I’ve always had a thing for vintage, unique, and imperfect objects. Take my Louis Vuitton Keepall collection. My wife Michelle owns a brand-new Keepall from the LV boutique. Any schmuck with a couple of bucks can walk into an LV store and walk out with the exact same bag. Michelle would squeal with joy – me? I don’t feel anything. The bag in itself is meaningless as it is.
I, on the other hand, collect Keepalls from the 1980s. They’re over 40 years old, yet still in incredible condition. They smell like history. They’ve got scratches, scuffs, a bit of wear. Each one has a pulse. Each one feels like it’s lived a life, carrying stories I’ll never know. They’re not commodities – they’re companions.
And don’t even get me started on the quality. There’s no way any bag you buy today will still be around in 40 years. My bags from the 80s? I guarantee they have another 40+ years ahead of them with the proper care I give them.
Whether it’s a vintage Louis Vuitton Keepall from the 1980s, a 70-year-old Blue Note jazz record, or a 30-year-old Porsche 911 – I’ll take the old, unique, imperfect version over the latest release every single time.
Because while the new stuff might look “perfect,” the old stuff has a soul.
Cracks, Pops, and Soul: Why I Collect Old Vinyl
I spend an embarrassing amount of money on 70-year-old jazz vinyl. Original Blue Note pressings, Village Vanguard recordings, the greats at their best. These records aren’t perfect – far from it. They have scratches, pops, and clicks. The covers are torn, frayed, and sometimes they smell like a basement.
Michelle hates them. She thinks they’re flawed, broken, and ugly. But for me, those so-called flaws are exactly what make them magical. They carry the soul of decades past, the energy of every room they’ve been played in. When I drop the needle, I don’t just hear Coltrane or Miles Davis – I hear the history of that physical record, every scar baked into it.
Sure, I could listen to a pristine, remastered digital version of Blue Train – but it’s sterile, flat. I want the raw, imperfect, living version. I don’t want to hear what the music could be in theory. I want to hear what it actually is, scratches and all.
Why a 30-Year-Old Porsche Beats a Shiny New One
I live in central London right now, and truth be told, I need a car about as much as I need a hole in my head. But if I were to buy one, it wouldn’t be the shiny, gadget-packed model sitting in the dealership today. It would be something with history, with patina – a 30-year-old Porsche 911 over a brand-new one any day.
Modern cars come with every imaginable bell and whistle – touchscreens, driver-assist tech, buttons stacked on buttons. But strip all of that away and ask: where’s the soul? Where’s the connection?
Give me raw engineering, unfiltered. A steering wheel that actually fights you back, gears you feel in your bones, an engine that roars instead of whispers. No autopilot. No software updates. Just a machine built to be driven, not to drive itself.
Old cars remind me that less really is more. They’re imperfect, inconvenient, sometimes even dangerous by today’s standards. And yet – they’re alive.
Why It Matters (The Bigger Point)
Collecting old things isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about authenticity, craftsmanship, and soul. I don’t want the newest, most pristine object – I want something that’s been lived in, tested by time, and still standing strong.
That reflects my own philosophy: I’d rather own fewer things that carry meaning than piles of shiny, disposable junk. Quality over quantity, every single time.
And here’s the bigger angle – in business and in life, chasing the “new” is easy. Anybody can copy the latest trend, add more features, or buy the next shiny thing. That doesn’t take taste, or commitment, or vision. The real challenge is to find what’s unique, nurture it, and stick with it through the imperfections. That’s where the real value lies.
Closing Thoughts
At the end of the day, I’m not collecting bags, records, watches, or cars. I’m collecting stories, character, and meaning. The scratches, the pops and clicks, the dents – those are the fingerprints of time.
New things may shine, but old things endure. And in a world obsessed with more, faster, newer, I’d rather invest my time, money, and attention in the things that actually last.
