I'm Major Jackson, and this is the slowdown.

I cannot fully explain my renewed love for vinyl.

All I know is that for eight weekends straight, I have found myself randomly walking into a record store.

Although you might know me to be nostalgic, I do not uphold the golden days of analog and denigrate all things digital.

Reprising classic albums and finding new to me gyms is keeping me excited to listen loud.

So I find myself scrolling secondhand postings online and digging in the crates.

My last treasure hunt yielded Donald Bird's funky street lady,

Mihailia Jackson's holy shouts, and the inimitable Dinah Washington singing, Cry Me a River.

Move over, Justin Timberlake.

There is nothing like the liner notes.

It is its own genre of writing, the author, being like a Virgil, guiding me through the

album's journey.

I scour to see if I recognize favorite musicians

mentioned in the sessions lineups. They don't make names anymore like Wawa Watson.

The album's old moldy smells make me a little dizzy, but the anticipation of hearing the music

buoy me until I get home.

When I drop the needle on the record, that first crackle sends a sweet shock to my ears,

inviting me to prepare for an audio experience where anything is possible.

Today's poem insists our lives, like so many analog recordings,

are raw, unadorned, layered, full of disruptions and distortions. Fade Away by Amarack Huey.

How a song ends has changed over the years.

They used to fade out, as if the music hadn't ended at all, was still playing somewhere,

...