I Don’t Collect Records

Well…

That’s not entirely true.

I do collect records. My shelves would argue that point rather passionately.

But somewhere between the thrift stores, the dusty record bins, estate sales, and the occasional financial decision that should probably require a second opinion, I realized I wasn’t really collecting vinyl.

I was collecting stories.

Some people collect first pressings.

Some chase rare imports.

Some are hunting for the most valuable copy of an album ever made.

Me? I’m trying to build a biography.

Every record on my shelf reminds me of someone. Or somewhere.

Or some version of myself that I almost forgot.

My sister actually got to vinyl before I did. I don’t remember the exact year, but somewhere around 2018 or 2019, my cousin called and said he was cleaning out his house. He had boxes of records from his own collection and from my grandparents’ house. My sister and I immediately made plans to go digging.

He had gems.

The kind of records you only hope to stumble across.

When my sister casually asked if she could have his original pressing of Thriller, I nearly came out of my skin. I knew what copies like that cost. More importantly, I knew this one had been bought in 1982. It wasn’t just a Michael Jackson album anymore. It was history. Family history.

That was the moment.

Not when I bought my first record.

Not when I bought my first turntable.

That moment.

I remember thinking, One day, when I stop spending money on all the other random things, this is going to be my random thing.

Turns out I wasn’t wrong.

Now…have I made perfectly reasonable financial decisions every step of this journey? Absolutely not.

Earlier this year, I wandered into a record store in Hilton Head, SC and found an original, unused pressing of Purple Rain tucked into the used bins.

No price.

Never a good sign.

I carried it to the counter and asked the owner how he knew it had never been played.

He told me he bought it from an estate sale. The woman who owned it loved Prince so much that she displayed the album on her shelf but never actually played it.

Honestly?

I understood her.

I laughed and told him, “There’s no price on it. Don’t break my heart.”

One hundred dollars later, I walked out with it.

Still my most expensive record.

Still worth every penny.

It’s Prince.

Some things don’t require further explanation.

But somewhere along the way, buying records stopped being the fun part.

The digging became the adventure.

I’ll never forget walking into Papa Jazz in Columbia, SC for the first time. Jazz was playing through the speakers instead of classic rock blasting at full volume. I immediately felt at home.

Naturally, I started in the jazz section.

Naturally.

I got halfway down the first aisle before realizing there were records underneath every single bin too.

I actually stopped walking.

I looked down.

Looked back up.

Clutched my metaphorical pearls.

And started trying to develop a strategy because I already had ten records in my hands and had barely made it through one section.

If you’ve ever seen me in a record store, you already know.

I’m going to the jazz section first.

Every single time.

Sometimes because I’m looking for somebody specific.

Sometimes because somebody I’ve never heard of is waiting there.

That’s how I found Ahmad Jamal.

I was flipping through a three-for-twenty bin in Raleigh looking for Sonny Rollins when I noticed a cover with an old Cadillac beneath glowing neon lights.

I’d never heard of Ahmad Jamal.

So I did what I always do.

I put one AirPod in, opened Apple Music, and hit play.

The first notes sounded like closing time.

Like sitting in a quiet lounge with a good tequila while the conversations get softer and the lights get lower.

Like night air.

Like stillness.

I bought the record immediately.

Then I spent days learning everything I could about him.

That album also taught me something about myself.

I don’t actually like noisy jazz.

I like jazz that gives your thoughts room to breathe.

The older my collection gets, the more I realize I’m not just buying music.

I’m buying memories.

Sometimes they’re mine. Sometimes they’re borrowed.

Earlier this year, my great-aunt gave my sister a stack of original records from the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s.

My sister very graciously let me look through them before claiming everything for herself—which was only fair because technically they were hers.

I asked for exactly one: Roberta Flack’s Killing Me Softly.

An original copy from 1973.

I took it home, lowered the needle, and sat on my living room floor reading the liner notes.

Then I texted my aunt.

Because suddenly it hit me.

In 2026, I was listening to the exact album she bought more than fifty years ago.

Maybe she danced to it.

Maybe she and my grandmother played it while watching my older cousins run around outside.

Maybe they laughed through Side A and talked through Side B.

I wasn’t there.

But somehow…

Now I was.

That’s what I love most about vinyl.

It lets you borrow time.

The same thing happens every Christmas.

Well…almost.

I’m still searching for an original copy of The Jackson 5 Christmas Album.

Not because it’s rare.

Not because it’ll be worth anything.

Because every time Michael starts singing “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” I’m eight years old again in my grandmother’s house on Georgia Street in Vallejo, California.

Some songs don’t just bring back memories.

They unlock rooms you’ve forgotten existed.

People are sometimes surprised when they see my shelves or wishlist.

I think they expect to find mostly the music I blast in my car or constantly send to my friends.

Instead, they find Ella Fitzgerald singing country songs.

Jazz records older than my parents’ marriage.

Soul albums passed down through family.

Gospel.

Funk.

Singer-songwriters.

Records that most people skip right past because they’re tucked into the bargain bins.

That’s okay.

They’re looking for different things than I am.

I’m not trying to own the most valuable collection.

I’m trying to own the most honest one.

Because if you spend enough time looking at my shelves, you’ll eventually stop seeing records.

You’ll start seeing my family.

My travels.

My first heartbreak.

My concerts.

My curiosity.

My faith.

My childhood.

You’ll see the soundtrack to a life that’s still being written.

And maybe that’s why vinyl feels so natural to me.

I’ve always believed every story has a soundtrack.

These just happen to spin at thirty-three and a third revolutions per minute.