Rocking and rolling back the years with some good old vinyl

I have been raiding my mum and dad's record collection (that's old parlance for vinyls, for anyone under a certain age), intent on rediscovering the joys of yesteryear.

We recently inherited a coffee table that had been in the house of the late parents of a long-standing friend and needed rehoming, a generous donation that has enabled us to dispose of the coffee table that has stood stubbornly in place for several years but has never quite fitted the bill.

Well, I say dispose of, but that was not quite the case. I was aware that my husband was hauling furniture around the lounge the day after we took possession of the table, and had expected to discover that the piece of furniture in situ had been replaced; in reality, it had simply shifted position, slotting neatly into an aperture that had always seemed superfluous to the lounge space, filling the gap in a tidy and elegant way.

My husband had already dressed the surface, and I approved of his concept: it provided the perfect place of repose for a record player that we had impulsively purchased some years ago and which had never until now seen the light of day.

At the time of procurement, I had been seduced by a host of romantic visions: evenings lit by soft lamplight, accompanied by the melodic strains issuing forth from the player, and augmented by idyllic pictures of each member of the family taking it in turns to select a favourite album and share it with the rest of us, who would listen in rapt and respectful silence no matter who the artist. Idealised notions, I concede; but in today’s plastic world there seems something so refined about listening to music through this retro medium, with all its ritualistic preparation: sliding free the darkly shining disc from its cardboard sleeve with utmost care, to avoid leaving a the blemish of a fingerprint on its grooved black-mirror surface; suspending it with infinite solicitude between both hands over the player; precisely aligning the hole in the centre of the record with the protuberance on the machine and slotting it into place; lifting the arm and observing the obedient revolution of the vinyl on its responsive turntable; lowering the arm with breath-held gentleness to let the stylus kiss the outer edge of the record; listening intently for the faint hiss and crackle of contact betwixt needle and vinyl; then sitting back to exhale and revel in the choice tunes issuing forth.

But what music to choose? Which record would deserve the primary performance?
Rifling through the modest selection available at my parents’ house, I was dismayed by how few LPs I found to which I could lay claim, convinced that the pickings had slimmed down considerably since my teen years.

I remember being disappointed on previous searches, but had never sought with intent before; prior to this, my rummaging would have been a casual activity, serving no greater purpose than to satisfy my idle curiosity.

Now, I had the means to ally record and player in glorious polyphony - the pursuit was far more focused.
My brother reminded me that one of the family vinyls had, tragically, suffered a melting mishap - and I ruefully acknowledged it was most likely one that I’d prized: Michael Jackson’s seminal record, Bad, a gift from my grandparents.

I mourned the loss afresh, finally relinquishing any lingering hope that my copy still existed. I did, however, locate an album by one of my favourite bands, to my delight.
When I listened to it recently via a request to my smart speaker, I was immediately catapulted back in time and space to a previous lifetime: the opening strains of the first song swelled into the corners of my 2020s’ kitchen and I found myself sprawling on the floor in the Saturday afternoon late 1980s’ bedroom of my best friend. It was she who had introduced me to the appeal of this group of musicians, with their funky, edgy, vibrant sound and lyrical mastery.
We had whiled away many an hour in their fine company as early teens, and eventually fulfilled the mutual ambition of a lifetime when we managed to see them perform in concert several years ago.

They had carried us through our fair share of ups and downs, witnessing us ride the storms of adolescent angst and sail the uncertain waves of teenage ennui; that album spoke to my heart.
Since those heady days of youth, I had bought a copy on cd, but that experience felt peculiarly soulless, and I was elated to be reunited with the original format.
In the competition of which album should receive the honour of inaugural play, I had undoubtedly found the victor: I’m heading back to the eighties.