People at record shows love records more than I can imagine loving anything inanimate.
If you read that in a disparaging tone, please go back and re-read it in an awe-filled, slightly jealous one.
I’ve never been obsessed with a certain physical object the way some people are about records. I would never have the patience to sift through hundreds of sleeves just for the chance of finding something I’ve been hunting for at a good price. I couldn’t devote myself to the search for something that used to be everywhere but is now considered rare or “vintage” (whatever that word even means anymore). I wouldn’t know how to begin to have the passion for something that you can’t taste or hug.
But these people do. And they pay to walk around a space looking for their loves. In a sea of records, they begin to look the same to an amateur. How can one pick out that particular album they’ve had in the back of their mind for months? I guess it’s because they’ve had it in the back of their mind for months. Unlike the sea of people a person is faced with when existing in a packed city, I suppose a sea of records is easier–you know exactly what you’re looking for, and you know what you’re going to get when you get it home and put it on the player.
You can’t make that sort of guarantee about people, that’s for sure. Though you also don’t have to pay for them, and, if you’re lucky, and if you carefully choose the right one, they can even make you feel richer. Well, okay, I suppose music can do that as well, but it can’t hug you back. Not really.