Few things in the life of a music lover give us more pleasure than playing a record for the first time, especially if it’s a record we’ve been eagerly anticipating.

By the same token, there’s no bigger disappointment than discovering said record is... well, shite. Just pure shite.

Music lovers pride ourselves on being receptive and open. Some more than others. In fact, on the music openness spectrum, I’m pretty sure I score lower than average. What can I say? You know my penchant for soulful grooves, blue notes, gospel harmonies, and singers who sing like their lives depend on it.

Yet I’d be lying if I said all the records that I love enough to own could be filed under the same category. While there are common threads running through many of them, I’ve always assumed the outliers were exactly that — exceptions that proved the rule.

Then I realised I was looking for the common thread in the wrong place.

What’s the one ingredient that makes you think, “Yep... this is a no-skips record”? The one quality that transcends genres, styles, decades, and even your own musical preferences?

The one ingredient that makes a record great?

I’ve always thought this didn’t exist.

Until recently.

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When I was a kid, my mum used to drive me everywhere. School, birthday parties, extracurriculars, friends’ houses, and record stores. Lots of record stores.

She worked three jobs and had no time for herself, but she was never too busy or too tired to take me to the record store.

She liked music but, unlike her brother — my uncle — or my dad, she wasn’t a crazy music fan. My music obsession certainly comes from them, not from her. Yet it was my mum who took me to the record store most of the time.

I would get lost and spend hours browsing the racks. She would wait. Patiently. She never rushed me. Not even when I enthusiastically walked her through the entire discographies of artists she probably didn’t know or care about, nor when I involved her in my record choices. We didn’t have a lot of money, so every purchase mattered.

Mum was also the one who insisted I should learn English from a very young age because she knew my passion and aptitude for foreign languages were beyond my years. She could see how my brain was wired before anyone else could. She moved heaven and earth to make those English lessons happen for me, even if it meant adding yet more work to her already packed schedule.

When I ran towards a group of local actors performing in the street, completely transfixed by their costumes and stage presence, she found time and money we didn’t have so I could join the drama club.

And when I came out as gay, and took her through the various whirlwinds of my life, she was always there. Not just physically. She was there in ways other parents weren’t.

The reason I’m telling you this is because she turns 70 today, and I’m not sure she can fully grasp how instrumental her support was in building the life I wanted.

She’s battling dementia. I’ve talked about it before. Her memory has become an unpredictable beast harder to tame than the whirlwinds of my youth.

When I look at my life today — living in London with the man of my dreams, collecting records, using my language and performance skills as my anchor and my lifeline — I simply cannot see how any of this would have been remotely possible without her.

We spend way too much time giving credit to those who directly influenced our traits, interests, and habits. I’ve referenced my uncle and my dad as the two biggest influences in my life as a record collector. And of course, I’ve always credited the original music lover, my grandfather, for igniting that first spark in my lifelong romance with music.

But it was my mum who drove the miles, put in the hours, and gave me the tools to make things happen.

It often hurts me that we don’t seem to give enough credit to the silent soldiers of our lives. Those who stood by our side and helped us get there. Those who gave us the hammer and the nails to build the lives we wanted.

This is why today I’m honouring her, and I invite you to honour the silent soldiers of your life too. Those who, without ever making a fuss or a scene, or expecting anything in return, provided the material conditions for you to stand here today and tell the story you wanted to tell.

For obvious reasons, my mum can’t drive anymore. There are so many things she loved doing which she can no longer do. For some fucked-up and cruel mystery of life, those are the exact things her ailing memory never forgets.

One of her biggest regrets these days is not being able to go to church as often as she used to. That’s certainly a passion of hers which I did not inherit. In fairness to her, she’s a progressive Methodist, which is probably as cool as Christianity can get in deeply Catholic Argentina.

I keep telling her she doesn’t need a church to talk to God or to live her passion, but then again, she never judged me when I decided to make record stores my temple and music my religion. She never said, You can make do with the records you already have or, even worse, You can just play music in your head.

She drove me to the damn store. I wish I could drive her to the (well, don’t make me say it…) church.

