting a collection: