Beto clicked play. A raw, hissing recording filled the shop. It was Juan Gabriel alone at a piano, laughing between verses. Beto hadn't heard this since he sold the original cassette to a tearful woman the day after the singer’s 1999 concert.

His nephew, Carlo, a lanky teenager with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder, walked in one Tuesday morning.

Beto scowled. “The future doesn’t pay rent. That little box got no soul.”

“How much?” a man asked.

By Friday, a line snaked down the alley. People weren’t buying CDs. They were handing Beto their phones, USBs, and SD cards.

“Tío,” Carlo said, holding up a sleek, silver external hard drive. “I brought you the future.”