The records I'll take to my grave

No more regrets—I'm keeping my vinyl

The resurgence of vinyl in recent years isn’t just about sound quality or nostalgia; it’s about reclaiming a piece of tangible culture that streaming can’t replicate. My journey from collector to seller and back to a passionate conservator underscores a broader cultural appreciation for what it means to own music. My appreciation for records as an inseparable part of my music journey has me reevaluating my relationship with them.

Countless articles have lauded vinyl’s staying power. But its value was always a given for me, as my sprawling collection would attest to. After decades of moves, purges, and culling, I have an estimated 7,000 records. The thousands of polyvinyl chloride discs throughout my workspace could fill roughly three Ikea Kallax shelves if displayed.

Several years ago, I started a Discogs list and launched an eBay store to sell records I thought I no longer wanted. Recently, I’ve pulled titles down, raised prices, and refused to accept lowball offers. I’ve found myself much less interested in parting with any of it. Even cold cash seems wildly insufficient.

The story of unloading a vinyl collection is common, whether for money, necessity, or both. And my change of heart isn’t a judgment on anybody else’s situation. Maybe the kids need a playroom, mom wants her garage back, or a former DJ wants to get on with his life. Or maybe it was just time to let them go. You tell yourself that at least they would find a loving home.

My reasons seem blurry now, but I’ve always enjoyed selling. Soon after launching the store, I found a buyer for my 1997 Aphex Twin “Come to Daddy” promo (now $900 on Discogs), a 1988 copy of Metallica’s And Justice for All, and even a sealed 1994 Illmatic by Nas.

Now I wish I hadn’t.

This sudden reawakening was solidified after I co-hosted an all-vinyl night called Physical Graffiti. I spoke to several working DJs whose lives built on the backs of music careers were inspiring. Something clicked that night. I was falling back in love with the records I’d started to see as a commodity.

My 90-minute set consisted of 25- 30-year-old classics and rare white labels. The rush I felt being on the decks went from uneasy to exhilarating. Each drop of the needle reverberated through me. It still felt great.

Before my set, another DJ asked me if I was leaving my record bag. I’d planned to, assuming it would be safe until I went on. “I wouldn’t,” he said knowingly.

There have always been harrowing tales of DJs getting their records stolen, some from carelessness, like leaving them in parked cars. But the stakes on that rainy night in Canoga Park seemed much higher. The theft of my bag would be like losing an irreplaceable family photo album—devastating.

Getting physical (photo: Mac Kotas)

We’re back on April 5th, come thru

If disaster struck, I could search eBay and Discogs for replacements. But they wouldn’t be my copies or originals—records only ever held by me. In real estate, this is called the “chain of title” or the sequence of property ownership. As a vinyl collector, the original copies hold the most meaning.

There’s a scene in Stanley Kubrik’s Full Metal Jacket where the Marines recite the rifleman’s creed: “This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.” Records are not one-off creations—they’re mass-produced. But my vinyl reflects a unique personal story, all inscribed in memory.

Vinyl’s intrinsic value has increased well past its resale price. Each record I carried that night had a history of first listens, origin stories, and auditory testaments carved into it.

Easy rollers

Overnight, vinyl went from my eBay side hustle to once again being an integral part of my personal story and storytelling. My vast collection representing four decades of music culture is part of the multimedia archive I oversee full-time. The physical records are themselves recordings of history.

My current collection reflects a life pursuing lyrics, rhythms, and beats and a life and career in love with music. The most important records, the wax that’s survived for decades, are evidence of my travels through eras and culture.

Digging through the collection is the archeology of audible artifacts that trace music’s evolution. These records have produced musical awakenings and epiphanies and enshrined my coming of age. The color and design of their cardboard sleeves can conjure emotions, just as much as when the needle drops on in a crackling groove.

Childhood soundtracks

My earliest vinyl memories were a mix of novelty records (Funky Favorites) and classic rock (Three Dog Night), plus a small batch of “grown-up” vinyl my mother kept in the living room of our one-bedroom apartment.

Her copy of Tom Waits’ Small Change, with its risque 70s-era cover, Arlo Guthrie’s Hobo’s Lullaby, and a Led Zeppelin IV gatefold masterpiece that hinted at the occult when held to a mirror, was a humble but powerful pile of discovery for me.

A mishmash of New Orleans jazz, bluegrass, and folk was also on hand. This potpourri of sounds blended with the FM radio, disco, funk, new wave, and hard rock I was ingesting imprinted my pubescent synapses like a sonic kaleidoscope. My tastes remain an unruly reflection of that early influence.

Twelve-year-old me

The first records I picked out for myself were “Funky Town” and “Call Me” by Lipps Inc. and Blondie (with Giorgio Moroder!), respectively. I won them from a New Orleans radio station. Both are still in my collection, early hints at a lifelong love for dance music.

For my 12th birthday, my cousins gave me a copy of Pink Floyd’s The Wall. My relatives wrote funny inscriptions on the animated bricks covering the inside gatefold sleeve. The Wall sold 30 million copies, but mine was an original.

I still have my copy of 3 Feet High & Rising, purchased in 1989; My Run DMC's eponymous debut from 1984, which crystallized my love for hip-hop; and numerous other Juice Crew, BDP, EPMD, Mantronix, and Native Tongues albums and singles that represented that golden era.

Publicists, distributors, and record labels sent 12-inch releases almost daily to the URB office in the nineties. I would get monthly boxes of fresh drum and bass white labels from a UK distributor. In LA, legendary shops like Prime Cuts, Beat Nonstop, Aarons, and B-Boy Records sold whatever didn’t arrive by mail. On trips overseas, I’d hit famed shops like London’s Black Market and Manchester’s Eastern Bloc.

Hip-hop originals

Of course, there are much bigger and better-curated collections than mine. Carl Cox once proclaimed on URB’s cover that he had 50,000 records, and A-Trak’s Instagram shows the depth of his crates. But no set of records epitomizes me more than my weird and wonderful pristine hoard.

I’ve reached a point where selling off any of my collection feels sacrilegious. Last month, I wrote about the New York Times time capsule from 25 years ago, whose contents were entrusted to a nickel-plated LP designed to last 1,000 years. I hope this bodes well for lacquered vinyl.

My firstborn’s first vinyl

And, of course, you never stop collecting. Yesterday, I returned from a local flea market with four discs: Yarborough & Peoples, Planet P, Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass, and the soundtrack to Easy Rider. I trust those sellers were ready to say goodbye to them.

For her 12th birthday, my daughter received her first album as a gift from a friend. SZA’s SOS, on 4-sided double-vinyl. Like the kids do these days, it sits on display in her bedroom, still in the shrink wrap. If I can get her to remove the AirPods and put down her iPhone, she might even get to hear it.

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Do you still collect vinyl? Have you sold yours? How was that experience?