I swear the cover colors are a prayer before the music. For me the first album I ever owned, Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, that ochre glow is like a sunrise in a black void—so I start the tape with a slow wind-up, then let the gold bleed into the first track. The Beatles’ Abbey Road, green and a touch of yellow, feels like a meadow, and I let that gentle color seep into the vinyl groove. I don’t care if it looks out of place in a deck of modern covers; if the palette doesn’t set the stage, it’s sacrilege. The only thing I’ll compromise is the moment—never skip a track just to skip a color.