Denis Fortin

My father gave me his copy of Kind of Blue when I was fourteen, along with strict instructions not to touch the grooves. I ignored the second part and became obsessed with everything a record carries: fingerprints, liner notes, the sound of a room before the first track.

I host one-album evenings because skipping is too easy now. We listen all the way through without talking, then open another bottle and argue about side two. Nobody needs to know anything about music; curiosity is the only useful credential.

I alphabetize the collection, but the system gets mysteriously flexible after midnight.