On Sunday night, I was walking in Williamsburg, poking at five dollar jewelry and debating whether I would order white wine or whiskey at The Woods. On the corner of Bedford and North 5th, a girl with dreadlocks and what seemed like thousands of butterfly tattoos was selling old records. I wouldn’t have paid much attention to the table - I was more into imagining which inked body part had been the most painful - because I don’t even own a record player, after all. But James Taylor caught me off guard by being so insanely attractive on the cover of a recording I had never seen before. I learned how to play Sweet Baby James on the guitar at Camp Westwind when I was 12 and, later, would claim Steamroller was the greatest song ever written. Since then, I’ve been watching a lot of internet videos of Taylor singing, smirking, mostly from 1979, which I think might be the year I wish I could live over and over again, if I had ever lived it in the first place.