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The crisp crunch of sneakers on gravel. The chunky clunk of a steel spoon in a mug of hot chocolate. The sizzling scorch of bacon frying to a crisp. Sounds evoke memories.
I am transported back to my callow youth each time I drive my car nowadays. The reason? I've hooked up my iPod to an FM transmitter so I can listen to my music collection on my car's FM receiver. It works fabulously, but at times there's a crackle and a hiss around the edges of a song.
Instead of making me cringe and fret, it brings a nostalgic smile to my lips. Memories arise of LPs and 45s, spinning discs of sound. Sleeves that were an art form. Learned teenage discussions on the merits of magnetic cartridges versus ceramic ones. A diamond stylus that looked nothing like Cartier.
Crackles, pops, hisses, jumps. Tears of frustration when the needle slid across a vinyl disc and refused to play "Cold Turkey", or stuck obstinately in its groove like a middle-aged banker, repeating "Can't Buy Me Love" ad nauseum until you gave it a gentle nudge. The delicate precision with which you lifted the turntable arm with a finger and guided it across the disc, letting it down gingerly on the millimeter slim groove between two songs. Repeating it, again and again, until you deciphered all the lyrics. Holding the LP sleeve in your hands as the music washed over you, poring over the enigmatic sleeve notes and the photographs, looking for magical incantations and finding meaning and significance in the most obscure places.
Cutting math classes to trot across the Oval and pop in at Rhythm House and browse through the boxes of LPs. Selecting a handful and braving the glare of the attendants who well knew you couldn't afford to buy even one, but were circumscribed by market forces from kicking you out on your rear. Taking your booty to one of the listening booths that surrounded the main floor. Safely ensconced behind the closed door, the world shut out and a new world waiting in a paper sleeve.
Slipping the LP out and popping it on the turntable. Letting the arm down to draw magic from a diamond bouncing along invisible grooves. Flailing guitars, crashing drums, delirious voices, plaintive violins, whispering beasts, singing birds, joyful saxophones. Tunes that reached into your chest and pulled your heart out and hung it on the wall to dry. Words that raced through your ears, found the grooves on your brain and skated there wildly forever. They're still skating around.
We lost so much when we went digital.
But I love my iPod-FM marriage.
this used to be at blogusinterruptus.blogspot.com. then it came here. now it's back there. go there.
I Thotso
4 comments:
Let me be the first to congratulate the father of the bride!
And bacon! Yum! I shall come to visit you between the 7th to the 10th. (any ONE day, not all the days, so please stop clutching your chest in horror! Hmmph!) Please be available. And yes let's have the bacon. YUM!
You had a Rhythm House back then? Hmm..I guess you aren't as old as I thought you were..and what's an LP anyway? Sounds like an alien term..
The trick, then, is to download lower bit-rate songs :)
I have made peace with the artifically cleaned-up, infinitely Dolbied MP3 sound. It's the artwork on the vinyl I miss the most.
Could "IF28" have happened in the era of formless digital files? I think not.
(bought White Album and Rubber Soul from Rhythm House. Remember the record-sellers in front of Bata at Fort?)
funny u say that about phrases that play ad nauseum when the needle would get stuck.. i still r'ber when my mother attempted to record songs off LPs onto tapes and we got them with these repetitions. To this date when I now hear the songs ...i expect a repetition at that point!
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