I’ve been seriously collecting vinyl records for about ten years now. These days, few things make me happier than stumbling onto a bin of vinyl at a thrift shop, flea market, or the like (I’m using Americanisms right now; these markets are called very different things elsewhere in the world, such as where I live in Australia). But unlike many vinyl fanatics, my favorite finds are those that have a…well…personality. Vinyl records that have acquired tiny scars, that crackle and click here or there, that demonstrate that warmth of sound I look for in the experience. I think this is what I love about vinyl so much. Each vinyl record you collect has a story; if it’s an old record, that story began before you and might already have several chapters and, if it’s a brand-new one, its story begins the first time you put it on your turntable. Maybe this is why I enjoy ministering to their damaged jackets so much, delicately applying little pieces of Scotch tape to keep them from falling completely apart. These jackets and the records inside them aren’t really mine…I’m just their temporary caretaker.
Talk to me about your vinyl collection. How do you feel about them, how do you care for them, and do you also hear their stories every time the needle lands on one of them?
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My parents filled my childhood home with music. My dad is a jazz aficionado and my mother loves all things soul. She owns every Isley Brothers vinyl record ever made. My mom, my sister, and I would listen to her incredible collection while spring-cleaning the house each year. Every word of every Isley Brothers album is etched in my brain forever. Nothing brings me more vinyl bliss than the customary intro scratch or unexpected background, such as Stevie Wonder's newborn daughter on "Isn't She Lovely".
This comment justifies for me why I insist on playing vinyl for my kids every day. My oldest is nine and loves jazz because of how much of it I play (he's excelling at clarinet in large part, I think, to how jazz rewired his brain). Looking backward, the second album I danced with him to as a baby was Al Green's Greatest Hits. I have a whole soundtrack of his life in my collection.
Al Green is an American treasure. His gospel music stirs the soul. Jazz wasn't my cup of tea when I was a kid. My dad helped me appreciate it for the incredible art form that it is.
My relationship with vinyls is intimately connected with my relationship with my father. He had a huge and excellent collection, made of vinyls from the 60s up to the 80s, both american and british pop, rock, folk and country (some Italian stuff as well but not much). To me that is still THE music. I listened to his vinyls in his studio but he also compiled some tremendous mixtapes we used to listen in his car stereo. Unfortunately, all of his vinyls and audiotapes have been damaged during a flood (along with a huge part of my comic book collection). So I had to mourn their loss after mourning the loss of my father. I have not been buying or listening to vinyls ever since. I think that I’ve actually tried to remove. But removing is never the answer. So this year, after watching Guardians of the Galaxy 3, I felt the urge for vinyl and tapes. I felt I was ready to go back in order to move on once and for all. So, here I am, buying vinyls, tapes, trying to reconstruct my father’s lost collection and mixing it up my own favorite music from the 90s and early 2000s. And it feels so good! Sorry for the long message but as you might’ve understood you touched a soft spot...
Leonardo, this is a beautiful and obviously heartbreaking comment. My own father died a couple of years ago, and I'm still trying to "reconstruct" what I lost, same as I have with my mother who died seven years ago now. Dimme, you said "studio". Was he a musician?
Thanks, Cole. And sorry for your recent loss. My father was a doctor but while not playing any instrument he had a room that was dedicated to music listening, I used the word studio improperly...
Don't worry about it. I zero in on word choices to better understand people, which you might've noticed in my interviews. That gets trickier when conversing with a trilingual person for whom English is not a primary language. As for your father's music room, it sounds glorious.
I’ve been collecting vinyl since 1996. I still buy records, though not as fervently as when I was younger. Storage has become an issue. Records occupy a lot of space, physical and metaphysical. I’ve culled over the years, taken unwise purchases to record fairs or op shops but there’s nothing I would now willingly part with. The records are a chart of my history. Each one is tied to a person, place or feeling. The soundtrack to my wild youth. Though it’s sobering when you realise that even if you started right now, you probably don’t have enough years left on the planet to listen to everything in your collection.
It sounds like your collection is far more comprehensive than mine! I've moved between three continents over the past seven years, and that meant bring all those records with me. It was...a feat. But it's still large and, as you say, a "chart of my history". Very much like my books. At this point, I honestly don't know who I'd be without them. I was just in Kentucky (I live in Australia) and spent two weeks thinking about the vinyl I'd bought there and what they would sound like on my record player back home. I'll always remember where I bought them.