I’m not religious, as you can tell. I’ve often wondered what to make of a God that’s putting her through all this. Perhaps I’m way too theatrical, too histrionic, too tit-for-tat to be a good Christian. Don’t blame me. It was my mum who took me to the drama club in the first place.

Besides, I don’t even know how to pray. How do you pray when you’re not religious? I don’t know if any prayer of mine could realistically land somewhere other than the devil’s lap. (Just in case, I’m not taking any chances).

What I do know is that her love has carried me through some of the darkest and craziest shit of my life, and I certainly wouldn’t have made it in one piece without her.

Knowing her, she wouldn’t take any credit for this. She’ll say it was God answering her prayers. Funny how Christians thank God for the good but don’t blame Him for the bad.

I’m an argumentative piece of work, and I spent a big chunk of my life contradicting my mum just to win an argument or prove a point. Again, don’t blame me. It was her who convinced me to take up a legal education, after all.

But today I’m not arguing with her. I’m indulging her stories, her wishes, her versions of events, her view of the world. Her Weltanschauung. (She was a philosophy teacher and she taught me this word. If you had to look it up, you know who to blame).

Today it’s all about her. I celebrate her birthday and her life, and I thank her once again for believing in me and giving me the tools to make things happen. If she wants to say it was God pulling the strings, I’ll keep my mouth shut (God help me).

Now seriously, between you and me — even if we were to entertain this idea that it was all thanks to hopes and prayers — she was the one getting down on her knees, pressing her palms together, closing her eyes, and wishing up to the sky. God or no God up there, it was her who put in the work. In my book, it was her who made it happen.

Gracias, ma. Por todo. Feliz cumple. Feliz vida.

Full lyrics here — worth reading in full.

Thanks for being here. Happy spinning!

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As a vinyl lover, collector, and blogger, a question I am often asked is whether vinyl is a lossless audio format.

Lossless audio, particularly of the so-called hi-res kind, has been around for a while, but it’s become more popular in recent years as streaming platforms have begun offering it as part of their subscription models.

The hi-res streaming race began with Tidal Masters in January 2017, using the MQA codec. Then came Qobuz Sublime+ in May 2017, the first streaming platform to offer hi-res streaming using lossless FLAC. Amazon Music HD followed in 2019. Then, in 2021, Apple Music added hi-res lossless to its standard subscription at no extra cost, bringing hi-res audio to a mass-market audience. As for Spotify, I’ll let the crickets finish the paragraph.

Some people can’t hear the difference across streaming platforms, just like they can’t hear the difference between streaming, vinyl, and CD. Others can, but choose to prioritise accessibility and convenience over sound quality. And then some others won’t accept anything below hi-res lossless.

All stances are valid, but do you actually know what you’re choosing and why? What does all this hi-res lossless and FLAC jargon mean, and what the hell has it all got to do with vinyl?

I’m a recovered audiophile. This means two things: I used to be insufferably snobbish about these topics (fortunately, not anymore), and I used to know a lot about these topics (fortunately, I still do).

In other words, you’ve caught me at exactly the right moment to learn about all the things you’ve always wanted to know but were afraid to ask.

My aim here is not to tell you what to do, but to help you cut through the noise so you can make informed decisions that are right for you and your circumstances.

Sit back, relax, and enjoy. Oh, and turn the volume up.

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Some records tell our stories better than we ever could. Maybe that’s why they arrive when we most need them.

is a writer of substance. He understands exactly when to tell the stories, when to bridge the gaps, and when to let the records speak for themselves.

He writes, here on Substack, the wonderful Analog Encounters newsletter, where he delights us with long-form essays about albums, memory, listening, and the way records intersect with personal history.

Howard Salmon

A Substack devoted to deep listening — long-form reflections on the albums, artists, and forgotten corners of music that still shape how we hear.

He’s also a medical physicist, which shapes the way he hears music. He often thinks in terms of systems, pressure, thresholds, drift, signal, noise, recalibration, and structural failure.

His writing is exquisite, profound, incisive, and healing. What makes it even more extraordinary is that Howard has battled with dyslexia all his life, growing up at a time when neurodiversity was barely understood.

At school, he relied largely on memory rather than fluent reading and writing. Some old school friends still call him “the oracle” because memory was the tool he developed before he had better ones.

