By M. Scott Carter
The Moore American
June 12, 2008 01:05 pm
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For the record: I really like my iPod.
It has this cool, funky touch-screen, wireless Internet, web and e-mail and — right now — it’s pregnant with about 900 of my favorite songs.
The coolness factor is huge.
And it is, simply, fun to use.
But I’ve decided I’m keeping my vinyl records.
They live there in my study, next to the printer. They smell “old.” They take up an entire bookcase — all 2,000 of them. They span my lifetime. Some are ancient; some were acquired at garage sales. A few were gifts. But most are reflections of my childhood and teenage years.
A few are famous.
There’s the Beatles (several, including a real Sgt. Pepper album) the Stones (the Sticky Fingers cover is a masterwork), the Hollies, Devo, and even Mannfred Mann.
They seem almost quaint by today’s standards — black plastic with one long, continuous groove. Some have scratches and almost all of them hiss and pop.
But I love them like my children.
And I still use them.
Last fall, during a rare weekend when the kids’ schedule didn’t include trips all over the metro area, we pulled out the records, dusted off the stereo (yes, it has a turntable) and my kids experienced real records.
It was a blast.
Sara had never heard of SuperTramp, but she had heard some of their songs covered by different artists. Needless to say she was impressed when we went “old school” and she heard the original version of “Breakfast in America.”
Ethan grooved on the Eagles, and Clayton is still begging for a repeat of Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell.”
Karen, my wife, sat, smiled, and listened.
As the records spun, she, like me, went back in time.
We weren’t parents, we were kids again. We didn’t have jobs or big responsibilities. Our biggest concern was who would be at the pool and trying to keep that first kiss quiet.
The Bay City Rollers were popular again.
Sweet had just released “Fox on the Run” and (remember this is a memory) Saturday Night Fever was just around the corner.
Those records — even the silly ones — all trigger memories.
Even today, I can’t listen to Tom Petty and not smile.
And I still remember the argument with my mother when she banged on my bedroom door and demanded I “turn down that racket!”
“But mom, it’s Elton John!”
“I don’t care if it’s John the Baptist,” she yelled. “Turn it down.”
My mom never figured out that “Saturday Night’s All Right for Fighting” needs to be played loud.
Real loud.
My kids understand this.
My wife understands this.
But my mom, well, she doesn’t do loud.
That fall day, we played Elton loud.
We danced to the Who.
We sang along with Kiss.
We bopped to Devo.
And Ethan, Sara and Clayton learned how to do the Time Warp and the Locomotion all in one afternoon.
Yeah, I’m keeping my vinyl.
There’s something about those big black discs with their pops and cracks that make listening to a real record an experience unlike any other.
Oh, don’t get me wrong, the iPod is a marvelous toy; I wouldn’t trade mine.
But there’s nothing better than a crisp fall afternoon, a cold beer, and Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” on the turntable.
Watching those records spin and holding that large, cardboard album cover in my hands took me back, I’m reconnected with the past.
I’m surrounded in the music of my youth, I’m back at places I long ago left.
Sure, it’s a treat to know that I have all those same songs on a small, handheld computer.
But nothing, absolutely nothing, beats a shelf full of vinyl.
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