Not that you can necessarily tell from the photograph above, it being somewhere in the late eighteenth-century in certain corners of the LGM garret, but this is Like Snow by Laskaris. Or rather this is a box containing 35 copies of Like Snow by Laskaris – which could just as easily be called Laskaris by Like Snow, if I’m honest; there’s another couple of boxes sitting on the floor as type – flat-pack packaging reminiscent of those days working in record stores when the new releases were delivered – and whilst each copy of the album is dressed in the funereal shroud of white inner sleeve, the only words printed on the label are Laskaris, Like and Snow (no track listing, record company hieroglyphic, r.p.m. or copyright date – only KIT001, etched into the running groove); zero provenance.
I’m regularly surrounded by vinyl. I get drunk and I play records, then kind of forget about filing systems – or at least gravitate to the freestyle end of “where things should be living”. However, I’m not usually surrounded by boxes of the same LP – especially one never heard of (and just like me, Mr Google shrugged his shoulders before suggesting it couldn’t exist).
What’s even stranger is how all these records came to be here – hidden wedged in the tight cavity of a rarely-ventured cupboard, located by chance when Mrs LGM was desperately hunting out further space in which to store my mess. Some people serendipitously stumble upon porn or a small stash of dried-out drugs under the floorboards or taped up behind the attic water tank – we get to discover the entire pressing of a long-lost record.
First thought: oh dear – this is a vanity pressing, isn’t it? Some demo ordered in ridiculously over-enthusiastic numbers – the limp-wristed pastiche of mid-90’s German techno by a band with too much money on its hands, and who dumped the entire lot in the keyboard player’s apartment when they all fell out over the sudden lack of groupie action.
Second thought: this is what the Ravenscroft family must have felt like after John Peel passed away, with towers of esoteric and badly-labelled vinyl to sort and sift.
Final thought: I’m going to have to stick a copy on the turntable, aren’t I?
And imagine my joy, the instant I dropped the needle, as the most astonishing, rich and dexterous sound grew life from the speakers. Audio treasure, like some previously undiscovered masterpiece…
… which is what I’m imaging, too – obviously Like Snow or Laskaris or whatever verges upon the painful to listen to. Not what I expected – it’s a very eclectic album, a mix of home-made electronica and (original) singer-songwriter material arriving wholesale from the soul of a Thom Yorke impressionist who can’t sing – but I doubt it’s going to receive a repeat listen (let alone being ripped to appear on this site).
Which leads me to the reason behind this post (all of which, before you ask, is a totally true story). What to do with all these copies of whatever it’s called from whoever it’s by? Anyone want a copy? Or, should you have lived here years ago – want them all back?