The Record Collector

There was an article in a UK paper the other day that said the vinyl resurgence isn't being fueled by the kids but was actually the product of middle-aged loners, it said old men were the ones spending the dosh on records and that those of this ilk were usually solitary types, in a way the article was having a laugh at us old men clinging to our youth by searching out the records we loved and filing them on our shelves to be cataloged and treasured, we were officially uncool, i say we because the real shocking thing to my not so delicate sensibilities was that i fell into said demographic, males aged 45-54, i don't feel 46 (except for my aching back and shitty shoulder), i'm quite sure i don't act 46 which could be both an insult and a compliment, i'm told i don't look 46 but at the end of the day i am... i also happen to have a record collection and be more than a bit of a loner these days, even more so than i used to be...

Of course this record collection is both a source of great joy and embarrassment, like John Lennon singing "imagine no possessions" while being filthy rich and living in a Manhattan apartment and playing a grand piano, it's a conundrum, i don't need all these records, they are possessions and nothing more, something i rail against constantly, the accumulation of stuff,  yet what comes from those little grooves does more for my soul, my mental well-being, than any ancient text could provide, like Nietzsche said, "without music, life would be a mistake."  I've commented that one of the best things i ever did was to not learn an instrument, not that i wouldn't like to be able to play something but it takes away any technical or clinical feelings when i listen, i don't care how a musician played this or that i only know and care that the words (or lack thereof) and notes elicit some sort of response, an emotion, a memory, a feeling, it's one of the most intoxicating feelings in the universe... and while the world moves ever faster towards music stored and listened to in bits and bytes the pulling and placing of the record on the turntable is another glorious ritual of habit, a habit that involves the feel and texture of the jacket,  the smell of the ink and paper, it's tactile and olfactory unlike the cool steel world of the ipod...

Oddly enough i was looking at this collection the other day, it sits directly behind from where i type, i i was thinking i needed to get rid of some of these records, that the curse of vinyl is it has to be a good record start to finish, not the world of the compact disc or digital, where repeat or skip is just a button away, one must commit oneself to a record and sometimes, even after multiple attempts, one just cannot do that, be it a matter of taste or style or opinion, there is no love and there will never be, and so that vinyl can sit and collect dust or be moved to a more receptive home... but you'd be surprised how many tubes can be pulled and hours wiled away perusing the art work and liner notes and gazing into space, i have this idea to write my own liner notes for the boyos, so that when the old man isn't around to prattle on about music anymore they might take out a record and have a letter fall out, a story about what this record meant to their old man, a story about anything, the music or a place or the first time he heard it or the person he heard it with, anything...

And even now as a middle-aged loner i believe Rob Gordon was right (see High Fidelity), the records in our crates and the books on our shelves they matter, the movies seen and art digested matter, you could say that they don't but you'd be wrong, these things give us a window into people, they affect how we view them and how they view us, the records that sit behind me are my life story, told song by song and year by year, it's a soundtrack that exists for no one else but me, that is played for no one else but me, rain or sun or depression or joy the music is always there, that Friedrich character may have been mad but he was right... and you may wonder, how does this forty something unemployable loser come up with dosh to buy these things? well, it's tricky...

I am under no illusions around my gaff about what status i am held in by the breadwinner, i am afforded room and board, i have a warm place to sleep and like most soccer mom's i get to eat after everyone is fed, i don't mind, my job entails listening to endless and repetitive tales about the a rotating cast of misfits, buffoons and criminals which inhabit the restaurant industry, i've learned i'm not supposed to respond but more to nod and look concerned and interested, to say i am? well what the fuck do you think? and so i must find revenue streams to help me remain sane, that allow me to buy a ticket to see a band or pick up a record now and then, that allow me to keep a few Guinness in the mini-fridge and the dope jar stocked, i don't have many wants these day, i don't need a lot of cash, as usual dumb luck smiles my way and affords me an easy way to make a little pocket money, there's also selling off the unloved vinyl and the online surveys that pay out in gift cards or cash, with each passing sentence that description up above becomes more apt and pathetic... and that's okay, i don't need to be fucking cool i just need to be and the songs help me do that, i've had that soundtrack going since i was kid in the back of my mom's piss yellow and rusting Olds Cutlass, singing along to AM radio and daydreaming before i knew what it was, i couldn't quit it if i tried... and i don't really feeling like trying anyway...