Record Management: Addressing what may have turned into more of a problem than a pleasure

Photo by Nick Spacek

This paragraph is going to sound like I’m bragging, but I assure you, I’m not. According to my Discogs account, I have something just shy of 1,600 records. This includes LPs, box sets, 7-inch and 45 rpm releases, and a smattering of 10-inch EPs. It does not include records I’ve been too lazy to discover which version I have out of something like 45 different variants, nor does it include a few pre-release copies for review.

Okay, that last sentence was kind of a brag.

These records are ostensibly stored on three sets of industrial shelving, measuring six feet high, three feet wide, and one foot deep. Each unit has four shelves. That is 36 linear feet of storage space and when I write it out like that, it’s not as much room as they seem to take up in this spare bedroom I’ve converted into an office.

Sometime around last fall, I went through a bout of early seasonal depression where I decided that my record collection needed to go. Getting rid of all these LPs would score me some extra cash, the room wouldn’t feel so crammed, and I could stop wondering if the floor joists could support all that weight.

After a lengthy discussion with both the owner of the local record store and my spouse, I decided that wasn’t a great idea and actually dove back into buying records again. I made some great finds at a downtown music shop that has a few bins, participated in both the Black Friday and regular versions of Record Store Day, and have definitely given in to several online label sales to snag a few things I might not otherwise have taken a chance on.

All that is to say that when people talk about physical media and the joys therein, rarely is there a discussion of the looming nature of owning it. I’m aware this is very much a first world problem, complaining about the spoils of a capitalist society, but for all of the advantages espoused by folks such as myself, there’s a definite disadvantage to being a tactile enthusiast in an age of digital ephemera.

My journey was pretty simple: I found an old-school suitcase-style record player with a built-in speaker buried on a back shelf of the bakery where I worked at the time. It doesn’t make any sense to me as to why it was there, either, but that’s what happened. I’d collected records here and there in the past, mostly buying 7-inches from punk and ska bands I liked, but they were mostly just collectibles. And without a way to play them, I’d sold them for beer and/or cigarette money. Recalling a handful of titles 25 years later, I could likely pay off my car loan with them today.

So, I get this record player, and then immediately hit up Love Garden. At the time, they were in their original upstairs location, and had what was called the shotgun room. Records in rough shape with scuffed surfaces, torn jackets, and were beat up, but playable and, most importantly, most of them were a dollar. The nicer ones, a buck or two more—the perfect place to start a very basic record collection for my very basic record player.

Then it started growing. Yard sales, thrift stores, various family members clearing out their basements, and the occasional album reviews grew it slowly, but surely. When we moved into our house, the records could fit into two mail crates. A year later, I moved my computer desk from the laundry room into our basement and that’s when things started taking on a whole new aspect. I had space, some disposable income from freelance work, and invested in my first shelf. A few years later, a second shelf. Singles had their own home on a repurposed bookshelf and grew to more than 300, thanks to a weekly punk and garage rock radio show allowing me a place to spin them for more than my own entertainment.

Just thinking about it makes me feel overwhelmed. How in the ever-loving hell did I go from a cheap alternative to buying CDs or downloading stuff to having more records than a booth at an antique mall? Time changes everything and, at times, it’s made me feel like this library of sounds is an albatross around my neck, if I might mangle a metaphor. The constant need for new styli, record sleeves, and keeping all the new stuff from just piling up on the floor feels as though I’ve taken on a part-time job as an archivist.

So what the hell do you do with a looming problem? Like, that’s not even an exaggeration. Every single Zoom call I’ve done the past four and a half years has had these shelves in the background as if I were hidden in the corner of a radio station. Yes, it did mean that at one point, Rock ‘n’ Roll High School director Allan Arkush turned his camera around to show me his own massive collection, so that’s a plus. But while I like music, being a “record guy” in my mid-40s feels like I’m a walking stereotype, especially with these shelves behind me.

What you do with this problem is simple, I’ve decided. As much as it pains me, I cull. I go through the stacks, pull out records, and figure out if I’ve played them in the last year. If I don’t feel like listening to it within a week or two, it gets tossed, metaphorically. In actuality, it gets sold. I’m taking an active role in making sure these records are something that bring me happiness. Some of the greatest albums of all time are at my disposal anytime I want to spin them, with big, glorious jackets to stare at and liner notes to peruse.

I could spin records every second I’m home and awake and maybe make it through everything in a year. How cool is that? I’ve begun taking a more active role in having these records, rather than buying them, playing them, shelving them, and moving on to the next new thing. If I’m sitting here, tapping out my dumb words on the keyboard, something’s spinning four feet to my right. It’s a gradual process, but it’s helped get me in a more mindful state.

Having to get up every 20 minutes or so to flip the record over keeps me from sitting here for three hours at a go, and digging for an album to spin I haven’t heard in a while keeps my ears fresh. An obscure Texas blues guitar album from 1973? Yes, please. A live compilation of new wave bands? Of course. A box set of novelty music? Obviously.

It’s been a month. Let’s get digging.

Records played during this venting process:

YGT, Sinking Ship
The Temptations, Cloud Nine
Ben Folds, Best Imitation of Myself: A Retrospective
Namelessnumberheadman, Wires Reply
Various Artists, Remolino de Oro: Coatal Cumbias from Colombia’s Discos Fuentes 1961-1973