The Vinyl Room Turns Two

The adventures and misfortunes of a Substack writer who can't keep calm but still carries on

Another year has gone by faster than you can say vinyl.

Photo by Manuel Sardo on Unsplash

As many of you know, I didn’t have very firm plans for The Vinyl Room when I started out.

I just wanted to build a space where I could share my vinyl passion and connect with others. I didn’t really know what to expect.

Are those sketchy plans now running like clockwork? Well, not quite. But maybe that’s a good thing.

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So many areas in my life are obsessively planned and compulsively tracked. I wanted to give our own little Vinyl Room as much freedom as my mental health can possibly afford.

To be frank, most weeks I don’t even know what I’m going to write about, which is insane for a control freak like me.

There are many topics I could cover. But it needs to feel right, at the right time. It has to come from a genuine place.

All of a sudden, at the eleventh hour, something clicks… and thus the games begin: sleepless nights, untold amounts of coffee, a million tabs opened, and the constant threat of a nervous breakdown looming on the horizon.

Rinse and repeat the following week. I am sure many of you can relate.

Photo by hannah grace on Unsplash

This past year, I’ve welcomed even more air and freedom into the equation by taking my voiceovers to the next level.

I intentionally record them in one take, come hell or high water, and I add a healthy dose of shenanigans along the way.

It’s fair to say my voiceovers offer you much more than a simple read-through of the text (a monotonous task which, in any case, your run-of-the-mill AI assistant can do much better than I).

Recording in one take is as nerve-racking as it is hilarious. We’ve had some pretty funny moments: fits of laughter, impromptu singing, dad jokes, on-the-spot live editing, tangents, confessions, unlimited amounts of sass and, obviously, the cheekiest remarks you can expect from this side of the pond.

For what it’s worth, my voiceovers are my way of showing you that, behind the obsessive proofreading, careful photo selection and stylish layout, I am a quick-witted individual nervous and neurotic mess — albeit one that has learned to embrace humour in the darkest hour.

Photo by Dorel Gnatiuc on Unsplash

I’d be lying if I said it’s all been wonderful.

Substack

is an interesting place. When I look at the music-writing community here (affectionately known as the “Musicstack”), I often feel I don’t belong.

It’s not just due to generational or geographical divides: I write differently, I think differently, my favourite music is different. I sound different. I look different. I am different.

The reassuring promise that “there is room for everyone here” sounds lovely on paper, but how can you truly connect with others when your preferences, views, tastes and even your lives are so diametrically opposed?

I know I’m not the easiest person to deal with. My husband, who knows me better than I know myself, often says I’m the most complex person he’s ever met.

Seeing as he’s explored the world far and wide, lived in virtually every continent, and met his fair share of lunatics along the way, it is simultaneously fascinating and terrifying to bear such title.

Photo by Joshua Fuller on Unsplash

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seriously considered leaving Substack. Altogether. Deleting my account. Wiping every single trace of myself from here.

It’s my own internal battle but, for now, I’m powering through. I make a point of showing up every week.

I owe it to the 576 of you who care to subscribe. I owe it to those of you who, week after week, find time in your busy schedules to read, like, comment, share, interact and connect. I don’t take any of this for granted.

Thank you for letting me into your lives. Thank you for reading, listening, commenting, and for showing up with the same love and dedication as I show up for you.

Photo by Dhilip Antony on Unsplash

I’m going to spare you the usual niceties such as “here’s to many more years”. I’m a dramatic, blues-spinning vinyl fiend. What else did you expect?

But what I can promise you, without a single shadow of a doubt, is that you will always — always — get my most genuine and authentic self. Nothing more, nothing less.

It’s not just the right thing to do. It’s the only version of myself I can be.

That’s one thing you can be sure will always run like clockwork.

Happy spinning, my vinyl lovers. Thank you for your support. Thank you for being here. Thank you for staying. Thank you for keeping me here.