Issue 0: A note about the name

Hello.

Welcome to this awkward introduction. Truly, an exciting new evolution of “trying out this twitter thing.”

Why this newsletter? In plain language: I like to write and I like records. This is a venue to indulge in this self-serving endeavour (and boy howdy, self-serving it will be).

That’s not to say episodes of this newsletter are strictly about vinyl-based music. They’re stories, each time related to a particular record in the same way as an organism might be related to a forest. Maybe you’ll be able to relate to it. Maybe not. Either is fine.

And thus, this venture stands before you.

Regrettably, however, I was required to come up with a name, implying to you that at least I put some thought into this. Fair enough. Bear with me, though, because even though this newsletter is ostensibly about music, it’ll take a few words to get there.

Terror Management Theory is the theory that nearly all human culture spawns from our subconscious fear of death. Like any animal, humans have a fight or flight response when they are in danger. Unlike pretty much any animal, however, we also possess the terrifying capacity to imagine our own inevitable demise.

A rough realization.

So our brain does what our brain does best (???): manage this constant terror. How? Deception, of a sort. There’s a very long and interesting evolutionary path between realization of expiration and the place where we find ourselves now as civilisation in the grand sense of the word. But the tldr; version of this is that we absolutely yearn for meaning. We need to feel like part of a bigger whole, something that will carry on after we die. Something that makes us immortal, in the literal or figurative sense, because living with the knowledge that all this will one day simply cease, is unbearable.

Which brings us to music. Or rather, the concept of attaching oneself psychologically to any form of cultural expression, whether that is visual art, music, architecture… You name it.1

I love music.

I would be dead without it – and this is no exaggeration. It’s not so much an outlet (though certainly in a roundabout way it can be) as something that feeds me on an emotional level. Not as escapism, though. My particular psychology is wired such that I find myself shutting off to the – to me – overwhelming external world on a frequent basis. I tend to feel numb because I find it the only way to bear the constant assault of the world on my sense. This is not stated for pity’s sake, but merely an explanation that I’m just not attuned to the world the same way most humans are. At least not in alignment with society as it surrounds me.

So a shield is drawn.

But music… The right notes and lyrics launch me into myself. It allows me too feel. It allows feelings of strength, rebellion, righteousness, but also sadness, despair and a sense of longing for things that maybe never were or will be. And I take it all in. I prefer sorrow through a song over a forced smile any day of the week.

Simply put: music makes me feel alive.

Of course these days, music is mostly ethereal, in a digital sense. Streaming services have put nearly the world’s collection of music at our fingertips, which is incredibly convenient and, in theory, encourages exploration and discovery. And yet, as easy and convenient as this option is, it also has the tendency to make the music feel… disposable?2

Since my teenage years, I’ve been buying vinyl records. Mostly because, well, I just think they’re cool. The process of playing records walks the line between mystery and making sense. A needle in a groove: I couldn’t quite explain the exact workings of how this produces music, but seeing the two things touch and move, it feels logical in the same way it makes sense that a car starts rumbling when your turn a key in its ignition.

My collection of records has grown and shrunk and grown again over the years. At first collecting became an obsession and I found myself purchasing albums or singles that I frankly didn’t care much about, apart from them being limited presses, collector’s items or other such nonsense. It wasn’t long before a resentment towards these objects took hold of me. I culled the library, retaining only what I truly cherished for one reason or another (or that I just couldn’t sell).

To prevent myself from hoarding, I pledged to only acquire records if the music on them truly touched me. This does not happen that often, and as such, I’ve only recently hit the mark of about 300 titles. A decent pile of vinyl, for sure, but as far as record collections go, it’s a measly number. But nearly every single one of them means something distinct to me.

A curious side effect of this is that to me, every record has a story. Not just about what it contains sonically, but maybe in the way it came into my possession or in how it reminds me of an event or even feeling. In short: in how they connect me to the greater universe. There is meaning fused into the physical objects. Meaning. And that is what Terror Management will be about, above all else.

I told you this would be self-serving. And I have no intention of holding back to gain followers, please an audience, or cultivate an image.

In my day job, I deal with a lot of copy. But it has to represent a company, a brand, an image. I get it. I’m fine with that. But it’s stifling. And here, I will ramble. I will get personal in a way perhaps no one can relate to. And that’s fine. Unsubscribe. Stop reading. This is not said out of spite, or hiding a hurt spawning from your non-acceptance. Truly. Leave if it does not appeal.

But maybe you’ll find something you’ll like. Maybe you can relate. Or maybe you’re interested in reading about the human connection to music. If so, then join me through this prolonged stroll through my record collection and, as such, my quest for immortality.

Welcome to Terror Management by me, Rolf Venema.

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