I am listening to music on Amazon today and it struck me that somewhere along the road to the future I appear to have misplaced the small but rather lovely liturgy of music in the 70’s.
Back in the day, listening to music involved a certain amount of ceremony. You would slide the LP from its sleeve like an archaeologist uncovering a sacred relic, give it a careful puff of air (as if that actually did anything), place it on the turntable and gently lower the needle. Then came that magical moment the little crackle and fizz the sound of the universe clearing its throat before Track One began.
And that was it. You were committed. None of this skipping about like a musical butterfly with attention issues. You had bought the album, so you listened to the album. At least one whole side of it. Sometimes you discovered a hidden gem. Sometimes you discovered that Track 4 was clearly written at 3am accompanied with a Kebab, 20 Rothemans and a pint of Bulmers cider, which may have been one of several questionable life decisions.
Meanwhile you studied the sleeve notes as if they contained the secret of life. Lyrics were memorised, artwork was admired, and occasionally you found yourself staring at something so wonderfully strange that you had to assume the band had access to better pharmaceuticals than the rest of us. (Hawkwind, I’m looking at you.) IN my teenage years, this and the NME meant I knew about the artists, they became friends. Now I like Rag’n’Bone man but I know not a lot about him other that his music is fantastic.
And afterwards there they were: the albums themselves. Lined up on the shelf. Not just music, but memories. The well-thumbed favourites within easy reach, the slightly obscure ones you insisted were “important”, and the odd album you bought purely because the cover had a lady in a mini skirt with nice legs. Streaming is brilliant, of course. Every song ever recorded available instantly.
But I do sometimes miss the crackle and the commitment.