by Ana Carolina Lopes

The first thing I ever bought with my first ever paycheck was a Beatles LP. “Rubber Soul”, one of my favorite records to this day. I was 18 years old and had just started studying journalism at university. I bought it from a man selling records, amongst other things, laid out on a rug on the floor at Cidade Baixa, a neighborhood in Porto Alegre, Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil. That’s where most of the crowded bars and clubs were at that time, where people fresh out of school and starting college hung out, where the posh girl met the stoner, and where loud music would last until late night and early morning, with drinks and cigarettes on the sidewalk.

I was with my boyfriend at the time, who didn’t share my love for the Beatles but understood it. And when I saw all those records just laying there, with no one around (how could anyone not be around???), I was tempted. They were all calling me, but unfortunately I only had money to buy one. It felt like “Sophie’s Choice”. So I decided to focus on my favorite band ever, those four lads from Liverpool, and chose what I thought (and still do) was the record that changed the game for them. With “Rubber Soul” they were starting to find themselves. It was the pivotal moment of experiments – all kinds of it, you know what I’m talking about. They left the “yeah, yeah, yeah” behind and brought in maracas, sitars and organs. Pop rock met psychedelic rock, or pop rock was turning into psychedelic rock. I felt happy with my choice. And yes, I did have a record player to listen to it. I still have the same one. Courtesy of mom and dad on one of my birthdays. Thanks, mom and dad.

After that, I required “A Hard Day’s Night”, “Beatles for Sale”, “Help”, “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”, and solo albums like “Could 9” and “Double Fantasy”. In another episode, I was at Mercado Público (or Porto Alegre’s Public Market) with my photography class from university. While we were doing our assignment, I saw this huge stand full of records, one floor down from where I was. So I made a mental note to go there when I was done with the work. That time, I ended up getting Michael Jackson’s “Bad”. My friend paid for me because I wasn’t carrying any money with me and I paid him back later.

From that moment on, at Cidade Baixa, I never stopped chasing and looking for records.

A few months ago, I came across an Instagram post of an account I really love and I was struck and scared by it at the same time. The account’s owner mentioned something about how her house was broken into. She lives in Los Angeles. Many items were taken, but what crushed her the most was that they had taken her record collection. She had spent I don’t know how many months putting that collection together, carefully searching for her favorites. Some were very rare and not having them anymore was more heartbreaking than any other stuff they took.

I felt that. Deeply. As if it had happened to me. I was at work when I saw it, forgot about all the things I had to do and immediately started thinking about my own record collection at home and how I would break down if someone took it from me. Each of them have a story, a unique feeling behind it. Some of them I got on my own, others were passed on to me by my parents from their collections, which adds to the sentimental value. (Was I upset when my mom gave my brother her Supertramp “Breakfast in America” album? Yes, a little, I confess. So I already told my dad that I’d like his Deep Purple “Perfect Strangers” record whenever he wants to give it to one of us).

Being without my records would feel like losing a friend. And before anyone comes at me saying “How could you say losing a friend, a human, is like losing something material?”, well… my records ARE my friends. I like to think the artists are my friends too. They make me feel like a friend would. Their music comforts me when I need it, helps me let go of the tears I’ve been holding on for God knows how many days. The poetry in their lyrics make me smile or laugh. I relate to some of it like a friend would. Some write about the everyday life all of us have, about our senses. So yes, losing my records would feel like losing a friend. And then you’d have to start over. Just like life.

So, with this terrifying thought, what I’m meant to say is: don’t forget to visit your friends. Humans or in record form. Had a tough day at work? Pour on some wine and listen to those who’d never leave you. Sing your favorite lyrics, hum your favorite tunes. Appreciate them. Put your headphones on. Some songs deserve to be appreciated with headphones on. Have fun to them and with them. Create the best memories. Watch them live if you have the chance. Let them hold you and be there for you. Enjoy it. They’re not going anywhere unless you let them (or if something unfortunate happens). And internalize our friend, Penny Lane, famous words: “Never take it seriously. If you never take it seriously, you never get hurt. If you never get hurt, you always have fun. And if you ever get lonely, just go to the record store and visit your friends”.