Featured Essay: For the Love of Vinyl

by Vivian Cole

I could wax poetic about the deep love I have for vinyl all day long. The elegance of the mechanical arm floating to the spinning record, to where the needle kisses the vinyl, and you hear that first pop, right before the music begins. It was magic. Say what you will, sound on vinyl is the clearest, most pure sound I have experienced. The moment I put the headphones on, and heard the stereophonic sounds flowing like waves into my ears, I was lifted to another place.

Coming from a big family and living in a small apartment, I don’t know what I would have done without vinyl records. They had a profound impact on my life. We had an old stereo console player. I think it was a Magnavox. (Which I always pronounced Magnabox). It was basically a large floor model cabinet with AM/FM radio, speakers, and a record player all in one. Large, yes, but for the time, very elegant. As a child, I would lay on the carpet in front of the record player and listen to the music. Spreading out all the albums across the carpet with curiosity and excitement as though I had discovered hidden treasure. My mother’s taste was diverse, from easy listening to jazz. “Sergio Mendez, Brazil 66” was played constantly. But the album that truly made an impact on me and stayed with me through my formative years was a copy of “The Very Best of Ferrante and Teicher.” Although the names were foreign to a child like me, the music was transformative. It let loose my inner imagination and touched my soul.

“The Very Best of Ferrante and Teicher” was basically movie themes. I must have played that album over and over thousands of times. I could feel the tragedy of “Romeo and Juliet” and the loneliness echoing out of “Midnight Cowboy” before I ever saw the movies. My love of movie themes grew to Broadway musicals. I could not get enough of it. It did not matter the origin of the story. From the slums of Charleston in “Porgy and Bess” to the Russian Village of “Fiddler on the Roof”, I was transported there through music. I felt the pain and heartache coming from the songs and music. Some of it mirrored my own pain and struggles. The first album I bought was “West Side Story”, from the original play. I later bought the soundtrack album from the 1961 movie version. I can vividly remember my older sister slamming the bedroom door in my face as I belted out “Something’s Coming” in our small New York City apartment. The records were my ticket to freedom. I remember forcing my niece to sing duets with me from “The Me Nobody Knows” and “Sweeney Todd”. I was such a nerd. Even up until today, my love of Broadway musicals is still strong. Of course, I listened to all types of music. My family had varied tastes, but it was my mother’s Ferrante and Teicher’s album that created the undying passion and love affair for vinyl records. Living in New York, you could always find record shops and department stores to search for your latest desire, but the best was yet to come.

I discovered the “Colony Records Store” on the corner of West 49th Street and Broadway. It was my playground. You could find any, and I mean any type of record there. Even with a vague description of a song or an artist, they could locate whatever record you were searching for. “I found it at the Colony” was one of the main signs over the entrance of their door. All the sale assistants were “cool” guys who had a library like expertise of music and records. It seemed like they were just hanging out, not really working, while they dropped knowledge on you. I remember asking one of my favorite sales assistants, Kenneth (we came so frequently we were on a first-name basis with the staff), if Lesley Gore (A singer from the 1960s) was singing a song from an old Beach Blanket Bingo movie I had seen. (I told you I was a nerd). I sang part of the song for him while my embarrassed sister (the same one who slammed the door in my face) shrank with embarrassment. She murmured to Kenneth, “It was one of those ‘B” movies.” Stone-faced, he replied, “More like a “C” movie”. But he went in the back, and not too long afterward, we heard the song playing over the loudspeaker. The singer was Donna Loren’s “It Only Hurts When I Cry”. These were the days, way before the internet. But these guys knew their stock. Colony Records wasn’t just a store; it was more like a community of music lovers from all walks of life who came together. You never knew who you would run into. Many Broadway actors went there. I met someone from the chorus of “Sweeney Todd”. I was excited but refrained from demonstrating to her my rendition of “Joanna”. Oh, how I miss those days of endless hours of living through the music of that moment. Those albums lifted me up with joy and even cradled me with comfort when I needed it. Vinyl records, some may call them vintage or classic. Vintage? Classic? No. I call them precious.

Vivian Cole is a freelance writer/journalist. Born and raised in Manhattan New York who has traveled to Europe, South America and the Caribbean. Through writing she feels you can inspire love, empathy and bravery in this beautiful messy thing we call life. She lives with her husband John in Florida.