Like most people of my generation, I grew up with it. Records were just how music worked. You’d sit down, put on an album, listen to it from beginning to end. You knew every song, every transition, every lyric. The album cover was studied in detail. The inserts mattered. It was an experience, not just background noise.

Then, sometime in my twenties, vinyl disappeared from my life.

CDs took over. Then DVDs. Then eventually everything went digital. Cleaner, more convenient, more modern. I got rid of my records without thinking twice. At the time, it felt like progress.

And for a while, it was.

Music became easier. Instantly accessible. Infinite. Whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted it. No friction, no effort, no waiting.

But somewhere along the way, something else disappeared with it.

I didn’t notice it at first. It’s not something you can measure or point to directly. But the experience changed. Music became something I consumed, not something I engaged with. It was always on, but rarely felt.

About ten years ago, almost on a whim, I bought a record player again.

Not because I had a plan. Not because I wanted to start a collection. Just because something in me missed the way it used to feel.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that small decision would quietly change how I spend some of my evenings.

Back to the Beginning

At first, it was simple.

I started buying back the records I had as a kid. Albums from the 80s that I knew by heart – the ones I had played over and over again in my teenage years. Nothing rare. Nothing particularly valuable. Just familiar.

There was something oddly satisfying about finding them again. Holding the same covers. Flipping them over. Dropping the needle and hearing that first crackle before the music starts.

It didn’t matter that some of them were scratched. Or that they came with that slightly moldy, basement smell that Michelle absolutely hates. None of that felt like a flaw to me.

If anything, it made them better.

They had history. They had lived somewhere before they got to me. They weren’t pristine, but they were real.

That was the part I hadn’t expected.

Listening to those records didn’t feel like going backwards. It felt like reconnecting with something I hadn’t realized I had lost. Not just the music itself, but the way I used to experience it – sitting down, paying attention, letting an album unfold instead of skipping through it.

Spotify, by comparison, started to feel different.

Endless. Frictionless. Convenient. And, if I’m honest, a bit hollow.

Beyond Nostalgia

Once I had worked my way through the records I remembered from my teenage years, something shifted.

I wasn’t just revisiting the past anymore. I started exploring it.

I moved into the 70s. Albums I hadn’t owned myself, but had heard growing up – the music my mom used to play around the house. ABBA, among others. Songs that had been in the background of my childhood, now suddenly in the foreground, experienced differently.

From there, it kept going.

The 60s. The 50s. Even a few recordings from the 40s.

At that point, it wasn’t about nostalgia at all. It was about discovery – but a different kind of discovery than what streaming offers. Not endless choice, but selective depth. Fewer options, more attention.

There’s something grounding about putting on a record that has existed for decades. Music that has survived not just trends, but time itself. These albums have lived through wars, moves, ownership changes, entire lifetimes. They’ve been played, stored, forgotten, rediscovered.

And somehow, they’re still here.

That changes how you listen.

It’s no longer just about whether you like a song. It’s about what has endured, and why. These records aren’t just recordings. They’re artifacts – small cultural monuments of their time.

And sitting with them feels very different than scrolling through a playlist.

Evenings with Miles

Somewhere along the way, this became a ritual.

Late evening, usually after Michelle has gone to bed, when the day has finally quieted down. No TV. No background noise. Just a drink, a record, and a bit of space to think.

There’s one album I keep coming back to: Birth of the Cool by Miles Davis – the original 1961 pressing. Not perfect. A few pops, the occasional crackle. Nothing that would pass for “high fidelity” by modern standards.

And yet, it feels more alive than anything I can stream.

I put it on, sit down, and let it play.

No skipping. No checking my phone. No multitasking.

Just listening.

It doesn’t feel like entertainment. It feels like presence. A different pace. A different kind of attention. The kind that doesn’t come easily anymore.

It’s a small thing, objectively. Just music, played on an old format.

But in those moments, it feels like I’ve stepped out of the constant flow of everything else – the noise, the inputs, the endless stream of things competing for attention – and into something slower, quieter, more intentional.

And that, more than anything, is what keeps me coming back.

Imperfection, Soul, and Why It Matters

Michelle doesn’t get it why I like them. She looks at some of these records – scratched, slightly warped, carrying that unmistakable “old basement” smell – and asks the obvious question:

Why would you spend money on this when you can listen to a perfectly clean, remastered version on Spotify?

It’s a fair question. And objectively, she’s right.

Streaming is better in almost every measurable way. It’s cleaner. More precise. More convenient. You get the same album in ultra-high definition, instantly, without leaving your chair.

But that’s exactly the point.

One has a soul.
The other is just a bunch of digital 0s and 1s.

The pops, the clicks, the imperfections – they’re not flaws. They’re part of the experience. A reminder that this thing existed long before it got to me. That it has a history. That it has been played, handled, moved, and preserved over time.

Streaming removes all of that. It strips music down to pure signal – just data, delivered flawlessly.

And in doing so, it also strips away something harder to define.

Call it texture. Call it presence. Call it soul.

It’s not that one is better than the other in an absolute sense. It’s that they offer fundamentally different experiences. One optimizes for efficiency. The other for attention.

And at this stage of my life, I find myself choosing the latter more often than not.

Because not everything has to make sense. Sometimes it just has to make you happy.

The post Why I Buy Old Records in a Streaming World appeared first on Thomas Michael - Founder Coach & Strategic Advisor.

I’ve always loved cars – the older, faster, louder, and more ridiculous, the better. And lately, I’ve been thinking about what actually makes something perfect.

Is it perfect when you can’t possibly add anything else? Or when you can’t take anything more away?