It wasn’t until his early twenties that he began to understand his dyslexia and learn how to work with it. He went on to retake his A-levels (UK university entrance qualifications), read physics at Surrey, and, much later, found in writing a way to move thoughts, memories, fears, and passions from his internal world onto the page.

After his son was diagnosed with ADHD, he began exploring his own childhood through writing. Later, sharing reflections on progressive rock albums encouraged him to blend scientific analysis with personal experience, creating a voice that is both intellectually rigorous and deeply human.

He spent three years developing that voice before launching his Substack last August.

Writing is still therapy first. He writes because he needs to. The fact that others find value in it is the bonus.

His work combines album analysis, memoir, social observation, and the idea that records can become diagnostic instruments for a life.

Needless to say, I’m a huge fan of his work, and it was a real honour for me to sit down with him via video to discuss his three vital records.

In his own words:

The connecting theme is ordinary lives made visible.

All three records, in different ways, deal with class, longing, performance, romance, escape, humiliation, reinvention, and the effort to build meaning inside systems that do not always love ordinary people back.

You can stream these records by clicking on each album cover below. Hopefully you’ll be adding them to your vinyl collection soon!

Record #1: The Smiths, Hatful of Hollow

Record #2: Pulp, Different Class

Record #3: Lana del Rey, Born to Die

Were you familiar with these records? Any interesting stories to share?

Thank you, Howard, for your brilliant contribution, and thank you, vinyl lovers, for joining us.

See you in the comments.

Happy spinning!

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Your story next? Let’s talk: vinylroom@substack.com Fortune favours the brave 🔥

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Note: I got a bit carried away when recording this voiceover. Definitely NSFW. Pinch of salt, stir well, and enjoy 😎

Have you stayed at a hotel recently?

Mobile check-in. Personalised meal preferences. In-app concierge. “Smart” automation.

It’s funny because, when you finally get to your room, chances are you might be able to spot a relic from the past. Quietly yet defiantly sitting there in a discreet corner.

This is not new, nor is it an isolated gimmick. From Beijing to Milwaukee, from independent boutiques to large international chains, hotels are increasingly equipping rooms with turntables.

Unlike pillow menus or marble bathrooms, this is not limited to five-star hotels, nor is it exclusive to cities with a lively music scene, such as Austin or Nashville.

Ah, just another design fad, you might think. After all, records photograph well, don’t they?

A turntable makes a room feel more curated. More chic. More instagrammable.

But hotels don’t invest in experiences without expecting a return. So why are they doing it?

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Remember Tiny Vinyl? 4-inch vinyl. One song per side. Cute. Or so they say.

Very popular among young collectors. Growing fast, in spite of its name.

While Tiny Vinyl is playable on normal turntables (from entry-level to high-end models), the company behind it has now launched its own player. You can only buy it at Target, and it only lets you play Tiny Vinyl.

Touted as the best new way to start collecting, it gets one very important thing backwards.

So I had something to say. Unscripted, impromptu, one-take-or-die, true Vinyl Room style.

Excuse the occasionally impassioned language (#SoyLatino 🇦🇷♥️🇬🇧)

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She seemed to struggle with the rope. At first. Then she settled.

When I touched her, I noticed her skin felt cold. Her body was tense. She was avoiding eye contact. I don’t blame her. None of this was easy.

When her eyes finally met mine, I saw fear.

Defiance.

Will I regret this?

Welcome to Inner Grooves. The records we love. The stories we hold. The secrets we keep.

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There are two ways I could tell you this story.

I could reveal her name and face, but I would need to omit the darkest parts. Sanitise the narrative to the point where it no longer paints an accurate picture.

Or I could protect her identity, but tell you everything.

When I started this series, I promised you honesty. No sugar-coating. No holding back.

I'm not in touch with her anymore. Things didn’t end particularly well. But I owe her a measure of decency for the sake of our time together and because I’d expect the same if she was the one sitting on this chair.

Her name and face will be left to your imagination, but I’ll tell you everything else.

Unfiltered.

Let’s start from the beginning.

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Do you mostly buy records in person or online?

As vinyl lovers, there’s this expectation to embrace a fully analogue lifestyle.

