![]() You can then wander off in search of a red-vinyl Vince Guaraldi album or Tom Jones’ Live at Caesar’s or the latest posthumous Tupac release. Tour posters climb the 50-foot walls, surrounding you as you join the skinny-jeans-wearing bass players and bespectacled screenwriters who listen to an in-store performance from The Bird and the Bee. For that reason, Paste hereby celebrates the record store, bestowing superlatives on a few of America’s finest. Just as people of faith need houses of worship in which to commune, music zealots are no less dependent on shrines dedicated to their own decibel-cranked passion. But, to paraphrase Mark Twain, rumors of the record store’s death have been greatly exaggerated. They are content to wirelessly import digital music straight into nano-engineered storage devices implanted in their grey matter, and the digital revolution is killing brick-and-mortar retail. People are no longer leaving their houses. ![]() On the eve of Record Store Day 2010, we revisit our indie music shop feature from the July 2008 issue of Paste.
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