THE TRAGIC (AND SLIGHTLY EMBARRASSING) JOURNEY OF A MUSIC COLLECTOR

Admin
Feb 7
5 min read

From pop‑soaked childhood to metal salvation, format betrayal, and the glorious return to vinyl.

Let me take you back to the 80s — a simpler time, when hair was big, jeans were tight, and the radio was aggressively determined to turn us all into Wham! fans. I didn’t stand a chance. My earliest vinyl collection was a glittering shrine to the pop gods: Wham!, Culture Club, Duran Duran, Madonna. If it had shoulder pads and synths, it was probably in my milk‑crate.

Then, one fateful day, Bon Jovi’s Slippery When Wet dropped into my life like a leather‑clad prophet. Suddenly the world made sense. Guitars were supposed to scream. Drums were supposed to thunder. And my record collection was supposed to expand faster than my teenage moustache.

Within a few years, I’d gone full metalhead: Whitesnake (1987 is literally spinning as I write this), W.A.S.P., Mötley Crüe, L.A. Guns, Def Leppard, Faster Pussycat, Metallica, Megadeth, King Diamond, Testament — and of course Guns N’ Roses. To this day, I still can’t believe I put Live ?!@ Like a Suicide* back on the shelf at Wills Record Store in Launceston. That single decision haunts me more than any life choice I’ve made since (well there have been a few other very bad life choices that outrank that one... Some of which wore wedding dresses... just saying... But not you Aggie...)

For my 18th birthday, my parents gifted me the Holy Grail: a stereo component system with a tape deck and turntable. My first spin? The GNR 7" Sweet Child O’ Mine. I can still hear that magical crackle — the sound of destiny, rebellion, and a belt‑drive that would eventually disintegrate like my hearing.

Back then, I’d record my vinyl onto trusty C90 tapes, pop them into my Holden Gemini, roll the windows down, and cruise the streets of Lonny with blonde‑tipped hair blowing in the breeze. I’m not saying it impressed the ladies… but I’m also not saying it didn’t.

The 90s: The Dark Times

Then came the 90s — the era when technology decided to betray us all. CDs arrived, shiny and smug, promising “perfect sound forever.” Australian rock and metal was booming, so naturally I jumped on the bandwagon: Baby Animals, Push Push, Mantissa, Ozzy’s No More Tears, plus CD replacements for my beloved Metallica and Megadeth vinyl.

I even upgraded the Gemini to a Ford Fairmont with a CD player. Luxury. Convenience. The future.

Vinyl? Dead. Buried. Forgotten.

I had a 5‑CD shuffle system in the house — FIVE CDs at once. I thought I was living in the year 3000. I’d put it on while gardening, feeling like a technological god.

The Apple Era: The Betrayal

Then Apple happened.

In 2007, preparing for a long flight to WA for a job interview, I bought my first iPod — a tiny 4GB miracle that held my carefully curated playlist: The 100 Best Heavy Metal Songs Ever. I thought I’d use it once.

I was wrong.

Soon I owned not one but two 256GB iPods, one of which still lives in my car like a relic of a better time.

Then Apple Music arrived, and suddenly every album I’d ever searched for was one click away. I saw Sisters Doll open for L.A. Guns in Melbourne — two clicks later, both albums were in my playlist. (Relax. I’ve since bought them on CD and vinyl. I’m not a monster.)

And then… I made the worst decision of my life.

I gave away a huge chunk of my vinyl collection.

OG Kiss. Ozzy. L.A. Guns. Metallica. Queensrÿche.

Gone.

Just like that.

If you listen closely, you can still hear my soul screaming.

The Redemption Arc: Where the Collector Becomes the Enabler

My return to physical media didn’t happen quietly. It wasn’t a gentle stroll back into a record store with a nostalgic sigh. No — it was a full‑blown, arms‑wide, wallet‑open, “TAKE ME BACK, I’M SORRY FOR EVERYTHING” kind of reunion.

After hearing rock legends tell me how streaming pays them roughly the same amount as finding a 5‑cent coin in the couch cushions, something snapped inside me. These artists shaped my life. They gave me identity, rebellion, comfort, and tinnitus. The least I could do was buy their damn records.

And once I started again, the passion came roaring back like a Marshall stack on 11. Vinyl. CDs. Limited editions. Imports. Picture discs. If it spun, I wanted it. If it had liner notes, I needed it. If it came with a hype sticker, I was spiritually obligated to own it.

But something else happened too — something bigger than my own collection.

I realised I didn’t just love having music.

I loved sharing it.

That’s where Crimson Vinyl was born — out of the simple, slightly unhinged desire to spread the joy of physical media to anyone who’d listen. I wanted to create a space where collectors could rediscover the thrill of the hunt, the crackle of the needle, the smell of a freshly opened CD booklet (don’t judge me), and the pure, unfiltered happiness of finding that album you’ve been chasing for years.

And then came the moment that cemented everything.

The Britny Fox Incident

Down at the Deep Crates Vinyl Fair in Fremantle, I watched one of my customers — a big, biker‑looking bloke with a beard that could legally be classified as a fire hazard — flip through my crates. Suddenly he froze.

He’d found Britny Fox.

This man, who looked like he wrestled crocodiles for cardio, let out a noise that can only be described as a delighted squeal. Before I could process that, he pulled out another gem — Fastway’s Trick or Treat soundtrack — and practically shouted:

“YOU’VE ALSO GOT THIS???”

He bought both. He grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. And in that moment, I knew:

This is what makes Crimson Vinyl different.

It’s not just about selling records.

It’s about witnessing joy.

It’s about the messages I still get —

“Please keep this aside for me, I NEED this in my collection.”

It’s about the smiles when someone finds a long‑lost favourite.

It’s about the stories, the nostalgia, the shared love of music that binds us all.

Every time someone lights up over a record, I feel like I’ve done something meaningful. Something that matters. Something that supports the artists who shaped us — because buying physical media actually puts money in their pockets, not fractions of a cent filtered through corporate giants whose main concern is shareholder returns, not artist survival.

And let’s be honest — owning your music outright feels good.

No monthly subscription.

No disappearing albums.

No “content unavailable in your region.”

Just you, your collection, and the satisfaction of knowing it’s yours forever.

My love for vinyl and CDs isn’t going anywhere again.

Not after everything.

Not after rediscovering what this community feels like.

Crimson Vinyl is my way of giving back — to the artists who gave us the soundtrack to our lives, and to the fans who still feel that spark when they drop a needle or crack open a jewel case.

To the musicians: thank you for the joy you bring.

To my customers: thank you for the joy you bring me.

You make my day.