On the value of diversity

and the price of prejudice

I recently joined a Facebook group of record collectors. In the run-up to Record Store Day, a guy was pointing out that most of the Record Store Day releases he owns from previous years have seemingly halved in value, and he was wondering if others had experienced the same.

I thought this was a perfectly valid and, actually, quite interesting topic to discuss among fellow collectors… until I saw the amount of hate and abuse he received in the comments.

Most people, save for a small minority, told him he should focus on enjoying his records and not think of vinyl as an investment. One person even suggested he should buy stocks instead of vinyl.

I felt compelled to make a point, so I said something along the lines of “yes, we are collectors because we enjoy music, but it’s not a crime to think of your collection in monetary terms”. I then made a quick comparison with owning a house: if you own a house and enjoy living in it, is it wrong or immoral to sell it?

The guy was grateful, and a couple of others also liked my comment in a sign of agreement (thank you,

Kevin Alexander

). But still, the majority seemed to side with this view that, apparently, you should not even think about the value of your collection.

I found this quite bizarre, to be honest. It doesn’t have to be one thing or the other. They are not mutually exclusive.

I didn’t get into vinyl out of a commercial motivation. For me, it’s always been about the music. The connection you feel with the artists and records you love is not something you can put a price on.

But records cost money, and when you don’t have a lot of money, or when you grow up during one of the worst economic crises in modern history, you realise soon enough that you can trade some of your existing records, especially when access to “real” money is restricted.

Records are bound to have a price on the market which is completely independent of the sentimental value they may possess for a certain individual at any given time. This happens with many other assets too (whether collectible or not).

Fortunately nowadays I do not have to sell or trade my existing records to buy new ones. But I know it’s an option. That doesn’t mean I’m heartless or obsessed with money. It doesn’t mean I enjoy my records any less.

Some of my records have significantly gone up in value. Regardless of whether I decide to sell some of them at some point, it’s important for me to be aware of the value of my entire collection, as it gives me a sense of perspective.

For what it’s worth, I have the peace of mind that if the rugs of my existence should ever get pulled from under my feet, I own valuable assets that I can rely on.

Interestingly, in this same Facebook group, there seems to be a tendency among some members to immediately discredit collectors who don’t share their music preferences. In parallel with the above debate on value, there was an entire thread disparaging artists they “hate” or “cannot stand”. And if you don’t agree with them, they will try to persuade you because they know better.

I wonder, in this ideal world they fantasise with, where everyone ought to collect exclusively out of enjoyment and we should all listen to the same music — from whom, exactly, would they buy their records?

If we are all to collect records for enjoyment only, and we are all supposed to like the same music, it follows that no one will want to sell the records you want to buy. You would only be able to buy newly issued records at official stores for inflated prices. The second-hand market would disappear, with devastating consequences for the entire vinyl community.

It’s not just the questionable logic of a certain premise. This issue is also ideological. We all benefit from a world where some may prefer classical music whereas others enjoy punk, acid jazz or hard rock. Without diversity, imagine how dangerously disturbing the world would be.

I, for one, couldn’t care less about what some of these collectors think. I didn’t get into an argument nor was I attacked personally. But even if I was, I wouldn’t be losing any sleep.

I enjoy my music and I appreciate the value of my records (in sentimental and monetary terms). On a random day you will find me spinning “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls right after “Sweet Home Alabama” by Lynyrd Skynyrd, followed by Mariah’s “Anytime you Need a Friend”, or B.B. King’s “Hold that Train, Conductor”. Or Frank Sinatra. Or Tom Waits. Or Nina Simone. Or a Jimi Hendrix guitar solo. I can listen to jazz, pop, blues, funk, gospel, hard rock, trip-hop and more on any given day. And I don’t think this is particularly special.

I let the music speak to me with as little interference from prejudice as I humanly can. Some of the records I enjoy topped the charts for months. Some are so obscure I can’t find them anywhere. There are certain genres that tend to move me more than others, but I don’t let anything (or anyone) confine me to the narrow borders of a specific category.

I have had to defy so many stereotypes and break so many barriers in my life that I know how and when to pick my battles. Not to mention always being the youngest at a record store, probably the only one who works out every day, and most definitely the only one wearing a suit when I shop after office hours. Let alone the contrast between my Latin background and my current life, which still puzzles some people.

And so what? Do you think I care? As the famous quote goes, “frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn”. Or as Lauren Cooper from The Catherine Tate Show would brilliantly, unequivocally proclaim: I ain’t bothered. I am beyond the point of caring, to be honest with you.

But I seriously worry that some of these narrow-minded views and aggressive behaviour might perhaps put someone off collecting records or, even worse, enjoying music freely. And if that someone is a young, troubled and vulnerable kid, for whom records are perhaps the only escape they have from an otherwise unstable and miserable life, this can become a real problem with serious consequences later down the line.

I know I am rambling but my point is this: emancipate yourself from what is “expected” of you, both in terms of the music you choose and your collection motivations. Let the music speak to you and move you, with no interference. Otherwise it’s not a choice. It’s a pose.

If you only like a certain genre, or don’t want to think of the commercial value of your records, that’s fine. If you only want to interact with those who share your exact music preferences and collection motivations, go ahead. But do so in full knowledge that your universe will be very limited. And, importantly, make sure it’s a real, honest decision, genuinely coming from your heart, as opposed to a mere desire to impress. Life is too short to pretend.

I have learned an awful lot about music and records from fellow music lovers and collectors whose taste and preferences couldn’t differ more from mine. And I know they have learned from me too. It’s all about broadening your horizons.

We all have our specific preferences, and it’s important to honour them. Learn as much as you can about your favourite genres. Become an expert in your field. Polish your skills. Nurture your niche. Follow your passion and strive to be the best you can at what you love most.

But don’t forget to keep your mind open and your spirit free. To explore. To discover. To reconsider. To challenge or confirm your own preconceptions. To learn. To improve. To grow.

The more diverse your circle of fellow collectors, the more enriching your life will be.

Otherwise, chances are you will end up sounding like a broken record. And trust me, no one likes the sound of that. At least, that’s something we can all agree on.

As always, thank you for reading or listening. See you around and, as always, happy spinning!