Album Sequencing: What You’re Missing by Listening Exclusively to Mixes and Singles

A Guest Post by Michele Catalono

The greatest Christmas of my life happened in 1974. I was eleven years old and the euphoria I felt upon receiving my very own turntable was something that would be hard to replicate; all Christmases thereafter were ruined by the fact that I peaked at eleven.

Along with the stereo, which was from Santa (come on, I was practically an adult), was a wrapped present from my older cousin Stan. We didn’t normally exchange gifts with cousins, but Stan - who at 19 was wise in the ways of music and the world - thought it was necessary to celebrate the occasion of getting my own turntable by purchasing my very first record.

I was a kid. I was into David Cassidy and Leif Garret. Stan thought I was getting too old for that crap and bought me a record called The Now Explosion - a K-Tel compilation album of various artists singing AOR radio hits. Four Tops, Gladys Knight, Bill Withers. It was all harmless music, nothing that would really turn me away from my usual collection of teen heartthrobs. But it was music, and it was mine. As soon as my dad hooked up my turntable and speakers, I was in my room, huddled on my bed with my oversized headphones on, listening to an album that was my own, not borrowed from my parents. Getting a turntable was a turning point in my life. Listening to an album that was strictly mine, and not to be shared with my sisters on the living room stereo changed me. The Now Explosion opened a door for me. I wanted more records for myself. I wanted to have my own collection. Alas, I was 11 and still dependent on others for my albums, so I satisfied myself by taking some of my parents’ records into my room. I listened to the Beatles and I listened to Jesus Christ Superstar, and I listened to Elvis. It’s what was available to me. But listening to those records taught me something; music was meant to be listened to in a certain way, and compilation albums weren’t it. That record may have been mine, but it was a disjointed mess, taking me from one style to another with no regard for track sequencing - a thing I wouldn’t give name to until much later.

It was a few months later when my musical life really changed. My cousin Michael (Stan’s twin) agreed to lend me a few of his albums, provided I would let him give me a lesson or two in caring for records. I sat on his bed eagerly taking in my lessons on handling the vinyl, putting the needle down, listening with intent.

The first album he gave me to borrow was The Who’s Tommy. First, he gave me an introduction by explaining that it was a whole story. Intrigued, I listened intently. As far as I knew, most music was about either falling in or out of love. This was quite different.

I took the album home. He gave me others - Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Elton John and for some reason Cheech & Chong’s Big Bambu - but I knew which one was going on my turntable as soon as I got home.

I sat with Tommy for a long time. The way the album told a story from start to finish was intriguing. I knew all records weren’t like this, but weren’t they, in a way? Didn’t Dark Side of the Moon or Houses of the Holy tell their own story, set up in a way the tracks were laid down?

The more I listened to my cousin’s records, the more I realized that records were meant to be listened to as a whole, that you were missing something if you just listened to the hit songs or compilation albums. I never cared to listen that hard with my childhood Partridge Family records, but the Who and Zeppelin and Pink Floyd? They were talking to me. They were telling me something; if not a cohesive story, then the tendrils of one, where I could use the music to put together my own stories and bring them into my world.

I only wanted albums. While my friends were buying 45s I was saving my money to fund a burgeoning record collecting hobby. Everyone would be talking about Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop” and I would have to go to my older cousin’s house to find someone who wanted to talk about the album sequencing, how the songs flow into each other, what one song betrays about another. 

Eventually cassettes came to rule the world and mixtapes became the de facto way to express love, friendship, and even hatred toward each other. We were listening to snippets of albums then, one or two songs that would make it onto the “michele and bobby 4ever” tapes we made for each other, Toto’s “Hold the Line” beginning and ending his; mine started with Blue Oyster Cult’s “This Ain’t the Summer of Love” simply because I didn’t think Bobby was giving the whole album a fair shake, but he took it as symbolism (we broke up over Christmas break). I had dozens of mixtapes and dozens more made for me over the years. They served their purpose, but they were not my preferred way of listening to music.

And now here we are in 2024 and everyone has their own collection of digital playlists, stored on apps like Spotify, Apple Music, and Tidal. Without needing the intensive labor of making mixtapes, people are making dozens and dozens of lists and that’s all they listen to. Consuming a whole album is out of fashion, it’s passé. And that’s a shame. Artists take so much care with their sequencing; even when you’re listening to an album that doesn’t have an overt theme, it feels like there’s a storyline that you’ve got to follow along. Sometimes an album will take you on an obvious journey, sometimes you have to dig deep. But it’s always there. You’re not going to find that journey in singles and playlists.

About The Author

Michele Catalano is a retired civil servant who lives on Long Island and maintains http://ihavethatonvinyl.com