Walk into a building. Feel the air (or lack thereof). Flip through the bins. Touch the records with your hands.

I don’t know about you, but I confess I’m mostly buying vinyl online these days.

Don’t get me wrong — I still love brick-and-mortar record stores. They are the beating heart of the vinyl community. For all the convenience of buying online, there really is no feeling like walking into a record store and letting the hunt take you places.

Visiting a physical record store is therapeutic in ways a screen will never be.

I was recently in Paris for a couple of weeks, and one of the highlights of my trip was crate-digging the old-fashioned way.

So no, I haven’t stopped visiting physical stores. Browsing is still one of my favourite things to do. But when it comes to actually buying records, save for the occasional exception (as w…

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One of the first exercises they make you do in drama school is walk.

No Shakespeare. No Harold Pinter. No emotional monologues. Just walk around the room.

Fill the space. Don’t follow anyone. Make eye contact.

Within seconds, a room full of aspiring actors will forget how to perform one of the most basic human functions.

It’s not the walking that trips you up. It’s the constant adjustment of your movements as soon as you enter your peers’ line of sight and realise you’re being watched.

Like when you’re having a ball with your favourite ‘80s bangers in the car, only to turn down the volume the moment you pull up alongside another driver.

You didn’t automatically stop liking the music. It so happens that you now have an audience.

And they can judge you.

Music makes us cry, dance, think, grieve, fall in love, deal with break-ups, and feel less alone. Yet one of its strangest powers is making otherwise confident adults apologise for liking it.

Which begs the question: who exactly are we apologising to?

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Every Sunday, I spin some vinyl magic your way. Text, voice, video, and the cheekiest remarks from this side of the pond 🇬🇧

Huge thanks to everyone who’s upgraded recently. The Wednesday crew is enjoying the deeper dives, more engaging discussions, and all the great stuff we can’t quite lay out in the open.

There’s room for you. Don’t just listen from the doorway.

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Today, I question the unquestionable. Brace yourselves.

Enjoy 📀

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I am back home in London after three intense but incredibly rewarding weeks in Paris.

The big project that took me across the English Channel back in June was a huge success. That alone would have been enough to make me happy.

But there’s more.

And it wasn’t just the delicious food, the breathtaking sights, the charming Parisian cafés, the quirky record stores, and the scenic walks along the Seine, although they all played a role.

I once read that you don’t fall in love with a city, but with the version of yourself you became there.

So here’s what happened.

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What comes first: our love of vinyl or our love of music?

Few would dispute that music comes first. It’s the air we breathe. It’s what keeps us alive in a world gone mad.

Vinyl, we tell ourselves, is our favourite way of satisfying our love of music. It’s a format we treasure because it connects us to the sounds we love.

That’s what I’ve always thought.

Until recently.

Having no access to my records for a couple of weeks whilst busy with other projects, I found myself caught up in an accidental experiment that made me question some of these assumptions.

What happens to the music when our records are gone?

Unscripted, impromptu, one-take-or-die, true Vinyl Room style. Parisian heatwave included. 🥵

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How many hours can you fit in a day? As some of you know, a certain project has been keeping me busy.

By choice. And for good reason.

I don’t know about you, but when I’m busy, I become more methodical. Less chaotic.

More intentional.

In life, and so in music.

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Choosing a prompt may seem easy at first, but soon you realise it lays the foundation for everything else.

Having hosted and played myself many times, I can tell you that choosing a good prompt is even more crucial than choosing the actual records.

This is something I didn’t have to explain to today’s guest. She knew.

They say that to be a good writer you first have to be a good reader, and Emm clearly knows how to read between the lines. Rather than simply picking three records, she chose a thread that reveals something much deeper.

Her brilliant Substack, , is an absolute must-read for me every week. She writes wittily, honestly, fearlessly. Not yet subscribed? How dare you.

Emm as in Music

Emm as in music maven & femme. Writer, cat person, baking enthusiast, practitioner of kindness, leftist, lover of obscure albums & ally. In the words of Peter Gabriel, you'll have to take me just the way that you find me. Semper Femina. Anti-AI

I was over at Emm’s recently for her Five for Friday series, and it was one of the most beautiful collaborations I’ve ever done.