I could only watch five or six minutes of this, though I appreciate you sharing it. It didn't make me angry, as you suggested it might. It just struck me as silly. Books have the same problem over e-books. Blu-Rays have the same problem over streaming. Even going to the museum requires you to pollute and can be very expensive. And yet we do all of them because the experiences are superior, because digital objects like to vanish and streaming leaves you at the mercy of studios, and looking at art in reproductions in books or on your screens and walls is miserable by comparison. Art is as much about the art as the delivery device, or at least it has been for centuries.
My parents filled my childhood home with music. My dad is a jazz aficionado and my mother loves all things soul. She owns every Isley Brothers vinyl record ever made. My mom, my sister, and I would listen to her incredible collection while spring-cleaning the house each year. Every word of every Isley Brothers album is etched in my brain forever. Nothing brings me more vinyl bliss than the customary intro scratch or unexpected background, such as Stevie Wonder's newborn daughter on "Isn't She Lovely".
This comment justifies for me why I insist on playing vinyl for my kids every day. My oldest is nine and loves jazz because of how much of it I play (he's excelling at clarinet in large part, I think, to how jazz rewired his brain). Looking backward, the second album I danced with him to as a baby was Al Green's Greatest Hits. I have a whole soundtrack of his life in my collection.
Al Green is an American treasure. His gospel music stirs the soul. Jazz wasn't my cup of tea when I was a kid. My dad helped me appreciate it for the incredible art form that it is.
My relationship with vinyls is intimately connected with my relationship with my father. He had a huge and excellent collection, made of vinyls from the 60s up to the 80s, both american and british pop, rock, folk and country (some Italian stuff as well but not much). To me that is still THE music. I listened to his vinyls in his studio but he also compiled some tremendous mixtapes we used to listen in his car stereo. Unfortunately, all of his vinyls and audiotapes have been damaged during a flood (along with a huge part of my comic book collection). So I had to mourn their loss after mourning the loss of my father. I have not been buying or listening to vinyls ever since. I think that I’ve actually tried to remove. But removing is never the answer. So this year, after watching Guardians of the Galaxy 3, I felt the urge for vinyl and tapes. I felt I was ready to go back in order to move on once and for all. So, here I am, buying vinyls, tapes, trying to reconstruct my father’s lost collection and mixing it up my own favorite music from the 90s and early 2000s. And it feels so good! Sorry for the long message but as you might’ve understood you touched a soft spot...
Leonardo, this is a beautiful and obviously heartbreaking comment. My own father died a couple of years ago, and I'm still trying to "reconstruct" what I lost, same as I have with my mother who died seven years ago now. Dimme, you said "studio". Was he a musician?
Thanks, Cole. And sorry for your recent loss. My father was a doctor but while not playing any instrument he had a room that was dedicated to music listening, I used the word studio improperly...
Don't worry about it. I zero in on word choices to better understand people, which you might've noticed in my interviews. That gets trickier when conversing with a trilingual person for whom English is not a primary language. As for your father's music room, it sounds glorious.
I’ve been collecting vinyl since 1996. I still buy records, though not as fervently as when I was younger. Storage has become an issue. Records occupy a lot of space, physical and metaphysical. I’ve culled over the years, taken unwise purchases to record fairs or op shops but there’s nothing I would now willingly part with. The records are a chart of my history. Each one is tied to a person, place or feeling. The soundtrack to my wild youth. Though it’s sobering when you realise that even if you started right now, you probably don’t have enough years left on the planet to listen to everything in your collection.
It sounds like your collection is far more comprehensive than mine! I've moved between three continents over the past seven years, and that meant bring all those records with me. It was...a feat. But it's still large and, as you say, a "chart of my history". Very much like my books. At this point, I honestly don't know who I'd be without them. I was just in Kentucky (I live in Australia) and spent two weeks thinking about the vinyl I'd bought there and what they would sound like on my record player back home. I'll always remember where I bought them.
I could only watch five or six minutes of this, though I appreciate you sharing it. It didn't make me angry, as you suggested it might. It just struck me as silly. Books have the same problem over e-books. Blu-Rays have the same problem over streaming. Even going to the museum requires you to pollute and can be very expensive. And yet we do all of them because the experiences are superior, because digital objects like to vanish and streaming leaves you at the mercy of studios, and looking at art in reproductions in books or on your screens and walls is miserable by comparison. Art is as much about the art as the delivery device, or at least it has been for centuries.