A Record

A Record

Albums sit in neat rows on shelves,


Full of memories from long ago,

Rarely touched.

In cover photos

Groups of young men


In sexy clothes

Trying to look mean.

Now fat, bald grandpas.

Images of

Old bluesmen


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


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.

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