When I was in 6th grade, I found a secret joy in having the house to myself. I would perch myself at the window and watch until I saw my parents' cars disappear from view. I would then make a dash around the downstairs of our house closing all the curtains and sealing all the windows. Finally assured of being all alone and obscured from the view of my neighbors, it was time to begin.

Creeping into our family room, I would slowly open the cupboard and a take a deep breath in awe of the beauty amassed before me: my parents forbidden vinyl collection. My dad, being a perfectionist, would polish his records after every use, dusting off every speck of dust or fingerprint that might appear after one round on the turntable. If he had known that the greedy hands of a child (me) explored his record collection each time he left the house, his horror could have only been measured by a seismograph. I, however, couldn't help myself. There was something so glorious about the feeling of vinyl in my hand, the slightly musty smell of the tissue paper and the worn fray of the cardboard cover.

And then there was the sound. I got such inexpressible joy in placing the record on the turntable, moving the pin onto the groove and hearing that groggy crackle rustle through the speakers. Nothing was more grand to my ears. No, this wasn't 1967 and I wasn't a rebellious teenager. It was 1995 and I was a 12 year old with one hell of a taste in music.

Sure, CDs were pretty mainstream by '95, in fact I even owned a few, but that smooth, modern sound lacked something when compared to vinyl, something even my 12-year-old ears could pick up. There was an absence in the quality of sound, in the richness that diffused from a record's workings of guitar, bass and drums.

There was the obvious size difference as well. With records and CDs it seems the myth that "bigger is better" is true. Records came complete with legible liner notes, tantalizing pictures and sometimes even bonus add-ins. The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper LP came complete with cut out mustaches and badges for those inclined to play psychedelic dress-up.

I must admit, I was a bit different from most people my age in 1995. I tended to shy away from the mainstream pop the radio fed us. I was never a fan of TLC, Salt `n'Pepa, or any other type of supposed "music" the industry bottled up and spit out in those days. I restricted my listening to solely to what was quality. I was a huge Beatles fanatic, almost bordering on the ridiculous. I would dress in Beatles garb nearly everyday, talk in a British accent and bake cupcakes to pass out at school on each of the Beatles birthdays. Every book I read was Beatle-related and to this day I still have my Beatles scrapbook of every article that appeared in a newspaper or magazine concerning the life of one of the Fab Four. I guess you could say I was obsessed.

My musical interest didn't end with the Beatles, however. As I grew bold enough to explore my dad's record collection further I discovered the joy of Bob Dylan. I hung on his every word and intonation, something which was magnified all the more splendidly on vinyl. The harmonies of Crosby, Stills and Nash, the soft whine of Neil Young, the rough edginess of the Rolling Stones — I had become addicted to rock and roll from another era. Or maybe I simply loved the sound of another era.

Vinyl records are due in part to my taking up the guitar. On those days when I was home alone with my father's albums singing along with them and playing air-guitar ala Tom Cruise in "Risky Business," I longed for a guitar of my own so I could really play along. One Christmas morning under the tree sat a lovely Gibson and after two months of self-induced torture practicing and freshly calloused fingertips, I was finally able to put on a Dylan album and play right along with him. Unfortunately, even with all my practicing, my own voice never improved. The situation was rectified however, by the rich sound quality of the vinyl record. Dylan's own voice, which embarrassingly can hold a tune better than my own, would drown me out beautifully.

Now that I'm in college, I am forced to be apart from my dad's collection on a regular basis. My only resort is listening to my own CDs with a set of giant headphones in an effort to improve the quality of sound. Still there is nothing I look forward to more than returning home and throwing on an LP as I lie sprawled on the couch. It's an experience close to heaven.

As music technology continues to change with MP3s, streaming and other forms of downloadable music, I continue to believe that real music lovers will stay true to vinyl. I know I certainly will. Even with all its impracticalities, nothing can beat the thrill derived from the crackle of the needle in the grooves and rich, fluid sound pouring forth from the speakers. Perhaps that is why I recently told my parents this over the phone: "When you die, you can leave my sister all the jewelry and good china. You can divide the house and estate between my two brothers. But for me, all I want is your record collection." Some might call me morbid for thinking of death before its time, but I think of myself as wise for staking my claim in my parents most valuable possession.

The opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.

Julie Bender is a not-so-recovering vinyl junkie and an Assistant Scene Editor at The Observer. She can be contacted at bender.10@nd.edu.

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