This is a guest article by reader David Fisher
It seems like each new popular musical genre initially gets labeled "the devil's music." In the 1920s, the swinging rhythms of jazz were considered taboo in some corners of polite society. Later, subtle to blatantly risqué lyrics earned Delta blues that "devil's music" moniker. Then along came rock'n'roll, with Elvis' hips and Lennon's quips eliciting shock and outrage. In retrospect, "more popular than Jesus" seems relatively tame compared to "Sympathy for the Devil" or heavy metal's penchant for mayhem.
Typically, though, musical styles eventually become accepted and even admired. Jazz is regarded by many as the truest American art form. The venerable Smithsonian has archived Delta blues. And, while Slayer remains a taste that many of us have yet to acquire, rock music is definitely mainstream, featured in movies, advertising, and school concerts across the land.
Despite music's seemingly inexorable migration from the devil's playground to daily soundtrack, I have a sneaking suspicion that our obsessive collecting behavior (OCB) might still cross some sort of lines. After careful consideration, I've reluctantly concluded that I'm guilty of seven deadly sins—of record collecting. But, as the saying goes, judge not lest ye be judged—some of these behaviors might sound familiar.
Lust: Male music lovers of a certain age certainly felt a special twinge while contemplating Carly Simon's iconic sweater on the cover of No Secrets or Dolores Erickson's lack of one on Whipped Cream and Other Delights. But the sin of lust is not confined to the carnal realm; it can more broadly refer to any unbridled desire. What, if not lust ("earoticism," if you will) could possibly explain the extreme lengths we will go to in securing new additions to our collections? The eyes of long-suffering spouses glaze over as we describe treasures we hope to find awaiting us in the record stores of each city we visit. Museum, historic site, botanical garden? Ha, not when there's a chance of stumbling across that rare Method Actor album and completing our Eva Cassidy collection.
Pride: We display our vinyl treasures prominently for both ourselves and others to admire (and organize/reorganize them in systems only we can decipher). We cart rare and coveted LPs to listening sessions with friends. We revel in affirming that "I've got that on vinyl." This modicum of pride—normal. But when does pride cross over into obnoxious territory? I'm guessing it's when we spend ten minutes explaining Mobile Fidelity's "Digitalgate" controversy to an innocent acquaintance whose only mistake was mentioning that we seem to enjoy vinyl. But that's just a guess.
Envy: I readily confess to bouts of envy when thumbing through friends' LP collections that dwarf mine, discovering that another collector was smart enough to buy the Déjà Vu 50th anniversary box set before it went out of print, or listening to someone's pristine Robert Ludwig pressing of Led Zeppelin II. But my envy meter really spikes when reading "I never thought this would happen to me" social media posts from people I don't even know, celebrating their great classic rock finds at local thrift shops or the boxes of rare jazz LPs they picked up for a song at an estate sale. My own experiences in those venues have been anything but rewarding. Stacks upon dusty stacks of Percy Faith, Ray Coniff, and Alvin & The Chipmunks. On those rare occasions when something piques my interest, the record itself is inevitably stuffed into a rotting album jacket, sans inner sleeve, vinyl looking like it's been used as a Frisbee… in a blackberry patch.
Gluttony: While everyday parlance pigeon-holes gluttony as gorging on food and drink, the term can refer more generally to any overindulgence. I should keep that in mind as I'm explaining why I absolutely had to have the Analogue Productions UHQR of Kind of Blue when I already owned a decent early pressing, a quality reissue, a 50th anniversary box set on blue vinyl, and the Mobile Fidelity 45 rpm version. Or why paying over $200 for a copy of Let it Be… Naked made perfect sense.
Greed: The dictionary says that greed is an inordinate desire to have more than one needs, especially material possessions. But isn't that also the very definition of being a collector – obsessively placing desire over need? As the saying goes, the correct number of records to own is however many you already have, plus one. Enough said. Move on.
Wrath: If we let it, our hobby unfortunately offers ample opportunities for anger. Like waiting not-so-patiently for online orders, only to find that when the package eventually arrives, it looks like it's been dropped in a puddle, driven over, and then dragged down a gravel road. Or, my all-time favorite, the postal carrier folding the package to force it into the mailbox. Or discovering that somewhere along the way, that coveted record has become too warped to play. Fortunately, I have found sellers to be mostly understanding and accommodating in these situations. Less so when their "mint minus" rating is a little, shall we say, "optimistic" (read: blatant lie). Score one for physical inspection at your local brick-and-mortar!
Passing flare-ups aside, my most persistent irritations are usually directed at myself. In a vain attempt to hold gluttony, greed, and the always dangerous fear-of-missing-out at bay, my pendulum sometimes swings too far in the opposite direction. For example, I once declined to pay $55 for REM Live, because the cover was a little worn and I figured I could always pick up a nicer copy. Spoiler alert: Copies on Discogs now start around $200 and go up significantly from there. Oops… bad judgement.
And, finally, sloth: The sin of sloth can't possibly be applied to a record-collecting music lover. Can it? Sure, there are weeds to be pulled and a lawn to be mowed. But such mundane chores will simply have to wait. I'm hunkered down here in the sweet spot, and I think it's time to give some black discs a spin.
Okay, so, that's my confession. I'm seven-for-seven on the sin-o-meter, and I suspect that many other collectors may be, as well.
Some of us are simply partial to the sound of analog. Others may find special joy in handling physical media. Still others may view vinyl as an antidote to the technologies that are invading every other aspect of daily life. Whatever draws us to the medium, we are fortunate to be living during today's vinyl resurgence. In addition to a parade of new releases, updated pressings of favorite albums arrive with regularity. Many offer significant improvements in sound quality over previous versions.
Faced with this seemingly unlimited bounty (and assuming we aren't also blessed with unlimited funds), we are forced to ask ourselves some challenging questions. When does our collecting move beyond a hobby into full-fledged addiction—and, like all addictions, does it seriously threaten our over-all well-being? Do we have the discipline to actually set a budget for new acquisitions—and, more importantly, the self-control to stick with it? Or do we inevitably wave the white flag, chuckle at our own lack of restraint, and wear the numbers off our credit cards?
I won't presume to answer those questions for anyone else. The answers vary from person to person. They can also change from time to time. But I do know that whenever our responses strike an obsessive chord, we can always say, "The devil (music) made me do it."
