Here Comes The Judge

Ah, digging, the ideal treasure hunt. To spend hours on end searching, searching for that perfect record. Where to begin? Where to start? Let’s just jump in, this crate looks as good as any. Flip, flip, flip. Going through one-by-one. Each quick movement of the fingers kicking up more of the sweet aroma of the vinyl. Oh what bliss. The surroundings start to melt away. The chase is on; all that matters is keeping your eyes on the prize. Eyes darting from one cover to the next, your heart starts pumping faster and faster. And then, just when you can’t take any more, there it is. The record you have fought perilously to uncover.

— Judge Howell

Just a noise? This is so much more than “just a noise.” I mean the needle hitting the supple grove in the pressed vinyl - oh what heaven that first sound is; the pure bliss of the slight crackle emitting from the speaker. And then pop. A playful little pop holding you on the edge of your seat until the warm harmony finally reaches your ears filling and swirling around you - engulfing you completely. This is no mere noise expelling from the speaker. This…this is God speaking to us through music.

— Judge Howell

In stark comparison to the warm sunny day, inside it is dim and musty. Suddenly, as you look around, it’s as if you have transported back to a simpler time. Off to the side is a man, passed out in a wheelchair, hooked up to an IV. Past him are long rows of crates and boxes that seemingly go on forever. The walls are lined with framed pin-up dolls and eclectic nick-nacks. And what’s that up above? Could it be? It is! Engulfing the room is the warm sound of music that could only be played from a vinyl record. This could only be one place…this is Doc’s.

— Judge Howell