Life After Limewire

This weekend, I moved my compact disc collection into my new apartment. My babies have been stored at my parents' house since high school, and it feels so cool to wake up and have them in the next room! 

If you know me, you know I spend more time hunting for rare CD's than I ever have on homework. I only have one hobby, and that hobby is hoarding pieces of plastic that will someday have almost no monetary value. All 2,300-something are meticulously alphabetized by band, and then in each album is in chronological order within the band. They are stored on large, white, custom wooden shelves that my Dad handmade himself, and I covered with stickers. Each shelf is a really impressive piece of craftsmanship, and they are probably my favorite things that I own. 

I have spent around 15 years collecting these things, and many of them are autographed or hand numbered. I have a lot of things that are limited releases and/or imported from other countries (I am particularly fond of a Japanese imported version of blink-182's untitled album, where all the lyrics are in Japanese. It was a birthday gift from my brother).

I am telling you this because I recently read an essay recently that shook me quite a bit. I can't remember who wrote it or even what website I saw it on, but the gist of it was this: When you die, what happens to your mp3's?

OK, follow me. Somewhere in your house, your parents have vinyl. They probably have some cassettes and eight tracks kicking around too. You have probably skimmed through them. They have Toys in the Attic, Back In Black, Born to Run, Damn the Torpedoes and Exile on Main Street. They are old. They are worn to death. They are the coolest things in your house. Someday, hopefully a long, long time from now, your parents will die. You will take their records/tapes/whatever and have them as your own. Maybe you'll play them, maybe you'll display them, maybe you'll keep them in a dark storage unit, but there is no denying how cool it is to have a physical copy of the music your parents listened to. My mom has a ton of vinyl; the same ones she listened to in college while she was doing her homework. Or drinking with her friends. Whatever. The point is, I want those. When my mother passes (in about 80 years; the woman is healthy as a horse), I am sure there will be a fist fight over the vinyl between my brother and I. I am positive that will happen. I am anticipating a 5-6 year period following my mother's death where Nick and I don't speak because he snuck the Mellencamp vinyl out while I was in the hospital with Mom. I will find out, Nicholas.

Sorry, I got off track threatening my brother in the future. My point is, what is going to happen to your Limewire folders? Are you going to give your kids an external hard drive with all of your Rihanna songs on it?

"Sick, Dad, thanks. Your old external hard drive from college gave my computer a virus. And I can't believe people took Skrillex seriously. You can have this back."

I know you don't care, and I know I've written about the importance of purchasing music before, but think about it: There is going to be no physical evidence of the music we grew up with. We will be the first generation without a box of tunes in the attic for our youngins to paw through. That's depressing, dude. 

So you see, I have not wasted thousands of dollars on a heap of plastic, per se. I'm just really stoked about heirlooms. At least that is what I will keep telling myself, while I fight the good fight against the impending consumption of the record industry by your grubby, greedy little keyboard-punching fingers. And no, Dad, I don't want your Skynyrd 8-track. Nick can have that one.