Today, Emm will discuss three records she associates with three people she once called her best friend. But the plot thickens as she tells a story about friendship, change, values, and the people who shape us long after they leave our lives.

I’ll now leave you in her capable hands.

Enjoy 📀

I am Emm. I am a writer by trade and I guess by necessity. I am also a lifelong music fanatic who is working toward a more ethical record collection, which is hard given the nature of the artists who made music. But it is rewarding, and kind of necessary, at least for me, based on lived experiences.

My prompt is three records that I associate with the three people I have called my best friend at some point in life. One I will never talk to again, one I should talk to more, and one who wears the crown of bestie, now and always. There are deeper and more profound stories to tell about each, and I will one day, but here’s the essential what and why…

Record #1: Marillion, Misplaced Childhood

My first best friend broke my heart. Not because of something he did to me. But something he did to someone that has haunted me for years, in part because I believed him over what my gut and lived experience told me.

Marillion was his favorite band. I want to say I introduced him to them. Because I am certain I did. He bought everything he could get his hands on by them. He always taped his records so he wouldn’t have to play them and when I bought this first, he asked me to do that for him. Which I did because he was my friend.

I thought I grew out of Marillion and prog in the 90s. But I bought a copy for a dollar in the aughts. I played it now and then, just like I saw him occasionally. This despite the fact that my conscience kept nagging at me.

A few years ago, I sent a direct message to clear my conscience and cut him off. I don’t regret it and it is part of why I have been moving toward a more ethical record collection.

I nearly parted with “Misplaced Childhood” again, not for ethical reasons, but because I associated it with him. And yet, the album tells aspects of my own story. First crushes. Lost relationships. Awkward life transitions. It is an emotionally charged album. And cathartic.

Essentially, I realized it existed apart from him and our friendship. It reminds me of the first time in my life when I felt a sense of belonging. It is also tied to an emerging narrative of healing, of embracing my own childhood, my former, somewhat self, the budding femme who just wanted to love and be loved in return. That and “Kayleigh” is an all-timer.

Record #2: Tom Waits, Frank’s Wild Years

Another story I will tell in more detail is my wild years in college radio. I was impossible, at least in my first go-round. I had been infected by late-night talk show humor, and had a chip on my shoulder from being bullied as a kid, which, merged with my mercurial nature, meant some self-sabotage.

For example, my second best friend came into the campus radio station one day with some hand scribbled notes for a review of Waits’ “Frank’s Wild Years” and I made a quip about Moses coming down from the mountain with his tablets. Oddly, he didn’t punch me, which he should have. Instead, I think he recognized another sarcastic, slightly misguided soul. And we bonded.

“Frank’s Wild Years” was an album I struggled with at first. I was certain Waits, who I had very limited knowledge of, was engaging in musical Blackface based on his singing. I realized quickly that wasn’t the case. And I became besot, in part because I heard aspects of my own eccentricity in his work and because I envied how he wrote. I still do. That and the otherworldly quality of Waits’ fractured but lovely melodies. They are like curio shop finds that repel with their weirdness even as they fascinate you with their craftwork.

I sometimes think my friend is responsible for my turn from AOR like Boston and Bon Jovi to alt rock. But I think he just expedited that journey. He also introduced me to directors like David Lynch and Stuart Gordon. Ultimately, he was a wonderful corrupting force in my life and I wouldn’t be the odd duck I am today without his diabolical influence.

Record #3: The Decemberists, The King Is Dead

I told this story a bit in a Five for Friday, but I met my bestie Judy through twitter and then became friends with her through Tumblr back when it was wild and wooly and I was a bit more of a contrarian than I am now. I know, how could I possibly be?

There was a tweetup planned for Chicago, which was where Judy lived at the time. Despite being a recluse and introvert, I decided to go because I had grown a community through social media. I reached out to Judy, and we made plans to hang.

Around this time, I also fell out with my father and decided to be more self-sufficient. For some reason, this became the soundtrack for that journey and my preparations for Chicago. I played it every day to the extent that I felt like it was rearranging my DNA.

