I too have cloth hears, vinyl, CD, mp3, it's all just music. I'm happy enough with the practicality of an iPhone full to the brim with middling quality mp3 and AACs.
But there's something about vinyl that makes me miss it. The tactile experience of those big covers, artwork you didn't have to squint at, lyrics on the liner, the heft of the plastic itself, it's smell, and the little symphony of noises as the needle lands, finds the groove, the pops and crackles that busy themselves in the silence between tracks, and that final phut as the needle takes off at the end. Flip and repeat. Albums had sides and each was it's own domain. All this and fond memories of my youth spent flipping through the new releases in Nottingham's Selectadisc and getting the bus home, happily clutching my silver carrier bag. It's all a bit anaemic typing a name into a search field and pressing a few buttons to make it appear on your device. Plus, how does the Devil send us messages without encoding them into the end of albums?
Of course, the boxes of vinyl I have weigh a tonne and sit in the attic straining joists and cracking ceilings. One day I'm going to set up turntable I tell myself without actually doing it.
I'm sure I read plenty of stories about the preference for mastering albums for the loudness, compressing everything – certainly older stuff I have is a lot quieter and the range between quite and loud more expansive.
Cassettes were bloody horrible though. My classy Amstrad stereo system had quite an appetite.