Tom Carson

I’ve never owned or driven a Bentley, nor have I ever even ridden in one, so, Bentley-drivers, Bentley-lovers, don’t get angry at me, as I’m about to relay information I can’t verify through first-hand experience.

Anway, I was recently speaking with a friend who once owned a Bentley, and this once-Bentley-owning friend of mine told me that, though the Bentley was one of her favo(u)rite cars – memories or which she held very fondly – it was one of the biggest pains in the ass to maintain, mostly due to the fact that it would consistently leak oil. As a result, she claimed, she was required to become an amateur mechanic of sorts to keep the car in working order. I initially suspected her particular model may have been at fault, but she assured me this was a common characteristic of Bentleys in general.

So, I thought to myself – myself not being much more than a person who would use a car to get from Point A to Point B – why the hell should she love this car so much? Why wouldn’t she just get a vehicle that wouldn’t give her so much grief? Why would she choose such a mess? Giving oneself an excuse to learn more about mechanics is all well and good, but is it worth the effort?

Well, as I was listening to my friend, I came to a certain realization, and that realization applies to my record-collecting habit, so I find it fitting that I should discuss it here with you. Here it is as it applies: The fact that I’m a music-lover does not entirely inform my status as a record-collector.

Very often, one starts collecting records because of an interest in music – just as people don’t generally collect baseball cards for the sheer love of gazing at pictures of pitchers wracked with facial contortions. They usually have an actual interest in the game of baseball, and the same holds true, I imagine, for most record-collectors when it comes to music and recorded sound.

I started my collection because I discovered records in my grandmother’s house, records that belonged to my uncles, uncles who had already introduced me to the artists who were on those records: The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, the like. I wanted to play the records, because I wanted to hear the music. This was in the late ’90s and early 2000s. CDs were ubiquitous, and Classic Rock radio was making a resurgence even among young people, so this music had certainly been otherwise available to my ears even in the absence of the records that I had discovered. I didn’t need the records to hear the music, so what was it that drew me to them?

The answer to that question may not be that unique or revelatory, but it informs my habit just the same: I was fascinated by the objects, and I felt engaged, in a particular way, by the tactile nature of actually getting the music out of them. This took more than just pushing a CD into a player and pressing “play”. You had to know what you were doing. You had to look at where you were placing the needle. I’m willing to bet that most people feel this way about playing records, but one’s interest in playing records doesn’t necessarily beget one’s interest in collecting records. This sentiment is what helps in separating music-lovers from record-collectors.

Music-lovers don’t need records. Unless the music is not available digitally, music-lovers will access their music like casual listeners do: through online stores like iTunes and Amazon, through streaming services like Spotify and YouTube. Why? Because it’s easy. A music-lover would be absolutely remiss if he or she or they were to not take advantage of these outlets that have helped to shift the notion of music from something considered to be a luxury to something that’s an integral and ever-present part of a culture. I know I use these outlets even though I collect. You don’t have to listen to music through the electrical signals picked up by a needle running along grooves made in a hunk of vinyl.

Some audiophiles might say that there are certain aural aspects that make the analogue vinyl record a superior carrier of sound over other formats. But, in the face of this, I would go further to say that not all audiophiles are record-collectors, nor are they necessarily music-lovers. They can very well be all of these things, but being these things is not mutually exclusive. Audiophiles love what that word suggests: sound. They relish in the quality of sound. Music-lovers relish in the quality of music.

Well, record-collectors relish in the quality of records, not necessarily the quality of music or the quality of sound. Now, understand this: When, I say “quality,” I’m not necessarily referring to the integrity of the vinyl. I’m also referring to “character” rather than just “value” or “merit,” which brings me back to the conversation with my Bentley-owning friend. This friend did not love that car because it drove well, though it may have driven well. She loved that care because it had to be maintained; it had to be taken care of; it had to be loved. It wasn’t just some car that was good with the routine check-up. It was problematic, and it made her more knowledgeable about cars.

