Streaming won the convenience argument a long time ago, and nobody at the station is pretending otherwise. But convenience was never the reason anybody fell in love with a record.

A record asks for something. You choose a side, you commit to a running order somebody agonised over, and you sit through the track you would have skipped — which is usually the one that grows on you by spring.

The crackle matters too. It is imperfection with a timestamp, proof that the copy in your hands has a history that streaming files simply do not have.

So on the wet nights, when the drive home is slow and the city is smeared across the windshield, we still reach for the sleeve first.