Records, like books, offer a subtle sentimentality that many of us seek in the modern era. I grew up listening to my dad’s records, albums he had carefully collected over the course of his adolescent and adult life. He filled our house with Steely Dan on Saturday mornings and Bob Dylan on Sundays. As I got older, he would routinely take my brother and I into Boston to look at used records. We’d accompany him to old shops that smelled of musk and mildew, watching as he carefully sorted through boxes and shelves until he found a record that intrigued him.