The vinyl age

Note: I’m on vacation this week, so I’ll be republishing a few of my favorite posts from earlier in this blog’s run. This post originally appeared, in a slightly different form, on January 21, 2014.

For Christmas, I got a record player, the first one I’ve owned for many years. My setup isn’t going to impress any audiophiles—my only real request was for a portable turntable that I could plug in and play without worrying about wires or external speakers—but it’s exactly what I needed. I wanted it, first of all, because I live just up the street from an independent record store that I’d only visited a couple of times in the last two years, and I wanted an excuse to browse there. There’s also a trove of enticing records at the thrift store a block away, and along with the selections from the Osmonds, Andy Williams, and Mitch Miller, you’ll often find an unexpected treasure for a dollar. My first purchase there was Benjamin Britten’s Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra, which was only fitting, since it was the sight of those three little brothers in their pajamas, seated on the floor with their record player in Moonrise Kingdom, that reminded me of the basic pleasure that vinyl affords. And although my record collection is still pretty sparse, I expect it to expand considerably soon, at least if my habits with used books are any indication.

Vinyl itself is a fascinating medium. I’m well aware that arguments for one format over another are highly subjective, and few listeners can tell the difference with their ears alone. (The “warmth” over which wax enthusiasts enthuse may be real, but it might also be due to the inherent limitations of vinyl for rendering bass.) Still, there’s no denying the emotional, tactile appeal of the rituals involved: sliding the record out of the sleeve, setting it on the turntable, removing the dust, gently dropping the needle into place. At a time when the process of listening to music has become increasingly abstracted, along with nearly all the other forms of media we consume, there’s something satisfying about an encounter that brings you that much closer to the mechanics of recording and playback. It isn’t quite like the case for reading physical books, which have enormous advantages for serious readers that have nothing to do with nostalgia. But if we’re willing to concede that these objects have value in themselves—and that the physical look, feel, and aroma of these interactions are meaningful—then it’s hard to imagine a better way of listening to music.

And I’m also thinking about my own daughter. I’ve written before about the value of physical books from a parent’s perspective, since a bookshelf with the spines all arranged at the level of a child’s eye is a much greater invitation to browsing and discovery than the sterile slab of a Kindle. You can make much the same argument for music and movies: I spent endless hours exploring my dad’s CD, video, and record collection, which shaped my tastes enormously, even if it put me slightly out of step with my friends. (It’s safe to say that I was the only kid at my middle school who was obsessed with the Pet Shop Boys, and although it caused me a few headaches at the time, I’d like to think that I got the last laugh.) Beatrix is already curious about the record player, perhaps because the logic of its workings is so transparent. You put the record on here, the sound comes out there—and the records themselves, of course, are enticing art objects in themselves. I’m still looking for a place to keep them all, but it’s safe to say that wherever they end up, they’ll be somewhere near the ground, in a spot where they’re likely to catch a little girl’s eye.

That said, none of this would make any difference if I didn’t benefit from it myself, and if it didn’t express something fundamental about who I am. I don’t have much in the way of advice for other parents—if there’s one thing that being a father has taught me, it’s that parenting is about doing whatever works, as long as it’s within a loving family—but if I’ve come to believe in one principle, it’s that values, especially artistic ones, need to be visible. I’m used to living in my own head, but my daughter is still gathering the materials of her own inner life, and it helps if the raw ingredients are readily at hand. That doesn’t mean that I’m going to transform myself into something I’m not, just for the sake of providing her with what I think will be a good role model; but it does mean externalizing the things I care about and find worthwhile about myself in a form that she can find on her own. That record player, like the ukulele, is an attractive toy, but it’s also a tangible extension, right into the living room, of art and ideals that might otherwise be locked up between my ears or in a hard drive that she won’t be able to explore. These books, movies, and music are a part of me, and by keeping their fragile, anachronistic shells within easy reach, I’m hoping that they’ll become a part of her, too.

The vinyl age

For Christmas, I got a record player, the first one I’ve owned for many years. My setup isn’t going to impress any audiophiles—my only real request was for a portable turntable that I could plug in and play without worrying about wires or external speakers—but it’s exactly what I needed. I wanted it, first of all, because I live just up the street from an independent record store that I’d only visited a couple of times in the last two years, and I wanted an excuse to browse there. There’s also a trove of enticing records at the thrift store a block away, and along with the selections from the Osmonds, Andy Williams, and Mitch Miller, you’ll often find an unexpected treasure for a dollar. My first purchase there was Benjamin Britten’s Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra, which was only fitting, since it was the sight of those three little brothers in their pajamas, seated on the floor with their record player in Moonrise Kingdom, that reminded me of the basic pleasure that vinyl affords. And although my record collection is still pretty sparse, I expect it to expand considerably soon, at least if my habits with used books are any indication.

Vinyl itself is a fascinating medium. I’m well aware that arguments for one format over another are highly subjective, and few listeners can tell the difference with their ears alone. (The “warmth” over which wax enthusiasts enthuse may be real, but it might also be due to the inherent limitations of vinyl for rendering bass.) Still, there’s no denying the emotional, tactile appeal of the rituals involved: sliding the record out of the sleeve, setting it on the turntable, removing the dust, gently dropping the needle into place. At a time when the process of listening to music has become increasingly abstracted, along with nearly all the other forms of media we consume, there’s something satisfying about an encounter that brings you that much closer to the mechanics of recording and playback. It isn’t quite like the case for reading physical books, which have enormous advantages for serious readers that have nothing to do with nostalgia. But if we’re willing to concede that these objects have value in themselves—and that the physical look, feel, and aroma of these interactions are meaningful—then it’s hard to imagine a better way of listening to music.

