The Physical Artifact

People don’t brag about their MP3 collection. Where’s the glory in that? When blogs and search engines do all the heavy lifting, any imbecile can show taste. Buying physical records, though, reveals a lot about an individual. Sure, sometimes, what it says is embarrassing: “I have too much disposable income,” for example. Or: “My mania for Björk may one day feature in a psychology textbook—or on Court TV.”

Yet the continued existence of vinyl hounds serves as a welcome riposte to all the music-biz doomsayers. When we go to shows, we buy the tour-only, limited-edition 7-inch to say, “I was here.” Loitering over the used bins, we succumb to curiosity. Can “Spinning Wheel” be improved upon by singing auf Deutsch, or performing it on singing saw? We need to know.

Crate digging shows a commitment to music—and, by extension, life—that transcends mere consumerism. Some thrill seekers lurk in duck blinds, waiting years for a glimpse of Bigfoot. My tribe combs tiny shops from Indianapolis to Iceland, looking for records that may only exist in our imaginations. Both parties may appear foolish, but we do so in the real world, and gladly.

Sure, you can shop for records online. But why relinquish the thrill of the hunt? Buying music on Amazon or Half.com is like trolling Internet pornography: A means to an end, but it will never replace the intimacy of the real thing.

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