Music Nostalgia

We Lost A Little of Ourselves When We Stopped Buying Vinyl

It was a harbinger of times to come

“Somebody was trying to tell me that CDs are better than vinyl because they don’t have any surface noise. I said, ‘Listen, mate, life has surface noise.’”

– John Peel, Original BBC Radio1 DJ

I recall the delightful blend of vinyl, cardboard, and ink that permeated the senses as I opened a new album.

We would bike down to Campana Music, the local record store, browse the aisles of poorly organized LPs then select the one that spoke to us. We’d get home, close the door to our room, carefully slice the plastic wrap, unfold the album, and meticulously peruse the images and text.

If lucky, the album contained a poster, a flier to join the band’s club, or perhaps a more practical insert if you bought Cheech and Chong’s Big Bambu. My all-time favorite was a cardboard, noise-making, flick-gun from Kiss’ Love Gun album. I spent hours with the Kiss Alive I and II albums.

Every album was a doorway to a different world. Our experience with the album was a beautiful ritual, a patient process.

Bibliophiles also cherished their trip to the corner shop, searching for the perfect literary companion, then snuggling up into their favorite chair with a coffee or glass of wine. As they cracked open the book they would breathe in the dusty, musty, and papery smell of the printed pages and binding. It’s as if the book was reaching out to its new owner.

While there are still plenty of bookshops, the record shop has become a relic of the past although there is a small resurgence.

I am not one beholden to the past. Life moves on.

But some experiences cannot be replicated.

Our evolution from a physical to a digital world has come with both good and bad.

It is a gift to have millions of songs and books at our disposal. We no longer need to carry around offensively oversized music players or the next hard-covered book in case we finish one while on a business trip. And while encyclopedias served their purpose, we didn’t always spend much time exploring other sources for that paper on Egyptian history. Digital media did expand our world.

There is, however, an absence, a void, an indescribable emptiness in the digital realm.

Placing the LP on the record player, cleaning off the lint, and carefully placing the needle was a precise and methodical process that required great care and attention.

We were connected to the album. We would play the entire song set from beginning to end, sometimes ignoring the repeated thump-thump as the needle had reached its endpoint. We would then repeat the process.

Records even changed the way we walked as we had to step more gingerly so as not to have the needle skip. There was a visceral relationship with the album.

While the digital and physical content is the same, our connection with the music has changed.

This isn’t dissimilar to what we see in our communities today.

We moved from lunches, dinners, coffees, and drinks to Facebook, Zoom, WhatsApp, and Instagram.

There are advantages to social media. For people living abroad, it allows us to stay connected with our friends and families. And for many, social media has widened their social interactions and connections.

But there is no question as to the damage caused by the digital world. Virtual interactions cannot supplant face-to-face meetings, a handshake, or a hug. Humans need physical contact. It strengthens our immune systems and makes us happier.

We can celebrate the accessibility and convenience that technology has brought to us. But let’s not forget the power of connection.

Convenience drives so much of our decision-making. We no longer want to drive twenty minutes to sit in a movie theater with others and enjoy a meal afterward. We prefer to sit at home watching Netflix and having a pizza delivered to our door. These are still unique and fun experiences.

But little by little we seem to be retreating further into our holes of convenience, perhaps moving away from what is most important.

I will always feel some connection to the two rockers holding up a banner at Cobo Hall in Detroit back in 1975 at the Kiss concert.

Their photo was featured in the Kiss Alive I album. I have been to Kiss concerts but I wanted to be there with them at that venue. Even today, I still feel some connection to them, particularly to the one on the right with his fist raised. It was a salute of happy defiance.

I wondered what they were doing with their lives. What are all those people in the shot doing today?

Interestingly, the answer came from the same place that took images like this away. I searched online and found out who they were: Bruce Redoute and Lee Neaves.

43 years later they retook the shot.

Funny how things work out.

Maybe there is still hope.