Everyone remembers the first time.
You saved your pocket money. Maybe it was wages from your first job. You pulled on your favourite band T-shirt and jumped on a bus or train bound for the local record shop.
Then you stood outside the door.
And hesitated.
If you were lucky, you had an older brother or sister who had already shown you the way. Maybe you'd discovered a few bands on the radio, borrowed albums from friends, or spent hours studying music magazines. But this was different.
This was your turn.
Your first chance to buy your own music.
The first thing you could truly call your own. Something your parents hadn't chosen for you, bought for you, or approved of. In fact, if the music was good enough, there was every chance they'd absolutely hate it.
Still, walking into a record shop for the first time could be intimidating.
Everyone seemed to know more than you. They already had collections. They knew the bands, the labels, the catalogue numbers. They had opinions. Strong opinions.
Or so it seemed.
But the moment you stepped inside, you were in heaven.
The smell of fresh vinyl and cardboard sleeves. The music playing overhead. Posters covering the walls. Endless racks packed with possibilities.
It was overwhelming.
Where do you even start?
Then it happened.
Something caught your eye.
You pulled the album from the rack and examined every detail. The cover. The photographs. The lyrics. The mysterious names in the credits. You held it like a sacred relic.
This was the one.
You approached the counter.
The assistant looked at you. Then at the album.
No words were exchanged beyond the price.
Money changed hands.
The record was placed in a bag and handed over.
Then came the nod.
The briefest gesture imaginable.
But it said everything.
Good choice.
You're one of us.
And just like that, you had found your tribe.
The journey had begun.
You'd bought your first record.
And from that moment on, down the rabbit hole you went.
You were officially a record collector.
- Bobo Coen
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