HMV- guardian.co.uk

The disappearance of the last large chain of what used to be called record shops has set off a tsunami of warm memories of such places. There have been tales of the joy of earnestly flicking though the seemingly endless racks of LPs by Led Zeppelin, Snafu and Tonto's Expanding Head Band and of afternoons spent eagerly tramping the aisles housing those shoulder-to-knee cascades of CDs. In some towns, apparently and definitely unbeknown to me, the HMV shop was even the centre of the local romance scene, of what the Human League called Love Action.

Such nostalgia is understandable and not misplaced. For generations of casual record buyers and obsessive music heads alike, HMV (and its myriad imitators and competitors – Harlequin, Virgin, Our Price, Tower, Andy's, Music And Video Club, now all gone) was the place to go and get your mainstream sounds. For many, it was the starting point of a wonderful lifelong love affair with music – and, in truth, the rather less welcome consequence, the battle between an ever-lighter wallet and the need to move to a bigger house in order to accommodate your burgeoning collection. As the operations hub of many people's musical odyssey, the record stores of the 60s, 70s and 80s continue to inspire dewy-eyed recollection.

HMV was brought to its knees, obviously, because it couldn't compete with the no-longer-new digital universe where you can download a piece by Mahler for 80-odd pence or buy the new Tame Impala CD with a single leisurely twitch of your index finger.

But, hey, no regrets. The world of digitised music, and online buying, was supposed (if you listened to the traditional retailers) to be a sterile, soulless, corporate desert, devoid of the sense of adventure, revelation and shared experience in which the record shops of yesteryear specialised. It has turned out to be no such thing. It has turned out to be the opposite.


Getting into music has always involved a journey. Through the works of one artist, then on to another, hopping off into whole new genres and hopeful tributaries, coming back to old favourites to find new things in them. It is literally a voyage of discovery. It is, as musicians down the ages have told us, a trip. And something about the way that digital media works has made that trip more enjoyable than has ever previously been the case.

The benefits of the new world ping at you from all angles. The reviews by consumers on places such as Amazon (even the bonkers ones!) offer passion and balance from a whole range of viewpoints. The computer-generated recommendations have sent me on previously unimagined tangents and explorations. Myriad fan sites and discussion forums share secrets, gently indicate hidden paths, challenge your cherished views and comfort your dodgy ones. The fact that you can sample the music free, and buy it cheaply and in byte-sized chunks, only adds to the feeling of boundless possibility.

Of course I pine for being told, very directly, to go and buy Television's Marquee Moon by a genius writer like Nick Kent in the NME, and yes, I've been pointed in the direction of, and obtained, some unforgivable twaddle. But overall, the transference of music from the old-school high street to the info highway has meant that I have heard, and grown to love, more great music than ever before. And I can tell that (from the torrents of words flowing around cyberspace on the subject) this experience is common to millions.

I'll miss the little dog – you'd have to be made of flint not to – but don't mourn the tumbling down of his massive kennel. Technologies change, as do social mores and shopping habits, but music continues to find unpredicted and life-affirming ways into our hearts and minds.