"Thriller" was the first record I ever bought by myself with my allowance. For my eighth birthday my parents rented a VCR for my sleepover party so we could watch the making of the video.

I was born at the end of the vinyl and 8-track era. Mostly, I was an 80s cassette tape kid. When I got my driver's licence, I had a collector case of mixtapes and favorite soundtracks that went everywhere with me in a carrying case, until someone snatched the box out of my car on the East side of Detroit in the middle of a careless night.

I began to write about music when I was 18. Honestly, I don't remember the first review that I wrote, but I do know I must have agonized over it. It was probably a local Detroit punk band that I followed for my high school newspaper, the Warrior Reader. (charming name, eh?). I'm willing to bet on my frazzled memory that somebody dubbed me a tape of a live show.

At that time, the latest and greatest - CDS - became a hot commodity, and to actually get an advance was a thrill. It was a year or two later at the MSU State News daily newspaper that I discovered the journalist's advantage. CDs safely mailed months before their actual release! All I had to do was have an opinion. I didn't need to rely on my years of vocal training to have taste. (Yes like every music writer, there's some rockstar dream buried beneath the fabric.) Instead, I just had to study the artist's discography and assess their latest contribution, and boom, I was privy to free music before it hit the shelves, the dream life of the fabled critic. It was such a delicious trade, it seemed. Who could ask for more?



Yet, I cherished afternoons scouring the used bin at East Lansing's FBC (Flat, Black, and Circular) , for 12-inch records and $5 copies of recycled CDs. That's also where my friends and I would happen upon the cuties scoping for their music. Perusing for music was what I did for fun, the record store was our 90s salon, where ideas were tossed around and where we found out what band, group, or DJ was performing around town.

When I began to write more for the area zines like Venus, Massive and Groove, the CDS started coming to my house. I continued to go to the record store — Recordtime in Roseville — but my collecting tendencies were not as voracious as my teens. My increase in music coverage, meant that I had more hours of spinning discs than free time by the stereo system. What began as an occassional taste of free music soon became a steady diet. Thus, my frugal music collection of select cds instantly jumped into a haphazard library as my named was added to the magic list for promos. While what I received was more often than not what I would choose to collect, there was a satisfaction in being surrounded by stacks of music. All those CDs had stories of their own, some I loved, some I hated, but always connected to the buzz of the era, and packaged as the next best thing with an enthusiastic press release.

Several moves, roomies, inhertance from lovers gone awry, and a decade or so later, (sans the vinyl copped by an ex-boyfriend) I still carry around the plastic luggage. Thousands of CDS, many of which probably don't play,some unopened though saved for the best of intentions. I've almost stopped going to record stores, preferring the instant gratification of the .99 download, and sadly my CDs sit ignored, particularly after they've been digitized. I long ago left behind my turntable, and even vinyl seems like more work than a NY apartment can handle. I love my old music, and it takes discipline to keep up with the piles of music that arrive weekly in the mailbox. I'm a bit shameful of my behavior — once such a music purist, collector, and indie devotee, and suddenly my stacks are looking like a disheartened assembly of plastic. As I get ready for another view from a new place, I'm eying the CDs I have selected to omit, I am at a loss. What to do with five extra large boxes of old music that was free from the get go? Do I give them to a record store — that seems karmically wrong to sell the blood, sweat and tears of struggling bands? Do I release CDs into the universe that are marked for promotional use only? Or do I set them out to sea in the trash, a discard of memory, of plastic wrap, relics of an era gone by? Suggestions? One friend told me to consider selling the CDS a music industry end-of-an-era bonus. I'm on the fence.

The largest part of the keeper collection are the CDs I bought used for $5 dollars at FBC, the soundtrack of my youth gone by. I'm also sure that my copy of "Thriller" is safely stored in the collection at my parents' house.