What I'm getting around to saying is that, for many of us, streaming has become a crucial part of our musical diets, more indispensable than CDs ever were. During the most isolating months of the pandemic, Roon, Tidal, and Qobuz allowed me to spend many happy hours learning about Indian classical music, the pop traditions of Ethiopia, Mali, and Senegal, and some obscure corners of lover's rock and classic reggae, propelled record by record through the Tidal and Qobuz catalogs by Roon's machine-learning algorithms. I teach college classes, and my music-loving students know more about a broader array of music than I did at their age, thanks partly to YouTube and Spotify. Today, the internet and streaming have revolutionized access to music in ways that are frankly thrilling (if not for musicians, then definitely for listeners). It was usually necessary to buy a recording in order to hear it, so one's budget had to be apportioned impactfully. I grew up at a time when music was obtainable mostly on physical media: records, CDs, cassettes. 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. 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. 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. 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. I like it for the usual reasons: well-chosen merchandise, fair prices, fun music on the speakers while you browse.

My little corner of Brooklyn happens to have a terrific little record shop.

Brooklyn and bailey shop