As I promised myself, I stopped by Record Mart yesterday evening. With a prime location near the 42nd Street Shuttle and the stairs to the uptown 1/2/3 line, the place was jumping. There's no way to miss it. Music and light pour from its little corner of the underground. Busking musicians stationed just beyond Record Mart's entrance couldn't compete with the music blaring from inside the store. And people came with smiles and wide eyes.
"Vinyl!" one woman shouted as she stepped inside.
"Yup," I said. "Isn't it great?"
"Yes. I didn't even know people were still making vinyl!"
"There's actually a bit of a vinyl resurgence going on."
"Is that right? Too bad I sold my entire collection—around 10,000 LPs—about ten years ago."
"Oh no. That's such a sad story."
Her eyes darted around the room. "I know," she said.
The place pulsed with excitement. Ironically, most of the store is dedicated to MP3 player ancillaries—earbuds, docking stations, protective covers—but it was the music—and, specifically,
the vinyl—that was drawing all the attention. People flipped through the titles eagerly, passionately. There wasn't much—one wall that welcomes you as you walk in and a small shelf around the corner to the left—but what
was there was excellent: Candido, Arsenio Rodriguez & the Afro-Cuban Sound, Cortijo & His Time Machine, The Lebron Brothers, Willie Colon, Eddie Palmieri...!
I collected one after another while my companion—fervent, impatient, agitated—watched.
"Are you buying those?" she asked.
"Yes," I smiled.
She sighed: "Now I have to go buy a new turntable."
