You know what I miss? That perfect moment when you cut open the corner of cling wrap on a brand-new record. Oh mannnn, so good. I would peel the clear wrapping off slowly, and so often it would come alive, static electricity magnetizing it back onto itself, the energy of the treasure inside existing even before the distinct scratch of needle against virgin vinyl. I can remember it like yesterday, the action of delicately sliding the record out for the first time, wrapped like a present in paper liner notes.

And the joy! The sheer joy upon realizing the *lyrics* were printed on the liner. I could cry, remembering what it felt like to find them there. I could also cry remembering what it felt like to discover that they were absent… or worse, that the sleeve was cloth and there was nothing to consume at all. Crushing heartbreak. Complete disappointment. Terrible choice, though admittedly a better option for preserving the prize within.

I once laid on the living room floor and copied the lyrics from two entire albums into a spiral bound notebook. Yeah, my hand still aches. It was two Depeche Mode LPs purchased at Tower Records in West Covina on the same day: Black Celebration and Some Great Reward. I was 13.

Listening to the albums and copying down the lyrics, for no reason other than to read them over and over again as often as I wished, melded those two records into my physiological makeup. There has never not been a time when I didn’t hear those songs, the notes before the melodies, the words, and feel them rushing through my veins like life-giving blood.

Being able to read the lyrics has always mattered to me; it pulls you deeper into the story, the romance, the heartbreak. I loved an English boy once, and when I told him I was sad there weren’t liner notes for the album of my favorite song, he went home and listened to the song over and over again, etching every word onto an unlined piece of white stationery, now yellowed at the edges and wrinkled by time. The gesture was a fine example of how to love a girl. Yes, I still have the paper. No, I will never let it go. Love fades, but music lives forever.

It is true that liner notes were also printed for cassettes and CDs, but it wasn’t the same. The hard plastic of the cases put edges on a tender experience, a gentle and romantic ritual, a record’s right-of-passage into my heart. I appreciate the convenience of delivery now – that I can listen to nearly any album in its entirety even as I fly high above the clouds or watch the landscape change through the windshield of my car. I do have a record player, but as is true for many things, it has become novelty rather than necessity. With that reality comes nostalgic yearning. I think part of me will always long for that delicious moment of anticipation I found so regularly in my youth, the sparkly, somewhat dizzy moment of wondering what you’re about to find inside a cardboard jacket. xo