News recently spread among audiophiles that Ultrasound in Willoughby is closing in March. With its shuttering, another local, independent record store will be gone. It's a sadly familiar scenario, and one that brought a flood of memories.

As a pubescent boy living in Rocky River, I was blessed with wonderful nearby record stores. I'd ride my bike to Platter Puss Records, across the Detroit bridge that links River to Lakewood. There, owner John McNea and I would chat about music, and I listened intently as he shared his vast musical expertise. He carried an amazing array of CDs and vinyl, and he always had the latest Brit Pop singles that I wanted. He knew more about the Beatles than anybody else I knew, and he let me hold the original vinyl pressing of Guns 'n' Roses' Appetite for Destruction, featuring the cover with the Richard Williams painting of the same name that was later moved to the inside cover, with the GNR "cross" on the front of the album. It was a mint back then, and I was happy just to hold the LP. Then Platter Puss closed.

Luckily, for a poor high school student, Lakewood's Record Exchange on Detroit offered an unbeatable treasure trove of used CDs and LPs. I took dates here, it was that interesting (for me, anyway). We'd scour through vintage vinyl, laughing at curious fashions from decades past, and stand with others gathered around the towering wall of used CDs. It was exciting to find the $1 promo version of a CD, or a 25-cent copy of an album that you wanted, though it was missing the liner notes. When the store briefly closed for a remodel, my friends and I were bummed, though not nearly as upset as when it reopened with much of its used selection eviscerated to make room for video games and consoles.

In Westlake, my high school tastes were thrilled to discover My Generation. My friends and I would spend hours there, trolling the CD bins, exchanging notes on things we'd heard. We always left with something - Echo & the Bunnymen, Jesus and Mary Chain, Ride, The Saints. It was a place to hang out. The owners didn't seem to mind either, until us mindless hoodlums acted our age. Faced with the import price of $35 to purchase the Japanese-only edition of Blur Live at the Budokan, my good friend agreed to take it through the front door for me - bypassing the cash register. Before he did that, another, more sensible pal, paid for a Cause for Alarm 7-inch. As the pair passed through the door together, the inevitable sound of alarms rang through the store, at which point the merchandise was returned. We were all asked to leave. I returned not long after and bought the CD, and there were no hard feelings. For these were real people, with a keen understanding of the trappings of youth and the oft-foolish drive to acquire music. Years later, during a visit home from college, I made a carefully edited list of selections and gleefully headed out to peruse the CD bins. I arrived at the store, and to my chagrin, found it closed, with no explanation. I was genuinely heartbroken.

In Cleveland, it was tough to beat Shattered for its collection of punk releases. Located on Lorain, the owner would buzz you in through the metal door. It was akin to a secret club with a decidedly uninviting facade that belies a (mostly) welcoming atmosphere inside. The owner was a curious collector, traveling Europe for hard-to-find releases. No matter how much time elapsed between our visits, he'd remember the last records we bought, and make recommendations based on those. It was uncanny. It was there I bought my first copies of Cocksparrer and Adicts albums. Good stuff. It's closed now, too.

When I enrolled at St. Ignatius, I managed to befriend other pimply-faced malcontents who shared my interest in music. As many lived on the East Side, I was treated to new places, including Ultrasound, at its original location in Mentor. There were numerous Saturday pilgrimages to the shop, where I'd stock up on Converge, Zao and Blood for Blood albums, while giggling with friends at the always amusing selection of obscure metal to be had. I'm still a bit sad I never picked up that Corpse Vomit record.

I could go on with more tales of tragic closings. I understand that times change and often for the better; I don't want to sound like Andy Rooney. There's just something to be said about independent record stores beyond their retail selections. They were part of my young education, and they helped make sense of the world during awkward teen days. They gave my friends and I a place to go, when we were thought to be loitering everywhere else. You'll never make a friend shopping for iTunes, and a computer's suggested listening will never trump a person's recommendations. A free download simply can't compare to the tactile pleasure of holding a new CD, or the smell of old vinyl. An .mp3 album doesn't have great art and liner notes.

So, support your local record shop, such as Music Saves, Loop or Record Revolution. Even if you don't buy everything you want from them, make a point to go when you can. Robots are cool, but people are much more engaging. Most of the time, anyway.