I still see the colors, the yellow and green and orange that covered the walls, the bags, and the sign out front. I see many people, though hardly anyone in particular. By its nature, the record store, any record store, was a town square for people who loved music. It was a shared space for many genres, like stalls at an indoor market. There were sections for certain styles and new releases, but generally, it was mapped out by the alphabet. If you wanted the Beach Boys, you went to the “B” box. If you wanted the Beastie Boys, same box.

Weird, isn’t it? A buying experience not based in algorithmic data. It forced interaction with music you didn’t like, and it made you lean over the shoulders of people you would otherwise never speak to, and ask if they’d grab that copy of the J. Geils Band for you. And it was the 1980s. Could you name another decade when every genre had a shot? From Run-DMC to Rush, every type of music had its stadium-filling stars, and Turtle’s sold them all. It’s an image I still carry.

I can still see the day when I got up before dawn to stand in line with my friends to buy U2 tickets for the Joshua Tree Tour of ’87. It was a school day, and I was elated my parents let me miss first period to spend money on a show. In those days, each record store got its own allotment of tickets for upcoming shows. They could run out of tickets before you made it to the counter. Standing in line wasn’t a guarantee, it was a risk, an act of faith.

Everyone was anxious over the prospect of a morning ill-spent, and the fear of having to chase down a ticket elsewhere. It was slow, too. Once you were inside, you would look over a seating chart (of Atlanta’s now replaced arena, The Omni) and choose your tickets based on location and price. The tired employee who drew the short straw for that day would take your cash and give you your tickets. I still see that, that scene of walking out of the store, relieved that I had a seat, holding it in front of me and staring at it, unable to post a picture of it online because ... well … there was no such thing as “online.”

I can still see the little yellow booklets where we collected Turtle’s stamps. Fill the book with stamps, get a deal on your next purchase. An Atlanta-area stocking stuffer.

I can still see the art. Part of the rummaging was art appreciation, picking up those 12-by-12 sleeves covered in images or drawings or photos from live shows. Just to stand there and hold the record — turning it over many times, reading the track list, and asking a stranger, “Have you heard this one before?” — was all part of the tactile experience. This was not unique to Turtle’s, but Turtle’s was what I knew.

I drove by there the other day. The only thing I recognized was the Blue-Ribbon Grill across the street. Most everything else is gone or has changed hands. That’s how it goes. Decrease and increase. But every time my son and I go to the record store around the corner, I look for that round yellow sticker on the sleeve. Who knows? Maybe I’ve held it before.

Keep digging.