Featured Essay: Soundtrack of My Life: Memories Spun on a Vinyl Record

by Sofia Ribeiro Willcox

On Sundays, I remember visiting my avó’s house. Her living room held a 3-in-1 black glazed record player, cassette player, and radio. Back then, I saw it as a threat—it always stared at me. The longer CD racks at home never looked at me that way. But it never fully intimidated me.

With each visit, I explored it with my hands. Each time, the way I leaned on it changed. Then came the day I finally reached the top. I saw a different picture.

There, on top, was her vinyl collection. Chico Buarque (1978) was always at the front. That’s when I fully understood what it was for.

Track 01: Borogodó and Birds

Despite fearing that “monster,” it never stopped me from appreciating the art of listening to music. I grew up surrounded by an eclectic soundtrack.

There was always a rhythm beneath everyday sounds. The Atlantic Forest was the backyard of my urban childhood. Birds orchestrated alongside the urban foley of car horns, bus brakes, construction noise, church bells, and pedestrian chatter.

There’s a borogodó in Brazilian-ness—melodic intonation, wide gestures and facial movements, natural body sway. Regionalisms and sociolects added rhythm to daily conversation.

Track 02: Família

In my routine, every family member added a genre. Vovó constantly sang, from Carnaval marches to Brazilian Popular Music. Papai played rock lullabies for babies on the stereo, R&B and soul in the car, and sometimes picked up his harmonica or played “Johnny B. Goode” on guitar. Mamãe hummed as she cooked.

As I grew up, music itself was transitioning—from CDs to MP3s, then iPods.

Track 03: Dusty Grooves & Hollywood Dreams

Record stores were never part of my usual hangouts. I used to go to movie rental and DVD stores, which always had a CD section. That’s where my path split from my father’s—he would always stop and browse, while my mother found creative ways to accommodate his endless collection at home, turning racks into décor.

As I grew older, those moments faded with the rise of downloadable music libraries.

Music stores, however, stayed alive in Hollywood’s charm. They became a shy but memorable presence in a string of feel-good films: Pretty in Pink (Howard Deutch, 1986), Before Sunrise (Richard Linklater, 1995), Empire Records (Allan Moyle, 1995), High Fidelity (Stephen Frears, 2000), and 500 Days of Summer (Marc Webb, 2009).

Track 04: The Return of Vinyl

I remember specific moments when I stumbled upon vinyl—hidden gems tucked into themed home décor or restaurant displays.

My true reunion with vinyl came nearly two decades later, in my early twenties. Even as technology kept evolving, I saw the vinyl revival. It felt as remarkable as the movies I loved—a moment to pause, live fully in the present. The sound, too, stood out; the contrast with digital was undeniable.

Growing up, I eventually learned which vinyl was my avó’s favorite. I hadn’t realized Chico Buarque’s presence in my childhood. He was behind the Brazilian adaptation of The Musicians of Bremen, a story I listened to and even saw performed live. He also wrote the song that played on loop in the first apartment I lived in until I was three.

Now, I see him differently: one of the living octogenarian geniuses who stood up during Brazil’s military dictatorship. His lyrics became a powerful form of resistance—challenging censorship through irony, satire, metaphors, and ambiguity.

Track 05: The Vinyl’s Club

In my early twenties, I was lucky enough to find my musical clique. Music was our connection—the thread that tied us together despite age gaps and different backgrounds.

We were always listening, making playlists, and exchanging songs, artists, or bands—sometimes even playing instruments and singing together. I remember countless weekends hanging out with them. They were the ones who introduced me to British record stores. HMV, Forbidden Planet, and Oasis Market were love at first visit.

Those stores led us to discover local fairs and festivals dedicated to vinyl.

No matter where we were, we’d spend hours hunting for music treasures—T-shirts, accessories, posters, CDs, or vinyl. The fun was in uncovering what was hidden just above our noses—the thrill of rare finds. Sometimes, I’d wander into the DVD section, searching for cinematic gems.

B-Side: Needle Without a Groove

I was always fascinated by the UK’s vibrancy—after all, the land of some of the artists who shaped so many of my memories: The Beatles, Elton John, Queen, David Bowie, Oasis, Blur, Amy Winehouse, Radiohead, Fleetwood Mac, and Coldplay. I’ve since discovered new names to add to my musical repertoire and still stumble upon street performers or live acts at local venues.

Sadly, my vinyl club’s treasure hunts came to an abrupt end under a domino effect of closures.

First, The Crown—mecca of local rock royalty—shut down after a failed bid in early February 2024. Then, in late February, its next-door neighbour, The Electric Cinema—Birmingham’s first and the UK’s oldest working cinema—followed. Third, but not last, Oasis Market inside the Priory Square shopping centre closed in March 2025.

The Crown saw early performances from Black Sabbath and hosted visits from Led Zeppelin, UB40, The Who, Status Quo, Thin Lizzy, Supertramp, Judas Priest, and Robert Plant.

The Electric Cinema was a century-old witness to storytelling—from silent films to talkies, through the golden age of TV and video rentals. It survived wars, a pandemic, and the rise of streaming. In its final years, it found a rare balance—screening both modern digital films and treasured 35mm prints.

Since 1972, Oasis Market had been home to independent sellers, alternative fashion, and vintage music stalls. It was an underground haven for hard-to-find musical gems and memorabilia. Its sun-bleached photos of local pop icons were already fading.

The world wearing the same uniform stands in stark contrast to what all of them stood for. They paved paradise to build a 50-storey apartment block.

Ironically, the London-based chains remain untouched. It’s still possible to pan for gold—but only under mainstream constraints.

HMV (His Master’s Voice) is a centenarian that has lived through jukeboxes, radios, boomboxes, Walkmans, MP3s, and CDs. Still alive and kicking—with a world war and a pandemic behind it—it continues to battle the rise of streaming and the online democratization of music. Legends like David Bowie, Paul McCartney, Michael Jackson, and Madonna have pinned their presence.

Forbidden Planet, nearly 50 years old, began as a small shop on London’s iconic Denmark Street in the West End. It offers something for every kind of UK-based collector—comic and graphic novel fans, bookworms, music lovers, and cinephiles.

Not to mention: Hard Rock Café, Rose Morris, Camden Town, Abbey Road. Further north, there’s the legendary Cavern Club in Liverpool, along with vibrant music scenes across Manchester and Bristol.

Track 06: Saudade

For me, memories always come with a soundtrack. In my life, people are music. I remember the details like the back of my hand—stories marked by smells and smiles. I wear saudade on my sleeve. Connections grow distant; they become playlists. We’re just specks of dust in the galaxy. But if you ever feel lonely, just go to a record store—and visit your friends.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to see the beauty in my avó’s “monster.” That relic offered a glimpse into a time when music was collective—shared among three generations of family.

Maybe that’s the magic of music: its ability to transcend. It offers solace for creators and audiences alike. Its power is to connect across barriers, to live forever, and to (re)create meaning. A remedy for an increasingly unhealthy society.

But somewhere, the record still spins.

Sofia Ribeiro Willcox is a Content Director with a storyteller’s heart. By day, she orchestrates marketing; by night, she’s a freelance writer and translator across different genres and platforms. Attentive to unheard voices and overlooked stories from every person, place, and moment, her creative compass follows four cardinal points: curiosity, culture, conscience, and craft. Originally from Niterói, Brazil, Sofia now lives in Birmingham, UK