Lost and Found

What are we looking for when we step into a record store? What do we find? Why do we keep coming back?

When I was a kid, the best way to keep me entertained for a few hours was to drop me off at a record store. The responsible adults in my life knew with certainty this was the safest spot… simply because it was the only one I wouldn’t escape from.

I suppose I wasn’t always the easiest kid, but records had this magnetising effect in me. They calmed me down when nothing else could.

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I’m generally not a big shopper. Clothes shopping is the absolute worst. Buying a simple item, like a shirt or pair of jeans, is an ordeal.

After weeks months of procrastination, when I reluctantly admit defeat and drag myself to the stores, huffing and puffing my way through the crowds, I find, invariably, nothing worth spending any money on, so I come back home empty-handed, frustrated at what turned out to be a complete waste of an afternoon.

However, when I walk into a record store, I step into another world. It’s a complete mind and mood reset.

Any conversation or train of thought gets abruptly —sometimes even rudely— interrupted.

Those who know me already know. It’s like some supernatural force overtakes me (abducts me would be a more precise, if less fortunate, choice of word).

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I’m generally an extrovert, so I understand why this puzzles some people. Record browsing sends me into a complete and total trance. Getting lost in the stalls, flipping records one by one, always searching, looking for something…

Any good store specialising in second-hand blues, soul and R&B records is my paradise of sorts, but I am not fussy. Really. Give me anything resembling a record store, old or new, big or small, punk or classical, and I’ll find something to work with, even if I come back home empty handed.

I always find pleasure in the activity.

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For obvious reasons, I prefer doing this alone, or with people who know me well. My husband has got so good at this that he now says goodbye at the precise moment I’m about to disappear, even if he stays in the same building.

He leaves me in peace, which is exactly what I need, and he always comes back at the exact time I’m ready to land back on Earth. It’s one of the sweetest things he does for me.

Vinyl lovers: find yourself a husband, or wife (or both—whatever floats your boat) like mine. You’ll thank me later.

Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash

One of the best by-products of the vinyl revival is that record stores are now ubiquitous and attract a myriad of people. For those of us who never stopped collecting music in various formats, this is a complete game changer.

I’m well aware that stores get very busy at weekends, but I prefer them crowded to bankrupt.

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Our character develops in mysterious ways sometimes. With age, I’ve learned to love other places, activities and things. And yet, nothing beats the excitement of getting lost among the stalls of a record store, always searching, looking for something…

I’m wary of self-help stock phrases like “finding your true self” and stuff like that. We are complex human beings. Some of us more than others.

I’m not sure our “true self” can be so neatly defined. I don’t believe it’s hidden somewhere waiting to be found.

Our true self, if it exists, is a continuum, a messy flow of inconsistencies and contradictions. Sometimes peaceful, sometimes untamed. A bit like the ocean, or a rainforest.

Photo by Keanu K on Unsplash

All this to say: I don’t know whether it’s myself, or something else, that I am so desperately trying to find every time I’m standing there, getting lost in the stalls, flipping records one by one, looking for something.

What I do know is that, sometimes, it’s more about searching and less about finding.

Thanks for reading/listening. Happy spinning!