Records. They’re all about occasion, about ceremony, the calibrations (and hazy accidents) of tempo, temperament, the string arrangement, the overt use of theramin. Of the detail behind each percussion loop, songs that crackle with expectancy, or through memory, or merely stalk the innards of the stereo speakers, refusing to exit without a court order.
As I write this, languid flakes of snow fall from a cobalt grey sky, the familiar view bleaching out in successive waves of a winter’s volcanic ash. And so the ambiance tilts towards the grainy iridescence beyond the window panes, tracks from playlists past fading into the soundtrack, songs that bely the fact that every single electrical appliance in the LGM garret appears to be haunted by the restless spirit of Led Zep drummer John Bonham of late, such is the propensity for sparks and bangs and a short circuiting of the dilithium crystals.
The opportunity to re-evaluate records, circumstance moulding appraisal towards a subtle shifts of the understanding. The Northern Lights of music addiction. Listening to records – it’s what we do.
Portishead / Mysterons (Live)
The House Of Love / The Beatles And The Stones