When I first started getting obsessed with recorded music as a teenager, I saw the recorded music I enjoyed in a magical light. A tune on the radio was a beacon from beyond, like some special jewel that had been labored over by mad geniuses working under extreme conditions in faraway lands. An album was a carefully-crafted statement, meant for thousands of repeated listens on headphones in order to ascertain what must be a very important message. I knew songs were recorded in studios – you could read that right on the LP sleeves – but it still seemed to me that these fabled places must be hallowed ground.