That’s a reason why I collect records: I like to discover music that can’t be found digitally; I like to travel to different record shops; I like to dig through non-alphabetized and often subjectively categorized crates (if they’re categorized at all) to find those records that jump out at me. These are problems. But, these problems only account for the gathering process.

The problems continue in the playing of the records. In her book Do Not Sell At Any Price, Amanda Petrusich describes collectors of 78s jury-rigging modifications to tone-arms to account for the weight required to play certain individual platters. They know each record and its quirks. Newer turntables have these adjustable weights built in, but they are still necessary, because records still present surface irregularities: scratches, dimples, warping. The angle of the tone arm needs to be calibrated for the size of the record. Surface noise is a problem: Records need to be cleaned; they need proper storage; they’re affected by temperature and humidity. The mechanics of a turntable can require speed adjustments. All of these factors mean that one doesn’t just have to listen to the music on the record; one has to pay attention to the object itself and how it fairs on a particular day.

I love music. I buy records because I like to listen to them. I don’t buy records to put them in glass cases or hang them in frames or keep them factory-sealed and in mint condition. But, I have come to understand that I am not a record-collector because I love music. I am a music-lover who collects records and a record-collector who loves music. But further to this, I love the problems that records present.

THE PLATTER

I’m now listening to a record that requires care: My copy of Jefferson Airplane’s Surrealistic Pillow (1967) is warped and warped just enough to present a noticeable problem. It’s not unplayable, but I can’t just throw it on right after having listened to a brand-spanking-new record and not expect to make adjustments to the player.

The tone-arm weight has to be adjusted so that the needle doesn’t jump on every rotation; the tone-arm elevation has to be adjusted so that the cartridge doesn’t bump against the record; the cartridge has to be adjusted so that the angle at which the needle lays in the groove is minimized. All of this, and still the stretched sound will never be completely corrected. Also, I, of course, run the risk or reducing the lifespan of my stylus and disproportionately wearing the grooves in the record. For these reasons, I don’t listen to this album – this particular piece of vinyl – very often.

But, I keep it. I keep it, and I do occasionally listen to it. And, why? I could easily buy another copy. The record isn’t terribly hard to find. I could also easily find it streaming online. But, I keep it, because it presents these problems, and I keep it because I know that I myself am the reason why it presents these problems. I didn’t buy the record warped. It was in fine condition when I bought it, but I carelessly left it in my car on a hot day when the windows were closed, baking the poor thing – and not for a craft project. For this reason, it reminds me that I have to take care of my records. It reminds me that my record collection is my record collection, because it’s a collection of unique objects and not just a collection of music.

THE PITCHER

Being a beer-drinker can be a bit like being a record-collector. You don’t drink beer just because you like to drink, just because it puts something in your stomach, nor do you always find your favorite beer and just stick with that. You drink beer because you like the discovery; you like the problems.

You know that not every IPA is going to taste the same, nor is every IPA from the same brewing company going to taste the same. In fact, the same IPA from the same brewing company from a different year could taste different. So, you can’t just say that you like or dislike IPAs, let alone just say that you like or dislike beer.

Nevertheless, I’ve often done such a thing: I’ve often said that I dislike sours. But, I’m trying Victory’s Wisdom’s Hour anyway, and I’m trying to appreciate the problems. I’m trying to find the things about it that do work in spite of what I might perceive as imperfections because of my personal taste. So, here I go.

And, guess what: I kind of like it. When I think hard enough to get past the tartness, which is really minimal for a sour, I get to the pure ale taste that I like. It’s not an amazing ale taste, but it’s refreshing to get to it when you have to push through. Again, forgive me, sour-lovers. You may like that tart aspect of it. In fact, you may be disappointed with the mild character of it.

In any case, I’m enjoying my problematic beer, with my problematic record. They’re making me work. And, why else would I collect records or drink beer if either task were easy?

Well, easy isn’t always bad, but that’s for another day.