I am a music junkie. I often listen to rock and roll at eight o’clock in the morning, I turn on the stereo before I go to the bathroom when I arrive home, and despite vows to the contrary, I am forever falling asleep with the amplifier on. My apartment is dominated by phonograph albums, and every week I strain my triceps carrying 40 or 50 or more home from the post office. It would not be an overstatement to say that records are my life.

Needless to say, my vocation and my affliction are ideally suited; in fact, well-meaning but misguided friends have suggested that the two are identical. In any case, I am the only record critic I know of who plays every record he receives. Working through a complex system of stacks and rows, I eventually hear at least part of every L.P. the companies send me except for a few movie soundtracks, and most I play more than once. I said hear, not listen to. My whole understanding of the way rock and roll works is that it is designed to grab your attention and I like it that way. A proven artist will get more than one try, but it’s rare that a newcomer will. There are just too many records around.