Last night I moved aside the DVD player, disconnected the VHS, plugged in the turntable and, for the first time in years, I spent a couple of hours listening to our old record collection. Bob Marley, The Beatles, Muddy Waters. Vinyl’s beautiful. It’s one thing about which My Teenage Self and I are in agreement.
MTS: Hey, don’t push it.
Me: I’m not. Vinyl has flaws. People who say vinyl’s scratching is just like life’s background noise must share a place with an incurable crisp packet cruncher who thumps the floor every 15 seconds.
MTS: Yeah, you never did look after the collection.
Me: Who’s talking – the one who scattered unsleeved LPs on the carpet muttering “Wow, that one’s tooo much”? No, what’s good about vinyl is the ritual. Dropping the needle cleanly onto the rim was the only eye-hand co-ordination skill I ever gained.
MTS: Looks like it atrophied pretty quickly.
Me: Where did you get such long words? I can tell you – and it wasn’t books.
MTS: What do you mean? I’m doing a literature degree!
Me: So it definitely wasn’t books. It was LP covers. It was the only reading you did. Apart from cornflake packets and “The Furry Freak Brothers”.
MTS: “Atrophied” - I got that from LP blurbs?
Me: Some of those 1960s Jazz LP liner notes used longer words than the solos. And then there was the front covers, the only art appreciation you did for about 15 years. Peter Blake’s “Sergeant Pepper” cover led to Picasso and Goya.
MTS: God, you’ve got boring.
Me: I did or you did? No, thanks to vinyl, you kept your tastes intact. Not least, Muddy Waters: “Rollin’ and Tumblin” – it’s still great!
MTS: It would be if the groove wasn’t stuck. That must have been you.
Me: Cheeky – it was you.
WE ARGUE UNTIL EXHAUSTED.