When I was in law school I developed a fascination with the Complete Mozart Edition, a 180-CD collection of all of Mozart’s music. The set cost something like $2,000. Who knows if I ever planned to listen to the whole thing — all I knew was that I wanted it.

There’s something so delicious about a boxed set of music, a complete something or other. Especially to own it. A couple of years ago I finally bought a complete edition of Wagner’s Ring Cycle (Karajan’s recording) after fantasizing for several years about the prospect of owning it. Have I listened to it? Once. Over the course of several days. Since then I’ve occasionally listened to excerpts (the overture to the second opera, “Die Valkyrie,” is one of my favorite pieces of music), but not since that first time have I listened to the entire thing.

All throughout college and law school I plopped down money for recordings of classical pieces that I’d never heard before. And those boxed sets were especially appealing. Mozart’s Complete String Quartets! Almost a hundred bucks. So what if I was a student and wasn’t earning a salary? No matter. I wanted it.

It was kind of like a drug. I’d feel this rush about the prospect of buying something. I’d go to Plan 9 Records in Charlottesville several times, find the boxed set I wanted, hold it in my hand, stand there feeling a rush of adrenaline and guilt at the prospect of spending money I shouldn’t be spending — and so I’d put it back, resisting, and I’d go home. And then finally one day the desire would be too overpowering and I’d drive back to Plan 9 and buy the damn thing, actually pay for it and bring it back to my car in a nice plastic bag. Success!

And then I’d bring it home and listen to it a little bit. I might like it, I might not. Eh. And then it wasn’t enough, and I’d want something else.

I wanted to own everything. There’s something secure in having a huge collection of somethings within the walls of your own cozy home. After all, maybe every record store will blow up, or the company will decide to stop making the album, or something. But you, you can own this vast reference library. Your very own reference library! (Perhaps this is another reason I love libraries so much.)

I began buying classical music CDs during my second year of college in 1992. Today I have about 400 classical CDs. I haven’t bought a new one in a long time, and I rarely listen to them anymore.

But now… now I’m getting into cast recordings. Showtunes. Matt has several hundred. Mike has even more.

I have about 21.

I don’t know the source of this desire to collect. It’s less about making use of the collection and more about having it. There’s a knowledge component, yes — “Oh, so that’s what this show sounds like!” and poof you’ve increased your store of knowledge. But again, there’s also that sense of security, of ownership, of being God in some way, of being able to look over your flock and admire it.

I went into Footlight Records for the first time a couple of nights ago. They seem to have just about every cast album ever made. The CD booklets are contained in these big folders organized alphabetically. You write down the number affixed to the slot containing the booklet of the CD you want, and then you’re given the CD. They also have a used CD bin, and I bought “Big River” and “Kiss Me Kate” from it, because I’ve seen them, and they were the only CDs in the used bin that I wanted at that time.

The thing about cast albums is that they’re less taxing to listen to than classical music — more accessible, more immediately enjoyable.

I’ve just developed this newfound curiosity for the music. I want to hear it. Experience it. See if I like it. Be exposed to new sounds.

I hope there’s some benefit to all this intake of art and information.

I hope it helps me output something of my own someday.