For most of us, there is a soundtrack to our lives. Songs from our childhoods, our weddings, or the background for the big and small events, parties, and road trips that shape us. Music is inherently ephemeral, and often only made available to archaeologists via ancient instruments or illustrations, but archaeological investigations from a former commune in Northern California have provided an exciting opportunity to explore the “sonic debris” from the mid-20th century. We spoke with retired California state archaeologist Breck Parkman on a recent episode of Underground History, about his co-authored chapter, “Vinyl Records in Archaeological Context” in the Rutledge Handbook of Archaeology and Plastics (2024). Parkman and his colleague Liam Thomas Maloney contribute to the emerging field of archaeological plastics using a case study from Olompali State Historic Park in Marin County, California. The 26-room, 1911 Burdell Mansion burned in 1969, inadvertently creating an archaeological assemblage from its era, known as the ‘Whitehouse of Hippiedom’ and home to the Chosen Family. The intentional community was displaced by the fire, and the material culture from their lives in the mansion was left in place for archaeologists to consider decades later.
Parkman first noticed the vinyl collection on a site visit in the 1980s, but it would be another 20 years before he would get a chance to formally investigate due to asbestos in the fire debris. Nearly 100 records were recovered, more than 70 of which have been identified to date. The Chosen Family had close ties to the Grateful Dead and appeared to outsiders as the epitome of 60’s era counter culture. Yet the music found on their shelves and in their record players paints a more nuanced picture of the individuals and families that chose to reject mainstream society and live communally at the mansion. Over the years that it took Parkman to identify the melted, burned, and broken albums, he discovered that the soundtrack of Olompali was far from the stereotypical groovy sounds of the era; instead their collection included show tunes, Bill Cosby comedy albums, classical music, Judy Garland, Frank Sinatra, Harry Belafonte, and more.
When I asked him if this surprised him, he said it did, but it shouldn’t have. As anthropologists we are supposed to leave our biases at the door. I, like Parkman, was taken aback to see the music of ‘squares’ rather than the psychedelic sounds of the underground. Other than the 1966 Acid Test by Ken Kesey, the albums recovered were (and still are) widely available and largely mainstream. But rather than be disappointed, these curated collections allow us to get to know the residents and the influences that shaped their lives. In the words of Maloney and Parkman, the record collection was “as eclectic and contradictory as the 1960s were.” The resultant “Hippie discography” shows the hippie movement, which was and still is often disparaged or dismissed, was dynamic and diverse and could be experienced in a variety of ways—and to a variety of soundtracks.
Parkman’s investigations at Olompali show the value of what has been referred to as ‘contemporary archaeology’: basically using an archaeological lens to explore the world around us. However, guidelines typically lump anything over 50 years into an archaeological territory, and this 1969 deposit falls well into that era. Therefore records, and a variety of other plastic toys, tools, and mass-produced items are now artifacts for scientists to analyze and interpret as clues to the past.
Few labels survived on the Olompali albums. Instead, the records were identified using stamper codes and matrix numbers etched directly into the vinyl. Some of the records were melted in the fire, or warped from their years of being exposed to rain and sun amongst the mansion ruins. But vinyl, like most plastics, is durable and survives (which presents both opportunity and challenges for future generations). As the 20th century continues to encroach into the archaeological record, no doubt more sonic debris will be used to explore the soundtracks of the past. Music technology has continued to shift and evolve, but for some, records have been a constant. In today’s digital age, the look, feel (and sound) of analog vinyl albums has had a resurgence, leaving Taylor Swift and Beyoncé albums for future archaeologists to discover. Likewise, cassettes and CDs will each provide temporal markers for future researchers of the 20th century. Ipods will mark the abandonment of physical music collections, and Spotify will be the bane of archaeologists who hope to individuate playlists or consumer choices.
While I have a record collection now, I am of the cassette tape generation myself, or, the mix-tape generation more specifically. Cassette tapes are both more durable, and vulnerable, than records, so we will see how this sonic debris stands the test of time. But I hope researchers will recognize the rebellion and economy of dubbing our own cassettes, the vernacular artform of creating the perfect mix, and the true act of love it was to make one for someone else. Regardless of the format of your life’s soundtrack, I encourage you to take a look at your curated assemblage of songs and artists and see how it would provide an opportunity for future researchers to get to know you.
