Featured Essay: My Vinyl Collection Journey

by Allen Hale

I bought my first vinyl when I was 15. My family was visiting Cambridge, Massachusetts for the day. We found ourselves at Cheapo Records, a lovely store in Central Square I have revisited many times since. 

There is not always an easy way to begin your collection. It is deliberately counter-intuitive to the cost-saving, on-the-go appeal of an Apple Music or Spotify subscription. You can start with bargain bin dives and hope to find something familiar within a mass of otherwise-forgotten LPs. Otherwise, you will probably start by dropping a decent amount on an album dear to you. Owning a quality record player and speakers is its own story.

Occasionally, I ask myself: Why collect a format which, compared to the ubiquity of streaming, is relatively costly and inconvenient? 

In one regard, vinyl collecting signifies committedness among those of us raised in waning days of CDs and the early years of digital streaming. Investing in physical music demonstrates an appreciation for the artists who made that music possible. Vinyl enables one to grow intensively dedicated to music as a hobby, whatever that means for each individual. You go beyond the minimum of streaming which, for artists, only result in pennies.

At the time of my first vinyl purchase, I was exploring music with fervor. Progressive rock was my then-current infatuation. Miraculously, I came across a copy of Yes’ Close to the Edge, my favorite album at the time. The record was used but undamaged, on sale for 10 bucks. I bought it without a second thought.

I cannot remember if I got the record before I owned my first crappy record player—a chicken and the egg type scenario.

Since then, six years have passed, and I have acquired 6 additional records. Their purchase points are varied: more from Cheapo, many from Inclusion Records in Norwell, Massachusetts and Darkside Records in Poughkeepsie, New York, a few from thrift stores, some through bands’ merch sites, and so on. Vinyls have been gifts to myself and gifts from others. I own an assortment of personally cherished albums alongside cheap finds I encountered without prior knowledge of their existence.

The “hunt” of shopping is a huge part of the hobby’s appeal for myself. I occasionally buy records I have not heard before, usually within the two to five dollar range. Through chance encounters, I have the opportunity to explore new music or come across old favorites. There is similarly palpable excitement in listening to vinyl that I have already heard before in another format. New areas of intrigue are located within the sound itself, enriching my close connection to a particular album’s tracklist. 

The full picture of a physical copy’s appeal is not exhausted by auditory experience. Beyond the tracklist, physical records are beautiful objects and multifaceted commodities. Any record can be a gesamtkunstwerk, a total work of art incorporating a synthesis of various mediums. Think of your prized possession, the vinyl which stands above the rest. The distinct design of a disc; typography on its inner sleeve; the back and inside covers of its outer sleeve, unseen during digital listening; booklets, photography, posters, lyric sheets, or other accompanying add-ons; the record’s grooves, which may contain added racks. For anyone fascinated with an album, its physical copy offers an additional layer of immersion for further fascination. My first vinyl was no exception.

However, even if we agree on the above point, the vinyl phenomenon can be dismissed as excessive, a technologically obsolete pursuit in the digital age. 

I am then left with a second, more difficult 

question for myself: Bracketing audiophile concerns, what makes these purchases different from other “unnecessary” patterns of consumption? How do we vinyl collectors reasonably distinguish our expenditures from other unreflective spending habits? As a young person who began collecting in the time of streaming’s pre-given dominance, this is of particular concern. 

I have felt a bit low on collecting recently. Purchases began feeling unnecessary, or even wasteful. It has been about 10 months since I got new vinyl—Lowercase by Bluetile Lounge was a gift to me. The last time I bought a record was Everyone Asked About You’s compilation Paper Airplanes, Paper Hearts, about a year and a half ago. The majority of my listening is done digitally. I explore hundreds of new albums every year; physical formats are unsustainable in that effort. 

Notably, one is compelled to buy vinyl on the same basis we deride other consumptive tendencies as “materialistic.” Like any product, records are advertised through sales techniques designed to reel in particular consumers: new disc colors, remastered mixing, limited time deals, scarce supplies. When digging through a store’s miscellaneous offerings, you might feel the pressure to capitalize on a rare find which, by your next visit, could be owned by another fan. In either scenario, the implicit advertising message boils down to something comparable with any commodity: Buy now, or you are missing out.

This is not a revelatory insight. Any analysis is complicated by the fact that music is a malleable commodity, in both physical and non-physical form. Listening can be done in private sessions or group settings. Vinyl can be shared without real worry for depreciation or limiting its usage. 

The distinct appeal of vinyl as a commodity emerges again here. In their use, records are not instrumental, functional, or immediately “used-up.” As a symbol of disposable income, they only remain confined to private residences or social media posts which garner cultural clout among fellow hobbyists.

On the one hand, this is exactly why physical music is seemingly superfluous under the conditions of streaming. You could simply play the record for friends off of a bluetooth speaker.

On the other hand, vinyl purchases establish a distinct chain of connection between fans and their favorite artists. All benefit in some respect; even if the payout is not immense, it is more robust than a few hundred streams. The incentive seems even greater if the record is sold through small stores or by artists themselves. Ensuring musicians are compensated for their work assists career viability, especially as economic units like bands grow prohibitively expensive for musicians to manage. Although 84 percent of U.S. recorded music revenues came from streaming in 2023, multiple channels of income couldn’t hurt.

Buying vinyl solely for the sake of buying it is obviously a questionable compulsion, but at the very least it helps artists without resulting in wasteful ownership of a temporary object. While this impulse exists for some, I hesitate to call it widespread enough to warrant concern over the medium of vinyl itself. The record can sit on a shelf rather than growing unusable. My rash purchase of Close to the Edge seems relevant, yet it also launched an interest in collecting, opening means for me to support artists previously fueled my interest in music.

Whether we stream, attend live shows, or buy vinyl, our listening remains within the domain of music as a consumable entity, a commodity subsequently sold/bought after its process of creation. Musical products are “exchanged” in the broadest sense of the phrase, often in the form of hyperlink recommendation. Of course, if we assent to this reasoning, an ability to challenge the market economy’s control over our personal desires will fall flat. Vinyl collecting is not socially transformative; it reinforces the commodity form’s appeal rather than undermining its character. 

However, if musical commodification is an inevitable part of listening, even for “non-commercial” styles, it does not hurt to have more of that created wealth find its way back into the creators’ pockets. As far as all “materialistic” hobbies go, vinyl seems alright to me. Maybe I’ll grab that copy of Moon Pix…

Allen Hale is a music fan and writer from Massachusetts. He is currently a senior-year philosophy major at Vassar College, where he serves as Editor-in-Chief of The Miscellany News. When he is not writing, Allen also plucks the electric bass. Aside from music, he enjoys consuming cheap coffee, playing frisbee, watching Boston sports, and reading anything he can get his hands on.

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