A Vinyl Legacy

What will happen to your records when you are gone?

Photo by Mike Von on Unsplash

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the passage of time.

Older readers may chuckle, and rightly so. What could I, born in the late 80s, still fit enough to do a gruelling workout after a full-on rave, possibly know about the passage of time?

Talk is cheap. Talking whilst keeping a straight face? Not so much.

And yet, by virtue of my unwavering commitment to honesty and authenticity—which has never precisely kept me out of trouble—here I am telling you, with as straight a face as I can muster, that yes, I do find myself thinking about life and death more often than I’d like to admit.

Your guess is as good as mine—parents getting older, loved ones moving on, transatlantic distances making hearts grow fonder, days turning into decades—but the truth is no one, none of us, is getting any younger.

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A wide array of people subscribe to this newsletter, and a surprising number of you still open, read, watch and listen to what I have to say.

Every week, without fail.

It’s fascinating, humbling, and a huge responsibility, which I don’t take lightly.

We all come from different walks of life. Some of you are very experienced collectors, some are just getting started; some have sold all your records, some haven’t yet purchased your first.

Some of you like to hang out with the gang in the comments section. Others never utter a word, but I know you read religiously. (Substack tells us everything, for better or worse).

One thing we all have in common? We love music.

We don’t just enjoy the occasional tune as we unwind or let our hair down. We are passionate about our music because it constitutes a fundamental part of our identity.

We geek over seemingly trivial details. We read the small print. We entertain discussions about the use of synthesisers, backstage drama, album artwork and industry trends.

We scrutinise discographies, cultural movements, record label politics and band member disagreements. We take sides, we overthink, we change our minds.

We know the story behind our favourite song. We sometimes live vicariously through it.

We see music, essentially, as the most direct window to our souls.

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I often say there are two types of people in this world. The best way to find out? Ask them about their favourite music.

Those who take a shallow, nervous breath, followed by a string of “er” or “uh” sounds in quick succession before giving a vague, disinterested, frigid reply—making it clear that the question was, for all intents and purposes, an unnecessary inconvenience— belong in one group.

And then there are those like you and me who, on a more or less subconscious level, maybe for a split second or two, light up. We may take a deep breath, close our eyes, or gather our thoughts as we gauge our interlocutor’s genuine level of interest, but unlike the first group, we don’t just reply—we respond.

A sparkle in our eyes, dimples on our cheeks, maybe even a mini essay along the lines of “well, predominantly… however… I also… and lately…”.

Sound familiar?

Our music is our life story. More authentic than our business card, our CV and our profile picture.

More honest than our name.

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How would you like to be remembered when you are gone?

Don’t tell me you haven’t at least pondered which songs you’d like played at your funeral, or that you don’t secretly hope your friends will think of you every time your favourite tune comes on the radio.

Don’t tell me you wouldn’t care if others never actually knew who your favourite artist was.

And this, you see, is where our records can come to the rescue, letting everyone know what we loved, what we cared about and what we chose to pass on.

Sure, your digital music files will make an appearance at some point, if your loved ones manage to crack your password (dog’s birthday? son’s birthday? wedding anniversary?—someone’s going to get offended: 100% guaranteed).

When your tracks finally emerge from the ether, they won’t be entirely inconsequential. Your loved ones will probably listen to one or two, and then store them all in a folder bearing your name alongside a scan of your death certificate, because that’s what happens when our lives become data—we are reduced to a meagre combination of zeroes and ones.

A number, basically.

Your records, however, your physical records, will live on. They will be harder to ignore. They will look at everything and everyone, acting as a constant reminder of who you were.

Like your clothes or your bed sheets, they will retain some of your scent.

They will stick around like the tree in your grandparents’ garden or the shrubs in your school playground.

Taking up space. Filling the room. Standing tall. Embodying your memories.

Carrying weight.

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They will conquer your eldest’s living room, your friend’s attic, your partner’s study, or the hearts of music lovers all around the world.

They will remind everyone of your highs and lows, your dreams and fears, the tone of your voice and the marks on your hands.

Your records will travel, find new homes, breathe new air and take on another person’s scent.

They will eventually become somebody else‘s legacy. They will transcend you, because humans pass but music remains.

Your story will still be there, on the surface of your records, buried underneath the grooves, blended with the stories of many others.

But just as music has this habit of sticking around, stories forged by its fire never fully disappear.

So if—or rather when, as it’s bound to happen—when your records finally end up with one of us—those who don’t reply but respond—they will tell them your stories, and they will listen.

And in that moment, as bittersweet as a blues guitar riff during last orders or a rock anthem on the last day of summer, you’ll know it’s time to pass the torch and let the music do the rest.

Thanks for reading/listening. Happy spinning!