Most of my childhood memories replay in my mind with background music. It was everywhere I went, an integral aspect of my upbringing. I used to spend afternoons and summers at my family’s business, sitting at a desk adjacent to my grandpa’s as many of his favorite songs by artists like The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Roger Miller and Marty Robbins softly danced from his computer speakers.
The walls of my grandma’s office just down the hall were lined with Elvis Presley memorabilia, and taped to the two top corners of her desktop was a small photo of Elvis and, on the other side, my grandpa.
On rides home, I’d either hear someone introducing a lineup of old music from a SiriusXM radio station or listen to the whiplash-inducing variety of songs my mom would play from her blue, second-generation iPod Nano.
My musical taste – which for reasons unknown includes a handful of singers who died in plane crashes – was shaped by the people around me, and much of my vinyl collection is the same.
I started collecting vinyl records after my parents gave me a record player as a birthday gift in April 2020, and my appreciation for music, and the old music I grew up with, deepened during the pandemic. I couldn’t go anywhere because many nonessential stores were closed, but I felt comforted during a tumultuous time by a new way to explore something that brought me a sense of joy.
My 78 records currently sit in a wicker basket I got at Goodwill, and my 45s, all of which were given to me by my grandpa, sit in a cloth basket to its side.
Music lovers looking to deepen their musical passion can do it by collecting records. While my record player has a Bluetooth connection and I’ve listened to many Spotify playlists on it, it’s not the same as putting a record on.
From indie rock group Wet Leg’s debut 2022 studio album, “Wet Leg,” to a first pressing of Fleetwood Mac’s (best) studio album “Rumours,” Joni Mitchell’s “Clouds,” Carole King’s “Tapestry” and some compilations of the Beach Boys, Glen Campbell and Jim Croce, my collection is vast.
Record-playing ritual
The first record I got to play on my record player was side A of the first disc of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Greatest Hits. The second album I got was Orville Peck’s “Pony,” and from there I don’t remember the order in which I got records, or even how many records I have in my collection.
I knew nothing of vinyl before getting my record player, and much of the information I learned was from my mom. She taught me the difference between 78s and 45s and showed me how to lower the needle into the record’s grooves correctly.
The entire ritual of playing a record is sacred to me, the record I choose to play hinging completely on how I’m feeling and what sort of music fits my mood.
From browsing my collection to choosing the record, gently removing it from its sleeve, placing it on the turntable and waiting for the music to start as some slight crackling surface sounds are heard, it’s all intentional.
Even looking for albums – whether it’s The Beatles’ “Yesterday and Today” album released in 1966 with the notorious butcher cover or what I’m currently looking for, Dolly Parton’s 1974 album “Love Is Like a Butterfly” – is an intentional endeavor. Sometimes a record shop visit can be a hunt, and though it’s hard to find certain albums, the feeling of finding what you’ve been looking for for such a long time is unforgettable.
Although there aren’t any record stores in Los Altos or Mountain View, checking out Goodwill, antique and thrift stores can result in some great finds. While the Friends of the Library of Los Altos doesn’t currently accept vinyl (most of the records the group was getting included classical music and full operas that weren’t selling, a Friends spokesperson told me), some people have mentioned online that they found records at Friends of the Library of Palo Alto events.
I found “The Best of Bread” at a now-shuttered consignment shop in San Jose, and Joni Mitchell’s “Clouds” at an antique store near Cannery Row in Monterey. I’ve expanded my collection during serotonin-inducing vinyl hauls at San Jose shops including Needle to the Groove, 424 E. Santa Clara St., and Streetlight Records, 980 S. Bascom Ave., as well as Campbell’s Rasputin Music, 1820 S. Bascom Ave.
The locations are all within a drive of my family’s business. I don’t go there that often anymore, but when I do, the music continues to play from my grandpa’s speakers and the Elvis pictures are still hanging on the walls. And when I get home, I know I can always pop open my turntable, drop the needle and listen to the music.
