THE
VINYL
TOUCH
Written by OSAYI ENDOLYN
Illustration by BARRY LEE
“Whoa. Whoa! What album is that?”
The Zifty delivery guy pointed behind me.
Forty-five minutes earlier, I had ordered a chicken Parmesan sub through Zifty.com.
The Zifty people pick up your takeout order from restaurants that don’t deliver, and
bring it right to you. I was famished. It was one of those offensively cold nights just
before Atlanta was held hostage by snow and ice. My kitchen offered unattractive
options ranging from uncooked pasta to granola, and I was not about to brave the
weather. So when I opened the door to the nice Zifty man holding my sandwich
from Noni’s Italian Deli, I could have grabbed his face and smacked a juicy one right
on him. I tipped the man instead. Then things took a detour.
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“Do you mind if I take a look at it?” he asked.
I was confused at first. This is not how it usually works: I’m hungry, you bring food, I pay
you, you leave. Then it clicked. My stairway
leading up to the second floor was in clear
view, and it was lined with vinyl records. They
sit flush against the wall, from top to bottom,
kept out of the way by clear plastic bookends.
Zifty Man was referencing the front album
on the first step. I set down my sandwich
and picked up the record, bringing it over
to him.
music meditation. He stood on one side of the
door, I was on the other, an album hovered
between us while my chicken Parmesan rested
behind me. It smelled delicious. Another
minute passed as he commented on Jackson
and his love for vinyl in general. Then, a brief
silence. If he made a break for it, I wasn’t going to chase him.
“Yeah,” he nodded enthusiastically. “I hope you don’t
mind. I’m a part-time DJ
and I collect records. I love
Joe Jackson, but I’ve never
seen that album.”
It must have looked odd. A moment earlier we
were strangers, connected solely by my hunger
pains. Suddenly, we were sharing some kind of
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A DIFFERENT WORLD
Some of the records were purchased, most we
adopted. There’s a lot of good music out there
that faces abandonment. Rod Stewart, Stevie
Wonder, Frank Sinatra, Prince — they
needed a home, so we took them in.
And where does one put 600 albums? Everywhere. They line both
stairways in our townhome.
They are framed artwork on
the walls. They are conversation starters stacked underneath the coffee table.
You can’t go anywhere in
my house without running
into an album.
“The Joe Jackson?”
The record in question was
“Body and Soul,” released
in 1984, influenced by jazz,
pop and salsa. The cover
is striking. The 30-year-old
Jackson is posed against a black
background and he’s tinted a
fiery red. His saxophone is front
and center, and he holds a burning
cigarette while staring into the distance.
The artwork on “Body and Soul” pays homage
to the 1957 release “Vol. 2” by Sonny Rollins,
master saxophonist of the bebop era. Zifty
Man held the record in his hands, turned it
over to check out the track listing and then
back to the front to stare at the artwork. My
door was still wide open. Every bit of that
night’s wind chill was whipping through
my house. The front of my body facing the
door was frozen, and my backside was losing
warmth by the second. But I couldn’t rush
him. He was totally romanced.
stepped through my front door and walked up
that stairway, he might have wanted to smack
a juicy one on me. My husband and I own
about 600 albums. At some point counting
them became silly.
“Sorry,” he said finally, with an apologetic
laugh. He handed the record back to me.
“No worries,” I said, “I totally get it.” And I
did. Hours later, after I had wolfed down my
sandwich, that moment stuck with me for
its tenderness and its awkwardness. Music
has a way of forcing people to act on their
instincts, in spite of themselves. Delivery guys
don’t make conversation — they’re in a rush,
they’ve got other people’s doors to knock on.
Zifty Man deviated from the routine not only
because he was a Joe Jackson fan, but because
of the impact that seeing a stairway lined with
albums has on a music lover. Had Zifty Man
Each record has its own
richness – not just because
of the music it holds, but because of the sensation you get
when you hold it. Something
fragile bubbles up, something
you miss out on with an MP3 file,
streaming music, or even a CD. I’m
not talking about the audiophile debate
that’s gone on since the dawn of digital, or
the efficacy of vinyl sound quality versus
other mediums. I’m talking about that tactile
element. The thing that made Zifty Man linger
on my doorstep.
Whatever that thing is, a lot of us have experienced it, and it’s contagious. Reports that
album sales have increased steadily every year
are no longer news. Today, smart musicians
release a vinyl record along with a digital
version, especially if they’re independent artists. Turntable purchases are going to young
people, and their parents are buying iPods. As
someone who can’t remember a time when
CDs weren’t an option, I find that strange.
But it’s happening all over, and no one really
knows why.
