We’re groovier than the hipsters who are into vinyl because vinyl never went out of style in our houses.
OK: that’s not groovier, it’s just older. They’ve got the beards and the skinny jeans and the checked shirts and the fellatio backward caps. And youth. We’ve got the record player. And they don’t say ‘groovy’, probably, although it’s the right word for the vinyl generation. There’s a groove on every record.
I remember dancing to Frankie Goes To Hollywood one NYE back in Melbourne in our house in Northcote. The track never ended because the stylus jumped about so much from bodies going Hollywood on the bare dance floorboards. RELAX. Collapse. This song has been going for half an hour.
Times change, but some things don’t.
I sat down tonight with a glass of ’01 shiraz, tuner on Classic FM, listening to a healing chant for The Feast of Saint Ursula, reading Matthew Condon’s entirely magnificent novel Trout Opera, and I realised the main components of our sound system are the same as they were back in Northcote.
We bought our amplifier off a friend whose marriage had just broken up. He was selling all his shit in order to disappear. (Pete, where are you now?) The amplifier is a Marantz Model 1050. It’s a thing of beauty and a beast. Only 25 watts per channel but with knee-high Advent speakers and a Technics turntable and bare floorboards it baffles the iphone ipad ipod ihavenofuckingidea generation raised on the shit quality audio they learned from their baby monitors in their back bedrooms.
I probably should have cleaned this before I immortalised it.
I wondered and went online. Ours is not the only 1050 left on planet earth. Buyers want them on ebay. They were released in 1979 and ours is still there on the sideboard, via Melbourne, Hobart, Sydney, various pets and many houses and parties and music trends. It’s not as though it hasn’t been mistreated.
The more you dance it the longer it lives.
Tune in to that and turn it up loud.