…means reading those crazy crazy liner notes, full of pretention and affection.
…means finding Jim Kweskin’s Jug Band and Steve Martin as a wild and crazy guy.
…means wondering why my wife had so much Barry Gibb when she was a young teen. And uh, Crystal Gayle?
…means laughing over the albums that we gave each other on CD this year that suddenly we can also play on vinyl.
…means marveling over the 25 cent stickers on them, remembering being broke in college and tracking down obscure stuff in bins in used record stores.
…means blasting Joan Jett & the Blackhearts.
…means rediscovering our classical and jazz collections.
…means, unfortunately, hours and hours and hours of “ripping” the vinyl, because the romance of the record will probably only last another few hours.