Scratched, obsolete, unplayed, but my LPs are sacred

AFEW years ago I was lecturing my young daughter on popular music, as fathers who know best are supposed to do, when I happened to mention an album which I had only on vinyl.

‘On vinyl?’ she said. ‘What’s vinyl?’ The girl was about to become a teenager. She knew her Beatles, her Stones, her Dylan and her Cohen. Thanks to her grandfather she could even identify the voices of Neil Diamond and Willie Nelson. Yet she had no idea what a vinyl record was.

So I did what any caring dad would do in the circumstances. With scant regard for my own safety I ventured deep into the darkest cupboard in the house in search of a long-playing record to show her.

The dust was a nightmare. I banged my head several times. I thought I saw a mouse. But finally I emerged with an actual example of a vinyl record for her to hold in her hands.

‘See this here?’ I said, pointing to the large, square bit of cardboard with Pepper-era Beatles posing on it. ‘It’s called a sleeve. And when it opens out like this, it’s a gatefold sleeve.’

Retro

A detailed examination of the shiny, black disc inside followed and we learned more words like ‘grooves’ and ‘stylus’ before my return journey into the cupboard’s depths began.

I don’t suppose this record – or any of the 300 or so I have heaved from new home to new home all my adult life – has been played in nearly 30 years.

Now, in the year 2015, we learn that vinyl is back. Sales of those archaic sound carriers from my youth are expected to hit two million this year and, in recognition of its return, the UK’s first official weekly vinyl chart has been established.

Sitting atop it is retro rocker Noel Gallagher and not far behind are 40-year-old releases by the now pensionable giants of vinyl’s golden age – Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie…

In the decades since my Floyd albums last saw a turntable I have tossed out cassettes with impunity, dumped video tapes by the car boot-load.

But part forever with my almost obsolete vinyl? You’ll have to kill me first.

This admittedly extreme attitude was certainly not because I hoped for – or anticipated – a revival. It was all about the memories.

Why, I asked my father as a very small boy surveying his record collection, did Neil Diamond never smile on his album covers? Weren’t singers supposed to smile? In those prepunk days, I imagined so.

Then there were the Beatles, leaning over a balcony and grinning down at the camera. Mere mop tops, they were, at the dawn of their careers. Turn the cover over and they were old men with wild hair and beards. I thought John Lennon looked 106. Hard life being a Beatle, I reckoned.

The Grease Original Soundtrack was the first album I owned – and a double album at that, with gatefold sleeve. I couldn’t stop looking at Olivia Newton John’s picture on the f r ont. Until I discovered Debbie Harry, that is.

Then, as better rates of pocket money came in, I discovered t he Sixties and, through vinyl, learned something about economics.

My Uncle Alex owned a record shop but, disappointingly, he was looking for £11 for The Beatles’ White Album.

‘It’s only £9.49 in John Menzies,’ I complained.

‘Well, why don’t you get it there, then?’

I told him they were out of stock.

‘Aye well,’ said my uncle, with a note of glee. ‘ We sell it for £9.49 when we’re out of stock too.’

The sleeve of the album in question came with a unique serial number embossed on it. Find that on the CD. Find that on the mp3.

But, of course, we are not talking about vinyl at all. We are talking about its packaging. Everything dear to me in the vinyl era, it turns out, was in the container for this black disc.

Tinny

The vinyl itself was rubbish. Scratchy, jumpy, tinny rubbish.

Indeed, preferring vinyl to CD sound quality is rather like preferring working on a typewriter to a computer. You are perfectly entitled to do it, just as you are entitled to join the Flat Earth Society.

Let us not get too technical here. Suffice it to say LPs were so dodgy at reproducing bass that it is a matter of debate whether it was worth the while of Bill Wyman, John Paul Jones et al showing up in the studio. Yes, and they were pretty ropey at the top end too.

So, as the vinyl records continue their journey to antiquity in the cupboard, I move with the times i n my mode of listening.

The current favoured method is hooking my phone’s Spotify up via Bluetooth to a standalone speaker to play Britpop while I pedal away on an exercise bike in pursuit of lost youth.

No, not as cool as vinyl, I grant you.

Shortly before my daughter turned 18 last month I asked whether she had given any thought to what she might like to mark the occasion.

‘Well,’ said she, ‘I’m thinking of starting a record collection in vinyl.’

This ranks high among the scariest things she has said. Vinyl albums are around £20 a pop. She owns them on other formats already.

‘Listen, vinyl records were my era,’ I explained gently. ‘It was all we had. When CDs came along, it was the best thing that ever happened to us.’

She looked doubtful for a second, then accepted that fathers probably know best.