A Record
Albums sit in neat rows on shelves,
Antiques,
Full of memories from long ago,
Rarely touched.
In cover photos
Groups of young men
Pose
In sexy clothes
Trying to look mean.
Now fat, bald grandpas.
Images of
Old bluesmen
Stare,
Clutching national steels,
Eyes full
Of experience.
Now long dead.
Vinyl discs,
Laden with clicks and hisses,
Atmosphere and warmth,
Transport us to nights
When the air throbbed,
The beat pounded,
As the blood rushed through arteries,
Ears rung
And neurones fired.
Each album
Brought home on a wave of euphoria,
With bated expectation,
Held gently,
Delicately inspected,
A precious artefact
To be revered
Played and intently listened too,
Focussed on
Every note absorbed,
Every word analysed.
Liner notes no longer pawed over,
Interpreted or scanned for clues.
Replaced by wiki where all and more is available
At the touch of a finger.
Now reduced to the status of trite historic documents,
Well-worn words,
Now stale and pretentious,
Robbed of their nascent wonder.
Albums sit on dusty shelves
Untouched.
Opher – 6.2.2022
I find it hard to believe that many of these albums are now 60 years old.
Music was so much more than music. It was a discovery, a sharing of social intent, a sharing of ideals.
Music informed.
Music was the most important thing of all.
Music was our culture.
How true. I am ever curious about modern popular music and check out whatever comes recommended. Unfortunately most of it is vacuous and ‘artificial’. A lot of the vocals sound as if they have been sung into a vacuum cleaner.
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I find it overproduced and sanitised. They are after selling units not making music.