And I’m also thinking about my own daughter. I’ve written before about the value of physical books from a parent’s perspective, since a bookshelf with the spines all arranged at the level of a child’s eye is a much greater invitation to browsing and discovery than the sterile slab of a Kindle. You can make much the same argument for music and movies: I spent endless hours exploring my dad’s CD, video, and record collection, which shaped my tastes enormously, even if it put me slightly out of step with my friends. (It’s safe to say that I was the only kid at my middle school who was obsessed with the Pet Shop Boys, and although it caused me a few headaches at the time, I’d like to think that I got the last laugh.) Beatrix is already curious about the record player, perhaps because the logic of its workings is so transparent. You put the record on here, the sound comes out there—and the records themselves, of course, are enticing art objects in themselves. I’m still looking for a place to keep them all, but it’s safe to say that wherever they end up, they’ll be somewhere near the ground, in a spot where they’re likely to catch a little girl’s eye.

That said, none of this would make any difference if I didn’t benefit from it myself, and if it didn’t express something fundamental about who I am. I don’t have much in the way of advice for other parents—if there’s one thing that being a father has taught me, it’s that parenting is about doing whatever works, as long as it’s within a loving family—but if I’ve come to believe in one principle, it’s that values, especially artistic ones, need to be visible. I’m used to living in my own head, but my daughter is still gathering the materials of her own inner life, and it helps if the raw ingredients are readily at hand. That doesn’t mean that I’m going to transform myself into something I’m not, just for the sake of providing her with what I think will be a good role model; but it does mean externalizing the things I care about and find worthwhile about myself in a form that she can find on her own. That record player, like the ukulele, is an attractive toy, but it’s also a tangible extension, right into the living room, of art and ideals that might otherwise be locked up between my ears or in a hard drive that she won’t be able to explore. These books, movies, and music are a part of me, and by keeping their fragile, anachronistic shells within easy reach, I’m hoping that they’ll become a part of her, too.

A young person’s guide to Wes Anderson

Wes Anderson makes movies suffused with a sense of diligent play, like a bright child assembling a craft project out of construction paper and elbow macaroni. It’s fun, but it’s also deadly serious, and you wouldn’t want to interrupt him before he’s done. My own favorite is The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou, which comes closer than any film I’ve ever seen to approximating the kind of movie I would have made when I was twelve years old, given the full resources of a willing studio—and I mean this as a compliment in the strongest possible way. Anderson has often been compared to Joseph Cornell, another misleadingly childlike artist of great meticulousness, and his new film Moonrise Kingdom is his most intricate Cornell box to date. (It also reflects the vision of cowriter Roman Coppola, whose first big job as a filmmaker was designing and executing the ingenious practical effects for his father’s version of Dracula.)

Not surprisingly, Moonrise Kingdom is especially wise when it comes to rendering the inner lives of precocious children, notably Sam and Suzy, two twelve-year-olds who run away from home in New England in 1965. Anderson’s approach has always been to treat his younger characters as miniature adults, and while this can come off as rather arch to adult eyes, I suspect that I would have related strongly to these kids when I was their age—like Sam, I was always in a rush to grow up. Part of the charm of Anderson’s children lies in their slightly flat performances: like the child actors who provide the voices for Bill Meléndez’s Peanuts specials, they don’t always seem to fully understand their own dialogue, but the result is an appealing sense of children playing roles that are just barely over their heads. (If I could pair one director with any film project, my dream would be to have Wes Anderson direct the movie version of Encyclopedia Brown.)

If Moonrise Kingdom has a problem, it’s that the adult characters aren’t seen as clearly as the children. The cast is very engaging, but several of the characters, like Tilda Swinton’s demon from social services, are pure caricature, while Jason Schwartzman’s scenes play like a parody of a Wes Anderson movie. There are a lot of funny moments here—I laughed happily throughout the entire film—but at the back of my mind, I suspect that this would have been a stronger movie if Anderson had focused on the kids and kept the grownups offscreen. He simply doesn’t have much to say about his adult characters this time around, which is a shame from the man who gave us Bill Murray in Rushmore and Gene Hackman in The Royal Tenenbaums. (It isn’t surprising that Anderson is most comfortable with adults who act like overgrown children.)

What I missed in Moonrise Kingdom was the presence of a more disciplined authorial hand, which Owen Wilson, of all people, supplied in Anderson’s early work and Noah Baumbach brought to The Life Aquatic. Anderson’s best movies have scripts that are as obsessively structured as his camera moves, and while Moonrise Kingdom makes some interesting structural choices—it opens with Benjamin Britten’s Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra, which, like the movie itself, separately introduces four different ensembles before bringing them together for the grand climax—the result ends up feeling a little too scattered. Left to his own devices, Anderson isn’t especially good at constructing a shapely narrative: the movie is more like a stroll through the Thorne Miniature Rooms at the Art Institute of Chicago, with their slices of lives at perfect 1:12 scale. It’s a trip I’d gladly make again, but mostly just for another glimpse of Sam and Suzy, moving off through the woods in the distance.