Some say it’s the vinyl sound – like crinkling
paper or a fire popping — that accentuates the
listening experience. Others say the methodology wins. Everything slows down when
you’re jamming to a record; moving a needle
to a specific point is not as easy as clicking
the arrow in iTunes. Still, others promote the
visual candy. Album artwork is ubiquitous
today; it’s hard to believe that the concept of
putting art on a cover wasn’t invented until
1938 (plain cardboard sufficed until then). The
innovative Alex Steinweiss, Columbia Record’s
first art director, invoked a new way for artists
to promote their music, and for consumers to
think about the mood behind their favorite
songs. Would Joni Mitchell’s “Blue” sound the
same without the deep blue headshot of her
close-to-tears face? Sure, it would. But would
it feel the same? I’m not so sure.
TAKE A RETROSPECTIVE
Perhaps to understand what’s happening in today’s record bins, we should examine the way
it used to be. Our parents are good resources.
If you ask them, they might recall the days
when singles were released on 45s and only on
Fridays. For that reason, Fridays were special
and full of excitement. Discussions at school
would ultimately turn toward what was coming out that weekend and what you thought it
would sound like.
They might remember a time when records
sold out, just poof, they were gone, and weeks
would go by before a new shipment came.
In order to hear the album in question, you
had to go to a friend’s house, because they
ditched class and waited in line to buy it.
Everyone would gather around and listen or
dance, sometimes both, but you couldn’t go
too far away — in less than 30 minutes you
had to turn the record over. If you played an
instrument, your popularity increased by how
quickly you could learn the new songs and
perform them with your fellow band mem-
bers. The very acquisition of music made it a
collective experience, something you had to
share with others. That’s just how it was.
And even when you were alone and it was
just you and your album, you could hold the
liner notes and cover in your hands. You could
stare at the lyrics and read the acknowledgments over and over, until you looked at them
without seeing. And sometimes, the record
would sound so perfect, the music would stop,
but that hissing noise that records make when
they keep spinning would come through the
speakers, and you would just sit there and
keep thinking about whatever it is you think
when something has inspired you, or made
you wistful. If you ask your parents, or your
aunts and uncles, that’s what they might say.
If they leave out the part where the needle was
dull and it ruined the record, or how it was
hot one day and the vinyl melted in the car, or
how when they tried to move, the box broke
under the weight of too many albums smashed
together — please, forgive them. We’ve
convinced ourselves that vinyl takes us “back”
somewhere and that it’s a more “authentic”
listening experience. It’s not. It just feels good.
SOMETHING MORE,
SOMETHING GOOD
This is typically the part where the author
bemoans “The State of Music Today” and
how the latest advances in technology have
wreaked havoc on our society. You won’t hear
me complain about any of that. I love living
in a time where all 6,524 songs in my iTunes
can fit in the palm of my hand. I like that I can
buy one song if I only like that one, and the
other 12 can stay wherever songs live in Apple
world when you don’t buy them. I don’t mind
that clicking “Buy” is a solitary experience and
that I don’t lose my breath from anticipating
a new release because it streamed on NPR for
free. And I love hitting “Play,” then “Shuffle,”
and walking away from my computer, knowing
that days could pass before all the songs play.
But I wonder sometimes if we’re missing
something special. I wonder if some hidden
gene lodged in that place only music goes,
is leading us back to — there, I said it — a
time when you didn’t just share music with
friends, you experienced it together. I guess
that’s what Ping and Pandora try to cultivate
by showing what your friends are listening to,
and recommending new artists based on your
tastes. They’re certainly effective; millions
of satisfied users indicate as much. But they
don’t give you that warm and fuzzy feeling.
There’s also artistic integrity to consider. Some
musicians’ projects are based on a concept and
the music is meant to be listened to in order,
start to finish. Take Neko Case’s “Middle Cyclone” or Janelle Monáe’s “The ArchAndroid.”
The album as a medium certainly favors their
visions. Don’t we get something out of hearing
a piece of music the way it was intended? And
haven’t we proven we’re unreliable when given
the (digital) reins? Admit it, sometimes we
need guidance. Not because our views of music
are pedestrian, but because just like a wellcrafted book, some musicians arrange their
tracks like chapters. Reading cover to cover is
part of the deal.
Maybe this is the new happy medium: a little
digital for your everyday, a little vinyl for your
soul. That’s the only way I know to explain the
sense of security I feel when a record is playing. That’s all I can say when visitors wonder
why we have so many records. And it’s the only
way I can understand the stillness and admiration that came over Zifty Man so quickly, and
to justify that I was close to inviting him in.
Just to talk. About music. Because even when
you’re hungry and cold and not thinking about
music, when you connect with someone over
an album that you forgot you had, the dynamics change. You soften. And you listen.
As I placed the record back on the step, Zifty
Man apologized again. “You just don’t come
across too many people,” he started to say.
“I know,” I said, “I know.” »
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