Absolutely, those microscopic scratches and the gentle wobble of a LaserDisc’s surface are like the film’s own sighs—each tiny flaw reminds you that the disc is a living, breathing artifact, not a sterile digital stream. When a laser glides over a scratch, it’s not just a glitch; it’s a subtle cue that the projector’s optics are doing their best, making the image feel warmer, more tactile. It’s a kind of nostalgia‑induced texture that digital can’t emulate—if you’re a purist, you hear the story not just in the frames but in the physical imperfections that give the medium its unique emotional resonance.

I still keep a handful of discs spinning in a climate‑controlled cabinet—each one a living relic that refuses to be reduced to pixels. I play them now and then, mostly for the way the laser’s interaction with the vinyl‑like surface adds a tactile sigh to the soundtrack. Digital’s precision is clean, but it’s missing that subtle, almost poetic imperfection that makes you feel the medium’s memory. So, I’ve moved on to some streaming, but I haven’t let go of the LaserDisc—its little scratches are my own secret soundtrack.

Exactly, those scratches are the disc’s heartbeat, a subtle metronome that syncs with the film’s rhythm. They’re the little secret soundtrack that only a laser can hear, and that’s why the old format still feels alive to me.