The Unintended Quiet of Playing A Vinyl Record

Our record player sits in plain sight next to our TV. It rests quietly as we play music or podcasts through Spotify on wireless speakers. It is, mainly, a conversation piece, getting played every now and then when I’m tired of the same old stuff on my streaming service or I can’t watch any more TV or I’d just like to sit and listen while I read.

The funny thing about so many of my listening habits now-a-days is the bottomless pit of sounds we can access and the ease at which they can continue to play. I sat in a coffeeshop this morning, typing away with a piano “focus mix” ringing through my ears. It was delightful. It dulled the bustle of the coffeeshop, but still allowed me to be present in that space. I could still hear baristas calling out the names of customers ( I’m blown away by the amount of Seans in Charlestown. I probably shouldn’t be, huh?). When I deemed my work done, or my time up given all I bought was a hot coffee, I closed my laptop, shoved it in my bag, and wandered down the road back home. All the while, artists tickled the ivories in my ears. I barely noticed they were there, but the music continued. If I wanted, I could have bathed in piano noise all day without ever having to even think about making a choice. Spotify would make the choices for me.

This feels like the sonic equivalent of scrolling through the endless feeds of Instagram, Twitter, or Facebook. I pull out my phone in public as a reflex when I am alone and I’m trying to distract from being alone. My wife goes to the restroom and my thoughts go to “what’s happening everywhere else.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction. There’s a game on and I want to check the scores. I posted something I want to see if people reacted to it (they probably didn’t…). Did someone text me?

When I push that impulse aside and just sit, I feel ridiculous, but that’s fine. It’s how we’re supposed to feel surrounded by strangers in public, right?. I’m self conscious so I assume someone is nitpicking something I’m doing. Am I eating in a weird way? Probably. Am I looking at the TVs too intensely? Most likely.

Last evening I was home alone, Tiff was off at a work thing (that’s what we all call them right? “Work Things.”) and I had grown tired of looking at my computer and my phone. Even the process of finding something to listen to has turned into a Netflix-ian task, scrolling and searching for that perfect thing to watch. I decided it was time to use the record player. I sifted through my choices (my beautiful, limited, personally procured choices!) and went with Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks. It was an Irish kind of night, misty and the air seemed to have grown its teeth for the upcoming winter. In continuing with the Irish theme, I opened up my newest book, The Witch Elm by Tana French (she’s Irish…). I sat on the couch and started reading, Van Morrison in the background, replacing the pianos from earlier.

As I was sucked into the first pages of The Witch Elm, the music faded away, just a low hum. I’d venture to say the feeling of getting lost in social media is the 3rd cousin of getting lost in a book. I felt warm and relaxed, it was splendid. It struck me after a while that the apartment was completely silent. No Van Morrison through the speakers anymore, the first side of the record was done and the needle had retreated to its home. There was no “Van Morrison radio” to continue the tunes. If I wanted more music, I had to get off my butt and flip the record. I thought about it and decided to sit in the silence and continue reading.

That accidental silence made me realize how much sound I have in my life and how easy it is to fall into the trap of constantly listening to things over the course of a day. The peace and quiet that came between the two sides of Astral Weeks was, in some respects, part of the album itself. It creates a break in the action, and as the listener, we can decide how long we want that silence to last. If you’re dialed into the album and listening intently, you might change it immediately. If you’ve found yourself invested in something else, you might accidentally enjoy the unintended quiet that exists between those two sides of a record.

My experience with Van Morrison might begin to make our TV a tad jealous, as it sits blankly next to that old fashioned tool that offers two options: music or silence.