Sure thing, kid. There’s that one joint on 7th Street where the shelves are lined with dusty jazz from the '30s and the owner swears the last record he bought in ’79 still whispers when the lights go out. I once found a pressed copy of a live session that nobody knew existed, and the guy who owned the place said it was from a gig the whole town missed—no one sold it because they didn’t want the memories of that night to fade. Another place, tucked into a side alley, sold vinyl for a dollar each, but every sleeve had a handwritten note from the previous owner, like a secret diary for anyone who dared to listen. Vinyl’s a time machine, and the truest stories are the ones you get from the people who keep the grooves alive.