Why I’m Hanging on to My Records

First it was "Fire" by The Crazy World of Arthur Brown. I would carefully slip the precious disc from its paper sleeve, marveling at the black label and dark, shiny grooves, before fixing it onto the spindle, selecting the correct speed, starting up the turntable and lowering the needle-arm into place.

A half-second of crackling, then an incredible voice would leap from the speakers, immediately followed by that irresistibly funky organ line. As the record played, I'd joyously propel myself around the living room on my push-along plastic trike. I was, I think, 5 years old at the time.

Now in my 50s, I have amassed a collection of around 4,000 records. These albums are my friends and my memories. For any given one, often I'll recall the exact time and place of purchase, what was going on in my life and how I felt listening to it for the very first time. For me this has always been a holistic experience — not just the sound but the object containing the sound, and I don't think I would have it any other way.

I consider myself fortunate to have grown up in an age when vinyl was still king, with cassette tape as its precocious younger brother. Along came another sibling, compact discs, which I embraced wholeheartedly. After that we had iPods. I bought one and I loved it. To possess the ability to listen to a selection of my favorite albums when out and about felt magical.

Then came streaming, and that's where my evolution, in terms of music technology, faltered.

As a music journalist, I listen to songs daily. Whether I'm researching for an interview or reviewing an upcoming release, labels or agents provide me with vinyl, CDs, digital downloads or, increasingly these days, streaming links.

Streaming has its advantages. It's quick to deliver, it's easy to pause a track, to take notes or replay a section of particular interest. You can hop around an album, quickly gaining a sense of what it's about. But therein lies the danger — that word: quickly.

Putting on a physical record is a commitment. Listening to a service such as Spotify, by contrast, can all too easily turn into something akin to channel surfing a TV — endlessly clicking 'next' in search of that perfect piece of music, that song which evokes the very specific mood you desire right now.

That's never easy to find and — as with television, literature and life — the experience is far more rewarding when you meet a song, a show, a book or a person halfway.

Instant gratification is often just that: instant and then gone. Worse, you could be missing out on something wonderful that will grow. A good song evolves over its runtime. It takes you on a journey, and it rewards repeated listens. It requires you to sit still and listen properly.

An editor once asked me to rewrite the opening sentence to an article I had written, saying, "people have limited attention spans these days, you need something sensational to suck them in straight away."

This, to me, is a problem, with implications that spill out into all areas of life. It assumes that music, films, or any art form needs to be in your face from the beginning and to continue at a rapid pace.

In terms of movies, this means fast cuts, stock characters and non-stop action. Musically, this sort of thinking leads to predictable patterns, basic lyrics and an easily digestible melody. None of this leaves time or space for nuance, subtlety, invention or depth.

This isn't to say there's anything wrong with enjoying a modern throwaway pop song, but I equate most contemporary chart music to a McDonalds Happy Meal. It's fine now and again, but you shouldn't make it your staple diet.

Physical objects can be a delight. Hands up if you recall the joy of walking home from a record store, a brand-new purchase in your bag. You get home and savor the album, the artwork, the sensation of carefully unwrapping its plastic covering. Then, you settle in for an experience.

You set up the turntable, let the needle drop and get comfortable. While the music starts you might read through the liner notes, the credits or follow the printed lyrics. Then again, maybe you just sit or lie back, close your eyes and drift away. A record collection, like any collection, can be a thing of joy. It's a record (excuse the pun) of your life, your evolving tastes, your favorite discoveries.

In the past, albums were recorded with the physical format in mind — two sides telling a story, with songs arranged to guide the listener on a journey from beginning to end, with dramatic highs and lows. Packaging, artwork and interior were all a part of this adventure. I don't think that's something to be taken lightly.

The difference between listening to a record and listening to a digital stream is the same as that between reading a beautifully bound book and reading on a Kindle. Ebooks can be very useful. I have one myself, but for me — and, I suspect, many others — staring at a screen is simply just not the same.

There's also a moral element to consider. Spotify is not a level playing field. Independent artists who aren't catering to the mainstream struggle to be heard. The algorithms that drive streaming services routinely shepherd you toward bigger, more established artists.

Spotify's recent announcement of imminent policy changes makes the landscape look even grimmer for independents. The streaming service will withhold payment to artists whose "plays" over a year add up to less than 1,000; Spotify will redistribute the payments upward, to better-known (and already better-paid) artists.

This is a system that, on the face of it, increasingly funnels wealth into the hands of the few, more generously rewarding those whose music falls into a very narrow category.

Recently, I began looking into the environmental impact of streaming compared to physical media, curious to know which method is greener. As it turns out, there is no easy answer.

The internet may appear invisible, but in reality, it requires a lot of resources to function. Reports show that, in terms of the planet's health, five hours of streaming music is equal to the environmental cost of purchasing one compact disc. It is seventeen hours for one vinyl record.

In other words, there is no clear green benefit in ditching physical media, especially when you factor in efforts to produce CDs and vinyl with fewer harmful ingredients. Ethically, buying second-hand records is the greenest way to acquire albums, which is very good news for Ebay and Discogs; less so for my shelving space.

You get out of life what you put into it. A microwave meal is never going to taste as nice as homecooked food. A present bought for a loved one, dug out of some old antique shop, is always going to be more special than anything ordered from an Amazon warehouse.

What we have gained through convenience in the modern world we have lost in other ways. Having so much music available so easily devalues the listening experience and devalues the music itself, to the extent that I feel a little sorry for those growing up in the post-internet era.

So, no, I won't be giving away my records, at least not anytime soon. Now, if you'll forgive me, I have an album to listen to. I may be some time.