“Naw, man. Sorry,” the record-store guy said. “Great album though.”

Before Kazaa, iTunes, Napster, this is the year 2000, and this is 32nd record store on the list of record stores in the phone book. Alphabetical order. Alphabetical disappointment.

Any ideas?

“The only copy I know where to find is at my house.” A laugh.

Unlike Jawbreaker’s Dear You, even in the year 2000 assholes were easy to find.

But I couldn’t blame him. That was the reaction the album evoked: That rare, attained secret that you held to your chest like a kid on a playground. And it almost never got made.

In 1995, the San Francisco trio had brought themselves, and their integrity, pretty far. A cultish, if fickle, following of DIY punkers, a tour invitation from Kurt Cobain, and three hardcore, punk rock, respectable albums. But Dear You, released that same year, would be their last.

I knew nothing of this. Nick knew this.

In the mid-‘90s I was entering high school and met Nick, who had an unpronounceable last name, a leather jacket, a penchant for belly shirts and great taste in music. Being from Detroit, he, his pink Mohawk and midriff slipped into the North Dakotan locale like a prison shank.

We got along.

He was punk. I was as punk as it really gets in a town of 15,000.

Anyway, he was my introduction to Jawbreaker. Nick wasn’t only good at getting his ass kicked on the day to day from the less “open-minded” of the community — he also could throw one hell of a party.

There was a keg, girls and dozens of people. And I remember red cups, all stacked one and then another into each other on end tables, tables and flat surfaces.

That’s what I got from a night I’ll never forget. Visually anyway.

What stands out isn’t a scene or a moment. It’s a riff.

One that didn’t so much as start playing as stumbled into the room over the speakers.

And that damned voice.

“I couldn’t wait to breathe your breath/ I cut in line/ Now I bled to death”

“Who the hell is this?” to no one, bracing myself in front of the cheap six-disc changer.

“Jawbreaker, man,” Nick, suddenly to my left, said. “Jawbreaker.”

Granted it was the group’s most accessible work, a reaction by the band to avoid their inevitable break up. And producer Rob Cavallo polished up their blue-collar grit, while major-label marketing tried to pimp it to the public.

I didn’t know any of this, but still hadn’t heard anything like it.

Understand, mind you, that this was before any hint or sense of ‘emo’ or whatever the hell you kids call it — cardigans were simply cardigans; horn-rimmed glasses weren’t chic; and journaling in public was still just pretentious.

“This is the part I wouldn’t show you/The part where you say I don’t even know you”

I hadn’t heard anything like it.

On the outside I was Propaghandhi and NoFX. But on the inside I was probably getting into Counting Crows’ August and Everything After waaaay more than anyone should.

But standing in front of a Sanyo CD player. Listening to Blake Schwarzenbach scratch his voice down meaningfully. I really got something.

This was the love child of The Clash and Stiff Little Fingers, who grew up and said, “fuck you” to his parents and then majored in literature.

“A near miss or a close call/I keep a room at the hospital”

It was the most honest thing I’d ever hear put to music.

A few years later, hunched over a phone book, I didn’t give a shit if it took 57 record stores.