At any family gathering, my wife and kids know that somewhere around the half way point of a bottle of excellent Dillian Vineyards wine, I will bring up the same subject: who will get my record albums when I’m gone?
All my life I’ve loved music. If I could figure out how to do it there’d be music on this blog. I started off buying comedy albums in the early 60’s when I was about 12. This quickly graduated to folk music, folk rock, rock and roll, jazz and a little classical thrown in for good measure.
Until their demise in the mid-80’s I bought hundreds of records. During my wild years I apparently gave a lot of them away to friends. My ex-wife made off with all my Fleetwood Mac albums. How many I haven’t a clue, but it appears to have been a lot. 584 of them remain. They’ve been encased in protective vinyl sleeves, cataloged in a database, and sit in a sturdy wood cabinet solid enough to withstand the blast of a low-yield nuclear weapon.
Each album holds a memory for me. I can pull one out at random and most of the time remember when I bought it and relive the pleasure I had listening to it. They have been my friends and allies during good times and bad. Ever faithful, they haven never passed judgment on me or my life. I love those records even though I don’t play them much anymore. I have about the same amount of CD’s that are more convenient and frankly sound better, but CD’s don’t have the same emotional hold over me as vinyl. I don’t fret over their future.
But I am painfully aware that I’m getting older, and when I pass the albums will remain. Who will watch over my old friends when I’ve gone to the big Auto Mall in the sky? Will they be cared for? Cherished? I know this sounds stupid, but I fear, really fear that they will end up at a thrift store, sold off to strangers who can’t possibly realize the tales of my life that these records hold in their vinyl and cardboard.
While in the grip of Zinfandel, I warn my loved ones that if my records end up in a garage sale I will haunt them. I’d like to be serious about this, but I can’t imagine asking God to grant me shore leave to go poltergeist on my family because they gave away my copy of “The Jimi Hendrix Experience”. Somehow I don’t think the universe works that way.
All inanimate objects, with the possible exception of a Chrysler product, have the potential for immortality. That doesn’t mean I think my record collection will be around in 2000 years like a bunch of mummified cats in an Egyptian tomb. But it does mean that they have the potential for being around for a while, at least into the 22nd century when my life and essence will finally fade from the memory of my predecessors
So far no one in my family has shown any interest in vinyl records. I can only hope that some grandchild will have a little geek in him or her, and discover my treasure trove of rock and roll and Bob James jazz albums.
A couple of years back I purchased a brand new turntable and two cartridges. My wife thought the purchase was silly since I have rarely used it. What she doesn’t know is that I bought it with the future in mind; a time when someone who shares my DNA might venture into my cabinet, pull out a record, and listen to a piece of me.
All my life I’ve loved music. If I could figure out how to do it there’d be music on this blog. I started off buying comedy albums in the early 60’s when I was about 12. This quickly graduated to folk music, folk rock, rock and roll, jazz and a little classical thrown in for good measure.
Until their demise in the mid-80’s I bought hundreds of records. During my wild years I apparently gave a lot of them away to friends. My ex-wife made off with all my Fleetwood Mac albums. How many I haven’t a clue, but it appears to have been a lot. 584 of them remain. They’ve been encased in protective vinyl sleeves, cataloged in a database, and sit in a sturdy wood cabinet solid enough to withstand the blast of a low-yield nuclear weapon.
Each album holds a memory for me. I can pull one out at random and most of the time remember when I bought it and relive the pleasure I had listening to it. They have been my friends and allies during good times and bad. Ever faithful, they haven never passed judgment on me or my life. I love those records even though I don’t play them much anymore. I have about the same amount of CD’s that are more convenient and frankly sound better, but CD’s don’t have the same emotional hold over me as vinyl. I don’t fret over their future.
But I am painfully aware that I’m getting older, and when I pass the albums will remain. Who will watch over my old friends when I’ve gone to the big Auto Mall in the sky? Will they be cared for? Cherished? I know this sounds stupid, but I fear, really fear that they will end up at a thrift store, sold off to strangers who can’t possibly realize the tales of my life that these records hold in their vinyl and cardboard.
While in the grip of Zinfandel, I warn my loved ones that if my records end up in a garage sale I will haunt them. I’d like to be serious about this, but I can’t imagine asking God to grant me shore leave to go poltergeist on my family because they gave away my copy of “The Jimi Hendrix Experience”. Somehow I don’t think the universe works that way.
All inanimate objects, with the possible exception of a Chrysler product, have the potential for immortality. That doesn’t mean I think my record collection will be around in 2000 years like a bunch of mummified cats in an Egyptian tomb. But it does mean that they have the potential for being around for a while, at least into the 22nd century when my life and essence will finally fade from the memory of my predecessors
So far no one in my family has shown any interest in vinyl records. I can only hope that some grandchild will have a little geek in him or her, and discover my treasure trove of rock and roll and Bob James jazz albums.
A couple of years back I purchased a brand new turntable and two cartridges. My wife thought the purchase was silly since I have rarely used it. What she doesn’t know is that I bought it with the future in mind; a time when someone who shares my DNA might venture into my cabinet, pull out a record, and listen to a piece of me.
You captured the essence of music - how it is a treasure chest for our memories - both good and bad.. and how a song can at a moment snatch you back to a different time and different place... maybe you were happier, healthier, for sure younger and better-looking (than now)... and so music continues to build and build in importance as a transport ship to the (sometimes) very distant past. It's a magic that no other medium offers. Thank you for this excellent post :) I'd offer to take them... but honestly think you most likely will outlive me (since I'm quite a few months older than YOU).
ReplyDeleteTC & I have a lot of vinyl albums too, well mostly collected by TC. I don't think anybody is going to want them....so sad.
ReplyDeleteDonna