On the day I was scheduled to fly to Chicago, I heard “Down by the Water” playing over the airport PA, so I figured that was good omen, even if I had to scramble to book an alternative flight. After all, Judy was a Decemberists fan too.

I made a few return trips for tweetups, mainly to hang with Judy, tour the city, and eat ridiculous food items. “The King is Dead” was a frequent soundtrack. Which is funny because it has no connective tissue with the city. And yet, it is as Chicago to me as Chess Records and deep-dish pizza. When I play it now, it reaffirms my bond with her and the one I repaired with my dad. For these reasons, its reminder not to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders is invaluable, and bittersweet.

All these albums and the stories related to them deserve more detailed essays. They may not have saved my life, like albums by CMAT or Scott Walker, but they are foundational to changes I went through that made me a better person. In that way they are not only vital but also beloved.

Thank you, Emm, for your fantastic contribution. What began as a reflection on friendship gradually became something much bigger: a meditation on growth, conscience, loyalty, being faithful to our values, and how music can outlive the moments that first gave it meaning.

Thank you, vinyl lovers, for joining us. Were you familiar with these records? Any interesting stories to share? See you in the comments.

Thanks for reading. Happy spinning!

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Love records? vinylroom@substack.com Fortune favours the brave 🔥

If you’d like to support my writing, the best way is to upgrade to a paid subscription. You can also make a one-off contribution to help keep the engine running ☕️

Thank you for your support!

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Buy me a coffee

Music lovers have a pesky tendency to compare ourselves with others.

Constantly.

Who knows more. Who has more records. Who has been to more concerts. Who discovered a certain band or artist first.

Gatekeeping has conditioned us to feel we have to prove our worth. Not to mention if we do something with music other than simply love it.

Musicians. Producers. Music writers. I see you nodding along.

Even a generally welcoming platform like Substack can sometimes make you feel out of place. Like you’re not good enough. Like you don’t belong.

Why does he have more subscribers than me? Why can’t I write like her? Why do I always seem to struggle more than others?

We're a wild bunch, and I love our diversity, but imposter syndrome is the broken record we all keep spinning.

This is why I wanted to share this story with you today.

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Rapture.

Bliss.

I was lost in the moment when I suddenly felt his hand on my shoulder, so I opened my eyes. He was looking at me. Intently. I have no idea for how long he had been trying to grab my attention.

He pointed at the window, raised his eyebrows, and smiled.

Snow.

Snow falling down in a city that only knew how to burn. Snow falling down on pavements that scorched the souls of the living.

Was this real? There was only one way to find out.

Welcome to Inner Grooves. The records we love. The stories we hold. The secrets we keep.

If you value honest, AI-free writing, please consider a paid subscription. Thank you for supporting my work.

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If you’ve been following these stories, you will have noticed a common theme.

Drama. Intensity. Darkness. Trauma. The taboo. Youth — my youth — switfly and brutally snatched away in exchange for the faint promise of pleasure.

This story is different.

No drama. No big scenes. No scar tissue to add to my ever-growing collection of trophies.

What you will find here instead is a pair of hands and arms that could hold the most elusive of souls. Two men on a futon bed and the dim sunset light of Sundays that blended into each other.

What you will find here, plain and simple, is a collection of moments that defied the rules of space and time, which is a fancier way of saying this was an instant that lasted forever.

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Every Sunday, I spin some vinyl magic your way. Text, voice, video, and the cheekiest remarks from this side of the pond 🇬🇧

Huge thanks to everyone who’s upgraded recently. The Wednesday crew is enjoying the deeper dives, more engaging discussions, and all the good stuff we can’t quite lay out in the open.

There’s room for you. Come on in! Don’t just listen from the doorway.

Subscribe now

Today, some musings on social media, flexing muscles, reading books, and why we keep breaking our backs for the sounds we love.

Enjoy 📀

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Paid subscribers: This voiceover is a scream. Just sayin’ 😎

By the time you read this, I will be living in Paris.

Not permanently. At least, that’s not the plan. But I won’t be merely a passing visitor.

All being well, when this hits your inbox, I will be finishing the big project that necessitated my crossing the English Channel in mid-June to base myself in the French capital.

