I shop pretty exclusively for music at the HMV in the mall near my house. It's just a short drive, it's right near the entrance where there's always parking, and it's well laid out. There's nothing worse than a poorly laid out music store.
Anyway, there was this one guy who worked there who knew me. I'm in there once a week, and so he came to know my style. We never learned each other's names, for that wasn't important. He knew what/who I liked, and he'd suggest titles to grow my collection. We talked for 10 minutes the week after we each bought Lady Antebellum's debut album, about how incredible it was.
He was fantastic.
I haven't seen him in about a month, and I miss him.
I bought new music this weekend. Robin Thick's Something Else, Jamie Foxx's Intuition, Sugarland's Enjoy the Ride, and a Miles Davis compilation.
My HMV guy would have understood. He would have chuckled a little at my eclectic taste, but he would have ultimately appreciated the diversity. We would have chatted about Sugarland's new album and why I haven't bought it yet. He would have, no doubt, told me of a rare Miles Davis recording that I should search for. Or something like that.
Anyway, the point is that the guy who was working there just scanned the CDs, then my credit card, and I was on my way.
I miss talking about music so candidly with someone who could only be described as a stranger. It seemed to remind me how music is a universal language. It's such a cliché, but it's true.
I don't need to know anything more about someone, if we can carry on a conversation about the overproduction on track 7 of a certain album. Agree or disagree, it means more to me to talk music with a stranger, than to talk about what I did on the weekend, with a close friend.
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