My wife and I are record collectors. At the moment, we own 1,151 of them (I have an app on my phone cataloguing the collection), and that number has been growing at a good clip. There’s no real organizing principle—it’s a diverse collection of rock, classical, jazz, soul, and even a fair bit of vintage country. We like to think the collection embodies our very sophisticated tastes, but no one is this dedicated to music without a love that is somewhat irrational. Hipsters might ooh and ahh over the Gang of Four record or an early pressing of David Bowie’s Man Who Sold the World, but if you suggest there’s a hint of irony behind, say, all those John Denver records on the shelf .  .  . well, we don’t care what you think.

The collection originated with my wife, who never met a trend she was afraid to reject. When the rest of the world moved on to CDs, she kept buying records. When I met her, the fact that she was still carting around hundreds of cumbersome albums spoke to my own musical obsessions. It helped that back then records cost a pittance. The trade-off was the effort it took to find what you were looking for, whether it was driving across town to haunt garage sales in dodgy neighborhoods or digging through crates at flea markets. Naturally, the adventures were part of the fun—not to mention a great excuse to spend time with her.