The first record store I worked in (and eventually co-owned for a time) was located on a dead-end side street in a nondescript beige building with no signage. It was down a poorly lit hallway and inside a converted 90-square-foot bathroom. A CD hung from the still-protruding showerhead. Random promo materials — whatever a sub-tiny store could glean from tight-fisted distributors — adorned the ceiling and the few wall openings not holding makeshift racks. Boxes filled the floors. The lighting, a single bulb, cast strange shadows. It was... More >>>