There are American artists, British artists and female artists. Those are the categories that separate my dad’s stock of vinyl records. He has more than just a few dozen records haphazardly thrown into some old boxes. They sit in shelves that span the entire northern wall of the room, leaving just enough space for the windows. Unsurprisingly, we call this large room on the second floor of my house the “music room.” I count 95 records in one of the 40 shelves. That’s around 3,800 records total — and there are more in the basement, too.

Wherever my dad went, he made it a habit to check out the local record shop. Many of the records he purchased from his hometown shop in downtown Buffalo, others from as far away as England, France and Hong Kong. Sometimes, he had particular artists in mind. Other times, he found deals too good to pass. He’s been buying records perpetually since his high school days, but the funny thing is, he doesn’t consider himself a collector. He’s just a guy who likes music — a lot. The thousands of records aren’t a collection. They’re an accumulation.

More than once, my mom’s pestered my dad to sell some of his accumulation, because, for the most part, the records now sit idly in their shelves. When I was young, he’d always be playing the hits and artists of decades past — John Lennon, The Rolling Stones, Buddy Holly, Kylie Minogue. Everything. It was a pastime that attuned me to a wide genre of music, including a range of oldies and classic rock. At that age, the two big, booming speakers brought me as close as I’d come to a real rock concert. And that was just fine.

Today, he prefers watching sports to listening to old records — perhaps he’s finally outgrowing the teenage tendency for blaring music. So I ask him if he’d really sell some of his records. He hesitates just a second before responding. “Sure.”

Yet the problem is that my dad’s, well, too old-school to fumble with eBay, Craigslist or any other Internet-age selling platforms. Sure, there’s the classifieds section, but that probably won’t reach as large a market as online. The task of physically selling the records would be up to me. I’m familiar with eBay. The process would be easy, and I’m sure he’d grant commission — but I don’t want to do it.

He says there’re around 500 records he wouldn’t sell — his favorites. For example, he owns every Rolling Stones album, and he’d like to keep it that way. In his day, vinyl records were ubiquitous, commonplace. The thousands of records seem comparable to a mountain of old CDs that any kid who grew up in the ’90s surely has in his closet. But he keeps his relics neat and organized.

On my iPod you’ll find Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon and Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited — two of my favorites — and I’ve listened to both albums using my dad’s record player. Some audiophiles will argue for the vinyl’s superior, arcane sound quality. Yet the music sounds the same to me. Seeing each of the vinyl records, holding each of them, that’s what’s different. They’re products of a past generation made novel in the age of downloadable, intangible music. Both albums are more than three decades old. Their corners are slightly frayed, and the record sleeve artwork is slightly discolored with time. I can still read the faded price tag on the top corner of the Dylan album: $1.90.

Three or four years ago my musical palate expanded to include more artists from the ’60s and ’70s — the inevitable emergence of my dad’s musical influence. Anytime I found a new band I liked, I could be sure my dad had at least one of its albums in his library, and often more than that. I’m still discovering new bands I like and, with them, old records.

Sure, today iTunes allows you to download album artwork. But there’s something lost in the myriad micro pixels. There’s nothing practical about an obtuse piece of 12-inch diameter plastic. There’s nothing practical about the space required for storage. Yet, to me, those records hold a steadfast sentiment in their originality, an originality that only grows with time.

Recently, for some reason or another, my iPod would freeze every time I tried to play David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust. It was an annoying technological glitch, but not one without solutions.

Ziggy Stardust? Sure, dad has that album. I watch as he uses a step stool to access the upper shelves. The records are all meticulously alphabetized — he finds it in seconds. He removes the black disc and hands me the album cover to look over. Carefully, he places the needle into the vinyl’s groove, and the record begins to play.

E-mail Keith at [email protected].