Behind the Door on Howard Street: In Sheep’s Clothing’s Whispered World
By Rafi Mercer
New Listing
Venue Name: In Sheep’s Clothing
Address: 20 Howard Street, New York, NY 10013, United States
Website: insheepsclothinghifi.com
Phone: Not publicly listed
Some places announce themselves. In Sheep’s Clothing does not. If you don’t know to look, Howard Street will carry you right past it—just another stretch of SoHo’s weathered brick and discreet doorways. But if you find the door, step inside, and let the noise of the city shut behind you, you’ll discover a room where the air itself feels tuned.
The first thing you notice is the quiet. Not silence, exactly—there’s the faint shuffling of records being pulled from shelves, the soft clink of glassware, maybe a low conversation near the bar—but it’s the kind of quiet that makes you aware of your own breath. The second thing is the light: warm, amber, set low enough to blur the edges of the room. Then the sound arrives, and everything else falls away.
The listening room here isn’t large. A few tables, a long bar, and the main altar: the hi-fi system. It’s not just equipment—it’s an assembly of intention. Vintage JBL monitors, valve amplification, turntables mounted on isolation platforms, cables chosen for their specific sonic character. The music is uncompressed, analogue, unhurried. A track will run its full length, fade naturally, and only then will the next selection begin.
There’s a policy here—no phones, no laptops during listening hours. It’s not a gimmick. It’s a guardrail, a way of keeping the attention in the room. The result is palpable: people listen. Heads nod slightly, bodies sway gently, but no one is half-present, scrolling through another world. If you’re here, you’re here.
The bar mirrors the restraint and focus of the music. Whiskeys—Japanese and otherwise—feature heavily, alongside a short list of cocktails that lean spirit-forward, designed to sip slowly. A shiso-infused gin martini arrives in a chilled coupe, the condensation beading as a piano trio unfolds through the speakers. The pairing feels deliberate.
The record library is deep and specific. One evening might focus on post-bop jazz, the next on minimal ambient works, the next on a curated journey through Brazilian Tropicália. The selectors—sometimes resident, sometimes guest—don’t just play tracks; they construct arcs. There’s a sense of narrative, of moving the room from one place to another without breaking the spell.
Seating is arranged to favour the sound. There’s no bad spot, but the room has a sweet centre where the stereo image is perfect—where you can close your eyes and feel the stage unfold in three dimensions. Even away from it, the sound remains full and balanced. The acoustics are the kind you don’t notice until you leave and realise how rare they are.
In Sheep’s Clothing borrows from the Japanese jazz-kissa tradition, but it isn’t a replica. There’s less of the rigid reverence, more of a New York elasticity. The room can hold complete stillness during a Bill Evans ballad, then ease into a low ripple of conversation when the selector drops something with a heavier groove. The focus remains, but it breathes.
The name suits the place. From the street, you’d never guess at the richness inside. It’s unmarked, understated, almost invisible. But step through the threshold and it’s all there—texture, tone, a careful ferocity in its devotion to sound.
Late in the evening, after a run of cosmic jazz sides, a selector cued up a track I didn’t recognise—soft vocal harmonies over a slow, deliberate rhythm. It was the kind of song you don’t want to Shazam, even if you could. Better to let it be a mystery, a thing that belongs only to this room, this night. The track ended, and the room exhaled together.
Leaving, you feel the city differently. The streets are louder, the light harsher, but you carry the imprint of that other space. It lingers—not as a tune stuck in your head, but as a sensation, a warmth, a reminder that listening is an act worth protecting.
Rafi Mercer writes about the spaces where music matters. For more stories from the Tracks & Tales, subscribe, or click here to read more.