I say “all being well” because the tasks in question are not easy, and this is 2026, after all. One can never be sure.

Unlike other trips, this one will involve none of your typical touristy itineraries. No queueing up in front of the Eiffel Tower. No aimless strolls along the Seine. Definitely no standing in line at the Louvre to take a picture of the Mona Lisa.

What it will involve is a considerable amount of grit and determination if I am to call it a success.

Let’s just say this is no ordinary trip.

According to my calculations, this will be my ninth time in the City of Light in the space of seventeen years, which is almost half of my life. Which is bonkers, because it’s not so much a reminder of the time lived but of how little there is left.

Melancholic, I hear you say. At the time of writing, I haven’t even landed yet. C’est la vie.

For someone like me — and I suspect, like you — our sense of routine is what keeps us functioning. It’s what helps us preserve whatever bit of sanity we’ve got left. It’s our compass and our guide, our comfort blanket, our lighthouse in the middle of the night.

Permanence, for better or worse, grounds us. Like our rituals. Like our records.

And look, I would happily spend an alarming percentage of my life doing the same things in the same places at the same times. There is comfort in predictability. Efficiency, too.

This trip, unfortunately, has other ideas. As I said, this is no ordinary trip.

And there is no ordinary way to tell you about it.

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When you think of 1984, joy isn’t the first word that springs to mind.

Cold War anxiety, nuclear dread, miners’ strikes, famine in the news, and the long shadow of Orwell’s imagined future all gave the year a certain heaviness.

It was a period coloured by tension, uncertainty, and the uneasy feeling that the future might not turn out quite as promised — or turn out at all.

And yet, for one music lover, the synths, melodies, and neon shimmer of 1984 offered the kind of refuge that only music can provide.

was a teenager growing up on a remote island. These records connected him with the wider world, while also giving him solace, comfort, and lasting joy.

He now lives in the north of England, just a few hours away from my London home, and I’m fortunate to call him a friend in real life.

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I was recently chatting with my friend and fellow MusicStacker about records (what a surprise) when I said something that left me ruminating for days:

Not all records should be timeless.

Depending on when you read this, you will have seen, or will soon see, the full context of our conversation, which was about a broader topic. I don’t want to spoil it, but let’s just say I made this point in specific reference to a record whose historical context was particularly relevant.

It’s a record Mark knows very well, and I was only starting to get familiar with it. I was bouncing ideas off him, as you do with good friends who share your passion for music.

The point I was making rests on an assumption few listeners would dispute: we not only tolerate but actively expect records born during tumultuous or otherwise transformative eras to bear the marks of their time.

But what about records in general? Pick any retrospective album review and you'll likely find, somewhere in the text, a judgement on whether the record has “aged well”.

Why the obsession with timelessness? We seem far less inclined to apply this standard elsewhere.

Everyone loves a period drama. Bring on the costumes, the archaic language, the horses, the pomp and ceremony.

With literature, although there’s this modern Orwellian tendency in some quarters to sanitise or rewrite passages depicting uncomfortable realities of bygone eras, serious literary criticism still analyses texts as written in their specific context.

And let’s be honest, no one stands in front of a Renaissance painting and complains that it bears too many traces of the era that produced it.

But records don’t seem to enjoy this privilege. In fact, one of the highest compliments a record can receive is that it “still sounds modern”, as if escaping its own time signalled artistic achievement.

Consider the way many critics talk about records from the 1980s. The charge sheet is familiar: too much reverb, too many synthesisers, too much studio gloss, too artificial, too dated. But what exactly is the crime here? That the music sounds like the decade in which it was made?

Imagine if we reviewed architecture the way we review records. “The problem with this Gothic cathedral is that it looks far too Gothic.” The criticism feels absurd. Yet this is precisely the standard we often apply to music.

Production quality may vary, but “it sounds very 1980s” is not, in itself, a criticism, nor is it evidence of artistic failure. Nobody complains that a Victorian novel is “too Victorian” or that an Art Deco building is “too 1920s”.

Why the double standard? Why should records hide their wrinkles? And, more importantly, why do we equate artistic superiority in music with the ability to escape history?

There are a number of reasons, but I can already tell you one thing. The problem is not the music.

It’s you.

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