7 heaven

In san fran, stateside, tunnnneeeee!, west coast on December 6, 2010 at 11:57 am

This is for the crate diggers with the dusty fingers. The ones who scrabble around charity shops, and haunt record shops, hunched over fingers flicking, trawling, looking for the perfect circle of vinyl.

I’m an interloper, a faker, I gave all my records away and I never paid for any of them anyway. Back when I was young and didn’t have writers block and I interviewed all those Drum and Bass boys, and briefly thought that being a music journalist was the way to go, but not really, because the pay was abysmal and I was always happier faking, creating illusions, fictions, than having to transcribe the thoughts of those who made music but couldn’t talk about it.

So I haunt record shops, my collection of music all digital, streamed and downloaded, ripped and playlisted. But record shops draw me back, the atmosphere, the reverence, the alphabetizing, the genre’s the flyers, the posters, the t-shirts, the music that drives all of them. Never buying a record but enjoying inhaling the musk of desire, the male passion for completion, for discovery, for searching for searchings sake, just in case.

And the record stores out here are ripe for it, small nooks, that will capture a certain collector/curator’s heart and have them coming back again and again. The neat rows, the extra boxes on the lower shelves, the sheer mass of vinyl contained therein. The independence of each one, a space all its own, like the local bike shops we so adore, and patronise on the regular.

Ah record stores how we love thee… 

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