(Or: How I accidentally discovered that music feels different when it isn’t fighting for my attention.)

There is something suspiciously magical about putting on a vinyl record.
Not magical in a “summon-a-ghost-in-your-attic” way. More in a “suddenly it’s 1978 and I have my life together” kind of way.

You pull the record from its sleeve like it’s an ancient artifact. You place it carefully on the turntable. You lower the needle.

And then—
That little crackle.
That tiny burst of static.
That beautiful imperfection.
It’s the sound of something real beginning.

Which is funny because most of us now carry millions of songs in our pockets and somehow spend half our time listening to none of them.
We skip.
We shuffle.
We search.

We let algorithms decide.

We open Spotify to hear one song and emerge forty-five minutes later somehow watching videos of a raccoon stealing dog food.

Modern technology is incredible.
My attention span, unfortunately, is not.

So lately I’ve become fascinated by older ways of listening to music. The slower ways. The intentional ways.

The ways that ask you to sit down and simply listen.
And honestly?
It’s kind of wonderful.

This post is the third entry in my ongoing attempt to spend less time doomscrolling and more time doing things that make me feel gloriously human. If you’d like to read the second post in the series, you can find it here: books,books and more books

the fourth post: why I’m collecting hobbies instead of apps…

I Think We Lost Something When Music Stopped Feeling Like a Crush

There are some things I never got to experience properly.

Leaving a voicemail and hoping they’d call back.

Recording songs off the radio onto a cassette tape.

Leaning dramatically against a bedroom window while a love song played and pretending my life was a movie.

(Though to be fair, I still do the third one.)

But every time I see an old vinyl record spinning, or hear the soft hiss before a cassette starts playing, I feel nostalgic for a decade I wasn’t even fully there for.

And maybe that’s because the 90s seemed to understand something we’ve forgotten:

Music wasn’t supposed to be consumed.

It was supposed to be obsessed over.

You didn’t have twenty million songs in your pocket.

You had that one album.

The one with the scratched cover.

The one you’d replay so many times you could hear every breath before the singer started the next verse.

The one that somehow knew exactly how your heart felt before you did.

Nowadays I can listen to almost any song ever made within seconds.

And somehow that feels a little less magical.

Not because modern music is worse.

But because nothing gets the chance to become yours anymore.

The Romance of Waiting

I think half the charm of old music came from waiting.

You waited for a song to come on the radio.

You waited for new albums to release.

You waited while your cassette rewound.

You waited while your CD skipped because somebody breathed near it too aggressively.

Everything took longer.

And because everything took longer, everything mattered more.

Now if a song doesn’t immediately grab me, I skip.

Next.

Skip.

Next.

Skip.

Meanwhile, some of my favorite songs ever took three listens before they clicked.

Imagine if I’d treated people like that.

“Sorry, you didn’t instantly entertain me. Next.”

Actually don’t imagine that.

That’s horrifying.

A Bedroom Somewhere in 1997

Sometimes I imagine a teenager in 1997.

It’s midnight.

Their bedroom walls are covered with magazine cutouts.

There’s a stack of CDs on the floor.

A cheap lamp glows in the corner.

They’re lying on their bed staring at the ceiling while a song plays for the hundredth time.

No scrolling.

No notifications.

No fifteen different people competing for attention.

Just a song.

And a feeling.

And enough silence to actually hear both.

Honestly?

That sounds richer than most evenings I’ve had with unlimited internet access.

Why Vinyl Feels Like a Love Letter

I don’t even think vinyl records are really about sound quality.

Don’t throw tomatoes at me.

I think they’re about devotion.

A playlist asks almost nothing from you.

A record asks for participation.

You have to choose it.

Take it out.

Place it carefully.

Lower the needle.

Flip it over halfway through.

The entire process feels less like pressing play and more like opening a letter.

A letter from a version of yourself that still knew how to sit still.

The Anti-Doomscrolling Argument

This is probably the most unexpected entry in my anti-doomscrolling series.

Because technically we’re talking about music.

But we’re actually talking about attention.

Scrolling trains us to constantly look for the next thing.

The next video.

The next post.

The next joke.

The next dopamine hit.

Vinyl records don’t have a next button.

Well.

They do.

It’s called standing up.

And somehow that’s enough friction to save you from yourself.

You put on an album and suddenly forty minutes pass.

Not because you were distracted.

Because you weren’t.

That’s becoming a surprisingly rare experience.

The 90s Music Nook of My Dreams

A tiny note before we begin: some links in this post may be affiliate links. If you decide to buy something through them, I may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. Think of it as helping fund my book habit and occasional inability to leave stationery stores empty-handed.

If I could build the perfect little listening corner, it would look like it belongs in a coming-of-age movie nobody remembers but everyone loves.

A record player.

A slightly worn armchair.

Stacks of albums leaning against each other.

Soft yellow lighting.

A shelf of dog-eared books.

A journal full of terrible poetry.

Rain tapping against the window.

The kind of room where you accidentally spend three hours doing absolutely nothing.

And somehow leave feeling better than you have all week.

Maybe That’s What We’re Really Missing

I don’t think people are buying vinyl because they want to go backwards.

I think they’re buying vinyl because they’re tired.

Tired of speed.

Tired of optimization.

Tired of everything fighting for their attention.

Old music formats remind us that enjoyment doesn’t have to be efficient.

A song can just be a song.

An evening can just be an evening.

And maybe the most rebellious thing we can do in 2026 is sit in a chair and listen to an entire album without touching our phones.

The 90s would probably think that’s normal.

I think it’s becoming a superpower.

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