Albums sit in neat rows on shelves,
Full of memories from long ago,
In cover photos
Groups of young men
In sexy clothes
Trying to look mean.
Now fat, bald grandpas.
Clutching national steels,
Now long dead.
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,
And neurones fired.
Brought home on a wave of euphoria,
With bated expectation,
A precious artefact
To be revered
Played and intently listened too,
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,
Now stale and pretentious,
Robbed of their nascent wonder.
Albums sit on dusty shelves
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 was the most important thing of all.
Music was our culture.