At first, I didn’t really know it was a thing that people did.
Back in 2017, you may remember, I posted a quick entry about an Instagram page dubbed Vinyl Wife, which showcased the doings of a young Finish lady with a penchant for displaying her collection of vinyl LPs. In short order, I soon gleaned that this was indeed a thing people did – pose for pictures with their favorite records. Given the school of thought – which I happen to share – that the tactile aspect of the physical manifestations of music is part of the whole experience (i.e. the appreciation of holding the complete work of art in your hand), I suppose it makes sense that people would take it to the logical extreme of posting pictures that further fetishize the physical media. It may seem silly, but it makes far more sense to me than posting pictures of your food, and people continue to do that.
In any case, I soon stumbled upon similarly inclined Instagram pages like Carol’s Vinyl and Mionyl that, ultimately, served the same end – albeit with varying extremes of presentation (Mio really goes all out with her posts). Gradually, these pages turned too multiple to count, invariably featuring an individual – usually female – playing to the camera while holding an album of arguable significance. The more prurient aspect of this practice is probably best observed on the Instagram page, Vinyl and Girl, which pretty much displays what it says on the label, so to speak. While I’d imagine said pictures are designed to titillate, I suppose it’s a testament to either my convictions or nerdy music snobbery that I immediately find someone significantly less attractive if they’re depicted lovingly caressing an album by post-1987 Aerosmith. But, y’know, to each their own.
Personally speaking, I am not really a vinyl fetishist of this variety at all. While I’ve amassed a strenuous amount of records in my day, I made the vinyl/compact-disc changeover back in the 90’s and never really looked back. That said, the thought of parting with any of my wax was and remains still largely anathema to me. As a result, my living space soon became compromised by unwieldly amounts of each medium … and let’s not forget all those pesky cassettes.
Then, it happened. I got married.
Once hitched, I opened up a mini-storage space deep in the West Village and stored a bunch of my stupid shit – including a crate or two of vinyl LPs -- there. Similarly, I took full advantage of my long-suffering mother’s good will and stored four or five beefy flight cases of vinyl (and boxes of cassettes) in the comparatively expansive basement of her home out on Long Island. In 2002, the wife and I moved out of my old apartment on East 9th Street and into a slightly larger space in more or less the same neighborhood (one better equipped to handle the arrival of children) and even more of my vinyl went into storage.
Times change and circumstances evolve. I closed down my West Village mini-storage space a few years back in favor of a cheaper, more convenient option in the basement of my building (one that we’ve since completely filled). Along with my CDs --- themselves becoming swiftly irrelevant artifacts of anachronism – our current apartment holds a smattering of my vinyl collection, with the rest of it remaining sequestered out in Long Island in my mom’s basement.
Periodically, I like to go downstairs and exhume it. Over this past long, holiday weekend, that’s exactly what I did — blighting my friends’ social media feeds with silly images of me brandishing cherished slabs of wax -- and a few select cassettes -- of eons past.
I am in no way competing with folks like Carol or Mio, but I now feel a new appreciation for what they do. Herewith some of the dubious evidence of last weekend….
Indulge me.
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