I do not have a sense of smell.
Clinically, the term is anosmia. I was born that way. I have no idea what coffee, fresh-cut grass, or even a record store smells like.
It probably plays a large part in why my memory and music are so closely tied.
When I see an album cover, I see more than the corresponding art for a collection of songs. I see entire chapters of my life: rooms, people, and, inevitably, previous versions of myself.
The same applies to pictures.
I know, I know. The whole ‘worth a thousand words’ adage is so played out. But it’s also true.
This just so happens to be my favorite father/son picture, and below is the story behind it.
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There’s an old-school town square about five minutes from our front door (For anybody who remembers Gilmore Girls, I literally live on the outskirts of Stars Hollow.)
We moved into our current home nearly ten years ago, and within months, downtown frozen yogurt runs became a weekend family tradition. The routine waned as our oldest became a teenager. But when our youngest son was born, the ritual returned in full force.
It was during one of these trips last summer that I noticed something I hadn’t seen before: a chalkboard sign on the sidewalk announcing that a mom-and-pop record shop had, well, popped up overnight.
Of course we had to mosey on in.
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My shopping strategy at this point is well established. I head over to the least crowded area and immediately start flipping through the bins, frantically in search of something. I’m never really sure what. I spent the first decade of my career running a record store, which led to a massive collection. Marriage led to an equally massive culling. So, at this stage in the game, my only rule is that any new purchase has to be an album I’m actually going to listen to. I don’t need to own it just to own it.
At three years old, my kiddo is old enough to be walking and talking, but still young enough to be insanely curious about anything and everything. I’ve barely made it through the ‘R’ titles before he walks over and wants to be picked up.*
So there I am, holding him in one arm, methodically flipping with the other.
I notice his eyes grow wide. Like he is seeing something he has never seen before. Which, of course, is true. And then I have one of those oh-so-rare moments where the invisible threads of your life suddenly appear.
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First, I see a three-year-old me sitting on my knees in front of my parents’ record collection.**
We’d just moved from the trailer park into a by-way-of-foreclosure-sale home. I spent every weekend of my childhood assisting in some sort of ill-advised perpetual renovation. It’s probably why I have absolutely zero appetite for home improvement projects as an adult.
And there, beneath the television, sitting on what were essentially planks of wood nailed together, I take aim at my father’s records.
I’m on my knees, randomly tugging at albums. They’re tightly packed and stubbornly resisting my efforts. I pull at one, then another, until a creamy yellow spine catches my eye. I keep working it loose, inch by inch, until the first post-Gabriel Genesis release*** is suddenly lying face up on the green carpet. I stare at the menagerie of illustrated, almost theatrical imagery that I have no context for but find absolutely fascinating.
It would be years before I connected the cover to the music, but at that moment it didn’t matter. I was holding something that felt so important, even if I had no idea why.
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Then I recall my first purchase. It’s a rather underwhelming story.
My sister placed her first Columbia House order**** and generously offered me a space on the form.
I requested R.E.M.’s recently-released Automatic for the People, but she penciled in the wrong code.
Weeks later, the box arrives. Eleven CDs and one vinyl record.
I’m eleven years old and staring at this thing like it’s an alien artifact. Fortunately, my hand-me-down stereo had a turntable. It took a minute, but I soon figured out how to drop the needle.
I realized I could play any song (mid-album highlight “Sweetness Follows” was an instant favorite) over and over. It wasn’t instant. It wasn’t digital. It required intention, touch, and a fair bit of practice.
It was love at first listen, but it was more than that. The tactile connection played a huge role in the experience.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s cool to have 50 bazillion songs on a phone, but listening to vinyl represents an investment in time and motion. Probably why the experience is so rewarding.
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I did not have a great childhood. I’ll spare you the gory details because everyone has a story and everybody’s details are messy. Bottom line: relationships do not exist, and haven’t for years.
It took me a long time to unravel the shadow that trauma and estrangement cast on my life. Just about every memory from my youth is painfully bittersweet.
Except music. For whatever reason, those memories remain pure and untangled.
And despite all of the above (or maybe because of it), I am a huge fan of counting one’s blessings.
Right at the top of that list, just beneath my incredible wife and children, is a career I truly love. Everybody has to talk about something for a living. I’m grateful that I’ve spent my life talking about music.
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All of this is racing through my head as I’m standing there holding my son. I’m methodically flipping through the bin when he suddenly reaches out.
The first thing his fingers touch? Automatic for the People.
I get why. I mean, it is a fantastic cover. But it’s also a life-altering masterpiece. At least, it was for me.
I lean down and whisper in his ear, “Oh boy. I can’t wait for you to hear this someday.”
*What catches a toddler’s eyes is magic. Whatever they gravitate toward is innate. It’s incredible how pure everything is at that age. Nothing is going through a filter. I have a treasure trove of my kiddo’s scribbled crayon drawings; a reminder of what inspiration really looks like.
**This just so happens to be my earliest memory.
***A few thoughts regarding A Trick of the Tale: I’ve always felt Gabriel and Genesis did their best work post-split, Collins sounded amazing from day one, and “Squonk” just might be the heaviest thing in their catalog.
****Anyone else remember the whole ‘twelve records for a penny’ gimmick? We never remembered to mail those cards back.
Featured essay originally posted March, 2026 on ihavethatonvinyl.com
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