Monday, May 03, 2010

It's only rock 'n' roll...

Vinyl, eh? Those were the days. I shipped all mine to me Mum's a couple or three years ago during one of our numerous house moves because I was sick of lugging the stuff around and, well, where's safer than the matriarch's residence? For a long time it all lived in her spare room (my old bedroom from 1982-1987). Then, understandably, she wanted to do something in there other than let me use it as a store room, so half of it moved up into the loft, the rest being allowed a stay of execution before it was moved somewhere else indoors. Then the second half was moved again: Ma phoned me one day to let me know it would be living in the shed but not to worry, it was dry in there and she would protect it anyway using various hi-tech covers. She phoned me recently to tell me there had been a leak. "Don't worry, though, your records were covered in a plastic sheet." Ah. Right. "Erm. Have you looked at them recently? Are they covered in mould?" "They're a little bit damp I think."

The leak might not have done for them but the condensation certainly had. Ah well. My attachment to them had waivered during, I think, the aforementioned house moves and, where this news might have destroyed my very being once-upon-a-time, I took a philosophical 'never mind, I've got Spotify and mp3s galore and I own every track I want to listen to in a different format anyway' view of the demise of my physical record collection, which I started amassing, what, over 30 years ago? Surely not. Shit. How old am I?

Dad, something of a collector of vinyl himself, took great pleasure in showing me how to take a record out of its inner liner and get it on the turntable without so much as a finger print ever getting on the thing and I did treat those black discs with tender love and care for so much of their lives. Now? Lots of sleeves are stuck together and the vinyl within looks as if it may sprout fungus within weeks. A previous me might have cried. But, as I failed miserably in my attempt to part Bob Dylan from the Rolling Stones, I thought the wreckage looked rather, well, delightful. I suppose I'll salvage what I can, transfer the few obscure titles to some electronic mumbo jumbo, maybe make a collage out of the least-damaged covers and then hurl the rest towards the council tip. Shame but, y'know, life goes on.

1 comment:

More Chips (with gravy) on my shoulder said...

A mash up with a difference, courtesy of DJ IDA. The Times They Are A Caking and Sticky Fingers With The Memphis Blues Again