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The clapboard house on Sullivan Street hums with LP crackle and bootsteps overhead, each room bursting with fresh picks and the scent of worn linen. Tables spill over with old glass, racks hang denim soft from years, and the front counter is never without a new story.


Thereโs a low hum and a creek of chatter as you walk up to Bashakill, where sunlight hits the edge of the wetlands and glasses meet tabletops with that satisfying thunk. Good smells curl out from the kitchen; thereโs a squall of music and a crowd unwinding into the day.
