Why I Still Buy Records
This past weekend I did a sequence of things that to many people might seem crazy. On Friday afternoon, I got on the $15 New York-Boston bus so I could hear what I thought would be a can’t-miss concert by BMOP at Jordan Hall (which, by the way, was amazing). Right after the concert, I rushed back to the bus station so I could catch the last bus which leaves Boston at 11:30 p.m. and arrives back in NYC at around 3 in the morning. Why? So I could attend the annual WFMU Record Fair, which attracts legions of hardcore record dealers and collectors from all over the East Coast.
As usual, I walked away with some real gems. I picked up a total of 21 LPs this time around, and I’ve already listened to nearly half of them. Some highlights include Lukas Foss’s pioneering comprovisation record, a set collecting Mary Lou Williams’s early combos, the sensational debut recording of vocal stylist Julie London, and Larry Harlow’s Tommy-inspired “salsa opera” Hommy. Admittedly, most of these have been reissued on CD, and I could just as easily have ordered them from Amazon that way. Perhaps many are also available on iTunes, which means I could have bought downloads and heard them instantly rather than waiting to track down the original pressings—which in some cases, as in Hommy, took over a decade.
In fact, had I chosen to download or order re-issues online, I could’ve spent the night in Boston and come back at a reasonable hour instead of getting only four hours of sleep. I also could’ve avoided the throngs of young over-eager record junkies at the fair who shoved their way through the aisles of CDs—and more noticeably vinyl LPs—oblivious to the pundits who claim that today’s music fans are not supposed to be interested in physical recordings.
Corey Dargel, a fascinating musician and frequent contributor to these pages, recently suggested that I write something about why tangible physical recordings still feel more significant to me than virtual albums. I couldn’t help but think about Corey’s request as I triumphantly kept myself from being trampled by folks who share my obsession. Perhaps collecting records is like collecting baseball cards or other kinds of antiques—like, say, Bakelite kitchenware. After all, a physical recording is a reminder of the when-ness of something; it provides historical context and a portal into the mindset of another time. But I also frequently buy newly-released recordings, which inevitably will one day be old recordings.
Being extremely engaged with history might seem to be at odds with seeking out the new, but it shouldn’t be. It’s shortsighted to be passionate about new things and at the same time fail to prepare for what happens once these new things age and grow more distant. So while I’m thrilled that the ease of disseminating music through digital transmissions has made it possible for so many more people to spread their own music around, I am troubled by what kind of historical legacy we’ll eventually be left with (as well as the economic uncertainties these dissemination methods have unleashed). It’s just too easy to hit the delete button. Also, admittedly, it’s very hard for me to keep up with the largesse that digital dissemination has made possible. Having a pile of unlistened-to recordings staring at me, seemingly beckoning me to pay attention to them, usually provides a more effective psychological stimulus to actually do so.