Back in the 1970s, I found little to admire about my dad’s taste in music, but his devotion to his music collection was impressive. I remember him spending hours gently cleaning his records over the kitchen sink with a super-soft cloth and a special fluid he’d concocted. Woe to me if he ever found a record sitting flat, shoved into a sleeve unprotected, or left on the turntable overnight. He insisted that all records deserved to be treated like heirlooms — even my copy of Kiss’s Destroyer.