In Praise of Physical Music

I was ten the first time I took ownership of music I liked. Growing up, I listened exclusively to my parents’ music—the Beatles, Joni Mitchell, Crosby, Stills, and Nash, Yes, and many others. I was thirteen the first time I actually started listening to music made for my own generation

Our radio station of choice was the oldies station out of Cleveland, and the more I listened to the radio, the more I discovered other songs and artists I liked. The problem was that my parents didn’t own the vinyl or even the CDs for their recently acquired CD player.

My dad, however, was at the ready with a solution. “You know, you can tape those songs off the radio,” he said. Dad bought me a pack of cassette tapes and showed me how to press play and record simultaneously on a boom box when I heard a song on the radio that I liked.

Recording songs off the radio sort of personifies what listening to music was like in the mid- to late 1900s when I came of age. If you wanted to own music, your options were CDs, which cost up to $18 depending on where you shopped and assuming you had that much money to begin with, and cassettes, which were cheaper but became less cool as the decade wore on.  

Furthermore, if you just wanted one song and the artist hadn’t released it as a single (for you kiddos, that’s a CD or cassette with just two songs on it), you had to buy the whole album. In ninth grade, I bought Semisonic’s Feeling Strangely Fine purely because of “Closing Time.” I can’t tell you what other songs were on it because I think I only listened to the whole thing once.

In high school, listening to music was an act of survival, getting me through some painful, life-altering events. By this time, though, my crappy boombox had been upgraded to—wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles!—a three-disc CD changer, which I always loaded up the minute I got home from school.

When I went on school trips, my 75-disc CD binder was always loaded up with my current favorites. I never listened to all 75 albums, of course, but I had to be prepared for whatever music situation I could find myself in. There was, of course, nothing worse than being on the bus for a speech and debate tournament and not having that one song you wanted to listen to.

We used to have to work so hard to listen to music. And now, I fear it’s become too easy.

I have a Spotify account. I still prefer to purchase music, whether directly from a band’s website, Amazon, or digitally on iTunes or Bandcamp. But Spotify has undisputed conveniences. You can listen to any album you want, get new artist recommendations, and collaborate with friends on playlists.

All these things are great, but a lot has been lost in the process. There’s so much music out there that I frequently feel like I’m on overload. My musician friends have suffered great financial loss. Most of all, we’re deprived of the act of love that was making a mix tape or CD. Playlists simplify the process, but the personality is gone.

Music is no longer tangible, and while I have never lost the feeling of comfort and admiration that comes from hearing songs I love in any format, the act of listening itself frequently feels cold and sanitized.

I think that’s why I started buying vinyl.

During the infamous COVID Christmas of 2020, my husband bought me Taylor Swift’s Folklore album on vinyl. As I flipped through the lyric book that came in the gatefold record sleeve, memories returned of listening to my parents’ vinyl (which they’d since passed on to me) when I was younger.

Previously, the trend of buying modern music on vinyl was an enigma to me. I’d wondered why people would spend money on records when they could get it on CD or digital with better sound quality.

But now, listening to the warm tones of the record with the occasional crack and pop, I wondered why I hadn’t been interested in it sooner. So, for better or worse, I started buying vinyl, both new releases and reissues of albums I enjoyed in high school, on that three-disc CD changer.

The effort vinyl requires of me creates a different, more personal experience. I have to remove the record and delicately position the needle, then adjust the sound settings on the hi-fi set-up my nerdy husband put together for me. I have to flip over the record midway through.

Something about this practice causes me to slow down and really listen to what I’m hearing, not just blast through it so I can get to the next album in my Spotify queue.

My dad tells me that years ago, when he played music professionally, he and his friends went to parties where the sole purpose was listening to an album. Once the needle dropped, no talking was allowed. As the album played, the record sleeve was passed around the circle, with everyone taking turns looking at the liner notes and lyrics. Only when the album was over could they discuss what they’d heard, and the conversation was richer for it.

It’s so easy to devalue the good and perfect gifts we’ve been given, to casually enjoy them rather than give them the care and attention needed for them to really soak into our souls.

What’s your favorite way to listen to music? Tell me in the comments.