The Library Vault

Some people think analog media is dead. Why bother buying an entire album when you can just stream that song? Who wants to develop a roll of film when we can store thousands of photos on our phones? Is it really necessary to carry around a stack of books when e-readers exist? It’s a valid argument, digital media is undoubtedly more convenient, it takes up less physical space, and the supply is virtually endless. But there is one very important element that digital media fails to provide, an element that analog media brings in spades … analog media has soul. 

As a Gen Xer, my youth was shaped by physical media. Coming of age in the ’80s and ’90s involved learning to entertain oneself without constant parental interference. My siblings and I were masters at “fixing” Atari, Sega, and Nintendo games by blowing air into the dusty cartridges. When our handful of games became tiresome, we could always count on the arcade for entertainment. Friday nights were spent at the local video store trying, and often failing, to agree upon a movie. You crossed your fingers and hoped it wasn’t a dud, because paying steep late fees on a lousy movie was unacceptable. Fees were even worse if you forgot to, “Be kind, rewind”. The money I didn’t waste on Blockbuster fees was allocated to disposable cameras. My friends and I would click away with reckless abandon before dropping the camera off at the closest drug store. A mere 3-7 days later, the photos would be ready. We were lucky to get a few pictures that weren’t blurry, obstructed by someone’s thumb, or double exposed, but those three photos were worth it.

As a teen, I spent countless hours sitting on my bedroom floor making mix tapes, then I’d spend (what felt like) several more hours rewinding those tapes with a trusty pencil. The thrill of receiving a mixtape from your first love was a special kind of romance. Streaming playlists are great, but the effort that went into making a proper mixtape was on another level. You could craft an entire mood in real-time on a blank cassette, waiting until the radio played just the right song, and then manually editing, curating, and sequencing the tracks with surgeon-like precision to convey your deepest feelings. It took time and commitment; creating a mixtape was a sign that you were worth the trouble. Chocolate and flowers are nice but, in my opinion, they pale in comparison to the magic of that little piece of plastic.

At the age of 15, I got my first job in Menlo Park Mall at Suncoast Motion Picture Company, a store that no longer exists. The line of customers consistently snaked from the front registers through the entire length of the store; people were ravenous to get their DVDs, Blu-rays, and VHS tapes. Film enthusiasts couldn’t wait for the letterboxed, rather than pan-and-scan, editions. Collectors of anime, sci-fi merchandise, and movie posters flocked to our door to get the latest merch each week. The frenzy escalated when the Disney Vault opened; this was a marketing strategy used from 1984 to about 2010. During this period, classic animated films were removed from retail sale for years at a time, only to be re-released as “Platinum,” “Diamond,” or “Signature” editions. By creating artificial scarcity, Disney encouraged consumers to buy films immediately upon release, knowing they would soon be “locked away” for roughly 10 years. I can confirm that the strategy worked! For 8 hours straight, I’d stand on my feet serving central NJ re-released copies of their beloved Dumbo, Alice in Wonderland, and Robin Hood. Thankfully, the food court kept me fortified with obscenely large Cinnabuns. 

When I wasn’t serving up limited-edition DVDs, I was flipping through obscure vinyl and the latest CDs at Curmudgeon Records with my punk rocker boyfriend. If they didn’t have what we needed, the legendary Vintage Vinyl was just a 15 minute ride away. When the weekend came, it was easy to snag a mediocre band’s latest 7-inch off the merch table at a local punk show. These items connected you to a very specific moment in time. The bands may not have lasted, but the memories endured. And while I cherish my Spotify account, I’ll admit that few things are more invigorating than cruising down the Garden State Parkway, rifling through a binder full of CDs, while simultaneously shifting gears and checking your printed Mapquest directions. Safe? Maybe not. But I’d wager that this juggling act was still safer than texting and driving. 

Enjoyment of physical media requires time and a healthy amount of frustration, you have to work for it a little. There’s no denying that rewinding cassette and VHS tapes was annoying. Purchasing vintage vinyl and then finding it scratched was hugely irritating. Receiving a roll full of blurry photos was undeniably disappointing, but it taught us patience and appreciation. You learned to cherish the one good photo. You learned to take a moment before blowing through an entire roll of film. When your favorite record skipped, you moved the needle and appreciated the rest of the album all the way through. A little bit of friction added to the experience. When things are too easy, we get lazy, we stop valuing the moments.

To this day, I love the sound of flipping through vinyl at random record stores. I welcome the pace and tactile experience of creating physical photo albums. I look forward to the collective experience of choosing a shared movie. And perhaps most of all, I love the sight, smell, and feel of a room full of books. There are few things more magical to me than libraries and the physical items they hold. Nothing compares to the feel of paper surrounded by a strong cover and binding in my hands. Physical books just feel more alive. Like my cherished albums, they, too, have soul. So while I understand the allure of endless streaming from your home, I encourage you to walk out your door and step into the library. Your spirit will thank you for it.