Featured Essay: Closets Have the Best Acoustics

by Joseph Defeo

The closet door had a very satisfying click when it closed. That click signaled the start of one of my favorite times of day: reading and music time. I was six years old when I discovered that if I sat myself in the closet in my room, I could shut out the rest of the world and be with myself and everything I loved. At that time, those were my stuffed animals, books, and vintage Barbie dolls my aunt had given me. My aunt lived with us. She had no children of her own, and I became a surrogate son to her. She’d spend her days cooking the best Italian food I’d ever have in my life, watching TV, knitting, and reading her prayers. She used to read to me every night, so it was no surprise that by the time I was three or so, I was reading on my own. My parents, having raised three children into adulthood and had me late in life, were grateful for my aunt’s presence. They could go about their lives and have someone to watch and care for me. Her in-law apartment, the finished basement of my parents’ home in suburban Connecticut, was a wonderland. It was cozy, decked out in carpet from the late 70s, artifacts from her life in Italy, and all kinds of hidden nooks and crannies. I had my own room, but there was no door. So the closet became my refuge.

Whatever clothes I had that needed to be hung in a closet were small enough not to take up much space. There were three walls of shelves surrounding the open area in the center. They were lined with books, toys, my red-and-white Sears portable 8-track player, and records that I would play on my Mickey Mouse record player. That record player was fantastic. It was a portable player that looked like a suitcase. It was all white with baby-blue trim and a sticker on the front featuring the mouse himself in a red circle, indicative of his club logo. When you opened the player, Mickey’s smiling face greeted you. He was painted on the inside cover, cheerily saying, “Hi Kids!” via a word balloon. He had on a blue-and-white striped shirt. The absolute joy of this player was the fact that his arm was the needle! The arm extended from the picture, jumping into the third dimension to play your records. He had a place of prominence on a TV tray that sat near my bed. I loved that player. However, another player had a special place in my closet with me.

It was a portable record player whose manufacturer has been lost to time. It was a larger beige suitcase player, with hard plastic all around, covered in rough fabric. It was heavy! This was how you knew it was quality. The lid detached to be a speaker (stereo!), and inside was a dark brown turntable with black and beige inlays all around. The best part about the player was the vents on the back. Why? Well, you had to turn off the lights to figure that one out.

The light in the closet was a small pull-chain light. A bare, exposed bulb hung overhead with a long string coming to a metal end sticking out the side. I’d position my record on the turntable, start it rotating, and then reach up and pull the string. From the back of the player, a bright orange glow emitted, filling and warming the room with its light. I was transported and lost in the music and the illumination. I’d play my parents’ old records, Sinatra, Belefonte, Cocker, Welk, to name a few. I’d amassed quite a collection of kid’s records myself. I had many Disney soundtracks, story records, some religious ones my mother had thrown in (I confess, Father, that some had a few banger songs on them), and my favorites- the Muppets and Sesame Street.

The chaos of the Muppets translated so well onto vinyl. I wouldn’t realize that until years later, when I re-collected the Muppets music on CD. Vinyl was part of the whole bit. The manic Muppets were the flip side of the peaceful gang from Sesame Street. I still hold two Sesame Street albums dear: Christmas Eve on Sesame Street and Sesame Street Merry Christmas. What a delight it was to hear the same old Christmas Carols I had heard so many times before, sung by my favorite characters and friends from Sesame Street. And what was this? Spanish songs? My goodness! I had never had another language so casually inserted into my albums. Sure, my parents had Italian opera albums, but that was all in one language. These albums mixed everything into one magical journey. No matter the time of year, I would always sink into calm bliss listening to those albums. I’d sit on the floor of my closet, eyes fixed on the glow from the record player, smiling and breathing deep. My senses were hyperaware of everything around me. The smell of that old player, musky and wonderful, the crackle and hiss of the record, the cardboard cover, smooth in my hand, and silence only broken by the notes carried on that orange light. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still go back to that time, to that closet, whose door was covered in stickers, whose size feels like a vault in my mind, whose comfort was just a doorknob turn away…and it still makes me smile.

I had my own son way back in 2008. Living in a house in suburban Connecticut, I tried to make it as comfortable and good as my aunt had done for me 30 years before. I fashioned a room in the top corner of the house to be a little library/reading nook/quiet place. I had a small radio in there, along with shelves of books, an overstuffed couch, a small table, and some plants. The floor had a deep carpet. It was a great room, but something was missing. A few years later, I was scrolling through eBay when I found an item that made my jaw drop and my smile widen at the same time. It was the old portable record player, complete with tubes. Well, not THE player of my youth, but one that looked a lot like it. The seller lived TWO TOWNS OVER! It was meant to be. I reached out and asked if I could buy the player outright. She agreed and even let me drive to her home to pick it up that day. She said that she’d never seen anyone so anxious to get their hands on a player. I smiled at her, thanked her, and took my prize back home.

That night, rather than read my son his usual bedtime story, I took him into that room, sat down on the floor, and turned off the lights. His confused and curious face gave way to smiles when he saw the picture in my hands. It was Ernie, Grover, and Cookie Monster decorating Bert up like a Christmas tree. It was lit by the light coming out of the new old player sitting in the middle of the room. The sounds of the gang tuning up and singing “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” filled the air. My son cooed and snuggled against me. The closet door was shut, and I was happy not to be in there alone. 

Joe DeFeo is a non-profit fundraising professional living in Brooklyn with his cat and son. Both of them tolerate his vinyl obsession. He still spends hours going to thrift stores and always loves a good chat.