At a Memphis record counter in the summer of 1956, the line stopped behaving like a line. Teenagers leaned over the glass, counted their coins, and carried the new sleeve into the heat. The photograph was grainy; the color was not. Pink and green made a black jacket feel electric.
Make the surface move
That collision was the point. The voice came from the radio, but the attitude lived on the page: a diagonal name, a hard border, a flash of gold. It turned a record into a uniform for the restless, then sent that uniform through every diner, dance hall, and Sunday living room.