Modern life – and modern cars – are obsessed with “more.” More features, more tech, more buttons, more complexity. But my 1967 AC Cobra 427 S/C is the exact opposite: no gadgets, no power steering, no airbags, no windows, no roof, barely even seatbelts. It’s just a massive engine, four wheels, and a steering wheel. That’s it.

Driving that Cobra, you realize something: perfection isn’t about addition. It’s about ruthless subtraction – stripping away everything that isn’t absolutely essential, until all that’s left is the core, the soul, the very essence, the stuff that matters. In a world addicted to “just one more feature,” the real flex is knowing when to stop.

So here’s what that car – and this mindset – taught me about business, investing, and life.

Two Schools of Thought

There are two types of people in this world: the adders and the subtractors.

The adders are always chasing the next upgrade, the next feature, the next “improvement.” Their motto: If a little is good, more must be better. It’s everywhere – not just in cars. Look at the Amazon website or Facebook. They’re a hot mess, each page overloaded with a hundred different links, options, notifications, pop-ups. The SAP screen to create a single purchase order? Same story – layer after layer of buttons, tabs, and settings. Hell, I used to be one of them. In my old business, I added more features to our website, more gizmos, one more link, one more “must-have” nobody actually asked for.

Then there are the subtractors – the people who see every new addition as potential clutter or noise, something that dilutes the experience. For them, perfection happens when there’s nothing left to take away. Every cut brings you closer to the essence, the soul.

Over time, I’ve switched camps. Now I take a clue from Steve Jobs, who obsessed over what NOT to include. I cut until there’s nothing left to cut. I want to distill everything – my products, my network, my schedule – down to its core. That’s why I love the Cobra. That’s why I cut over 3,000 LinkedIn connections in one afternoon. Subtraction isn’t about scarcity or minimalism for its own sake. It’s about stripping away the bullshit so what matters can actually breathe.

This isn’t just about cars or websites. It’s a game changer for how you run a business, invest, or design your life.

Real World Example: The Car Analogy

Let’s bring it back to the Cobra.

This car is the exact opposite of modern complexity. There’s no touchscreen, no power windows, no lane assist. No cup holders, no climate control, not even a radio. It’s all engine, wheels, and raw, mechanical feel. There’s nothing extra. Every ounce is there for a reason.

When I’m behind the wheel, it’s just me, the road, and the roar of a V8. It’s not comfortable. It’s not convenient. Pure, brutal, undiluted exhilaration. There’s nowhere to hide from the experience – no digital cocoon, no distractions. The Cobra is honest. It forces you to pay attention. And that’s the beauty.

Contrast that with most modern cars. They’re so packed with features and “driver aids” you sometimes wonder who’s actually driving. They numb you. The connection to the machine gets buried under a pile of options and conveniences. At some point, the car stops being a car and becomes a rolling compromise.

The Cobra isn’t a compromise. It’s distilled down to the bare essentials, and that’s why it’s perfect.

How I Apply Subtraction to Business, Investing, and Life

This mindset goes way beyond cars. It’s how I think about business, investing, and the way I run my days.

In business, subtraction means refusing to add another feature just because we “could.” I used to cram my products and websites with add-ons, bells, and whistles, thinking it made us look bigger, smarter, more valuable. But most of it was noise. These days, I cut. Ruthlessly. If a feature doesn’t directly serve our core customers or drive real results, it’s gone.

In investing, I do the same. There’s always a new product, a “must-have” asset, some hot opportunity. But I keep things simple: low-cost index funds, real estate, art I actually love. If I don’t understand it, don’t use it, or it doesn’t align with my goals, I cut it from the portfolio.

Even in my daily routine, I subtract. I cut out the meetings, tasks, and social obligations that don’t serve me. My not-to-do list is now as important as my to-do list. I say no more often than I say yes – because every unnecessary “yes” makes my life heavier and less clear.

It took me years to realize that more isn’t better – better is better. Sometimes, perfect is what’s left after you’ve stripped away everything that doesn’t matter.

The Payoff – What I Gained By Saying Enough

Here’s what happens when you get ruthless about subtraction:

• Clarity: Every decision gets easier. No more wading through noise or pointless options – just focus on what matters.
• Freedom: My calendar, my investments, my business, and even my garage are lighter. I have space for what actually moves the needle. That’s real freedom – not being owned by your own stuff.
• Energy: Fewer obligations mean more bandwidth for health, creativity, and actual fun. I’m not weighed down by unnecessary “maybes.”
• Quality over quantity: Every project, trip, or connection means more, because I’m no longer chasing the next shiny object. What remains is intentional.

Cutting down is not about living a lesser life. It’s about finally making room for the stuff that counts.
This is the same principle behind my “Life by Design” philosophy and why I walked away from the grind in Dubai – fewer distractions, fewer pointless commitments, more space for things that actually light me up.

The truth? The day I started cutting – features, obligations, people, junk – I actually got more. More time, more fulfillment, more results. Not by adding, but by letting go.

The Challenge – Start Cutting

So here’s my challenge for you:
Next time you think about how to make something “better” – your work, your investments, your relationships, even your own headspace – don’t ask what you can add. Ask what you can take away. What’s the extra weight, the noise, the stuff you’re just carrying out of habit or fear? Get rid of it. Cut until what’s left is undeniable.

That’s how you get to the essence, the core, the part that actually matters.
It’s not always comfortable. Sometimes it’s brutal. But that’s where real perfection lives – not in endless addition, but in fearless subtraction.

Just look at the Cobra. Nothing left to add, nothing left to take away. That’s how I want to build everything – from my next project to my actual life.

Less, but better. That’s the whole game.

The post Less Is More – Or When Is Something Perfect? appeared first on Thomas Michael - Founder Coach & Strategic Advisor.