Prologue

There was once a music shop.

From the outside it looked like any shop, in any backstreet. It had no name above the door. No record display in the window. There was just a homemade poster stuck to the glass. For the music you need!!! Everyone welcome!!! We only sell VINYL! If closed, please telephone—though after that it was anyone's guess because, along with more happy exclamation marks, the only legible number was an 8 that could well be a 3; there were two other things that might be triangles.

Inside, the shop was cram-packed. Boxes everywhere, stocked with every kind of record in every speed, size, and color, and not one of them classified. An old counter stood to the right of the door and, at the back, two listening booths towered either side of a turntable, looking more like bedroom furniture than regular booths. Behind the turntable sat the owner, Frank, a gentle bear of a man, smoking and playing records. His shop was often open into the night—just as it was often closed into the morning—music playing, colored lamps waltzing, all sorts of people searching for records.

Classical, rock, jazz, blues, heavy metal, punk ... As long as it was on vinyl, there were no taboos. And if you told Frank the kind of thing you wanted, or simply how you felt that day, he had the right track in minutes. It was a knack he had. A gift. He knew what people needed even when they didn't know it themselves.

"Now, why not give this a try?" he'd say, shoving back his wild brown hair. "I've got a feeling. I just think it will work—"

There was a music shop.