Why I Love the Vinyl Revival

I’m big on my music. I think I treat my music library more as an art collection – with myself as the curator – than I do as an assortment of potential listening pleasures. All my albums are there, right now, alphabetically ordered on their shelves. I’ll buy an album even if it’s not my favourite, just to fill a hole in my collection. In my world, I don’t own an album till I own the CD – MP3 downloads are a bonus, but I treat them differently. They’re… musical ghosts. Not really there. Maybe that’s why I’m taking it further. Maybe that’s why I’m getting into the vinyl revival.

True Music

It takes owning a CD to its natural conclusion, doesn’t it? The vinyl revival is real; records have even got their own section in HMV, so I can’t be the only one who sees it as something a bit special. There’s something about owning an LP that means you possess that album in its ultimate form.

“Do you like The Dark Side of the Moon?”

“Mate, I’ve got the vinyl.”

I’ve got to confess, my copy of Dark Side was lifted many moons ago from my Dad’s collection up in the loft – maybe that adds an appeal too. Maybe it feels more like I’ve got the genuine article, and not just a repressing. Perhaps, subconsciously, it makes me feel like I was there, when the record was made. That the sense of wonder and amazement felt by those who heard that groundbreaking piece of music back in 1973, well, I’m feeling it too. Obviously, I downloaded the MP3s too to hear it in digital high quality.

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One Night In England (A Short Ghost Story)

This October, my girlfriend and I challenged one another to write a short ghost story for Halloween. I began to write mine based on an idea I’d had a few months prior. The tale wrote itself, and ultimately I decided it was too long for our Halloween competition. The full tale is still a work in progress, But it has a convenient prologue. I post it here under the title One Night in England (A Fragment).

One Night in England (A Fragment)

Rain splattered the beaten track, the aural canvas in turn painted with the clatter of horse’s hooves and the rumble of the carriage.  Now and then the sky flashed with lightning, and after long seconds the growl of thunder rose all around, like the roar of seas.

The driver’s face was lit by the yellow glow of the lantern swinging at his side.  Water pried at the glass casing, unable to reach within and snuff out the tiny flame no matter how it tried.  The coachman’s eyes were narrowed, both in concentration and against the thrash of the rain.  Every now and then he would cast the whip across the rump of his charges, but he doubted they could even feel it.  His arse was numb from cold; so too would theirs be.  Another crack of lightning, another toll of thunder.  The gap between light and sound narrowed: the storm was getting closer…

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