I'd Say

I have absolutely no desire to listen to an 8-track.  I have no use for cassette tapes.  I'm not even that crazy about cds, only buying the ones I know I'll want to lend to other people or when I really love the cover art.  Or, of course, if I'm really devoted to the band (especially when a friend is in it).  But really, I have a teensy little iPod that I can take with me everywhere, so why would I need all that space-stealing plastic?  Vinyl, though...vinyl is different.  I never even knew I was one of THEM.  You know, THEM.  Those freaking hipster-snob-vinyl-worshipping-idiots.  Oh, how have I come to this?  Well, I haven't quite.  I'm not listening to my records on a fancy, expensive system that gives the best sound possible...but then I don't have anything like that. 

I like The Beatles.  I'm not fanatic about them (though I'm told you must love either them or the Rolling Stones - I like both, but not more than that), but I am really contented tonight to be listening to the copy of Abbey Road my mom gave me on Jenn's new record player.  Blame Tegan & Sara for this box o' love.  She was so excited about it that she went out and bought this Crosley deal that looks all retro (it plays radio, cds and cassettes, as well).  Then she went out of town, leaving me alone with my tiny record collection and the massive one my mom left me when she moved to Italy.  I'm not much for Madrigal singers (really...), but there is a whole lot of good in this box of records.

Heart, The Eagles, Kansas, The Beatles, The Band, America, two versions of La Boheme, more Schubert than you could shake a stick at and my absolute favorite find of all: a Pablo Casals record.  The cello done broke my heart too many times to count.  As if that weren't enough, I forgot about all the great records I had.  My Cars album is warped (heartbreaking), but I still have my 45 of Just What I Needed/Tonight She Comes (which I have somehow held onto for I don't even know how many years).  My Honey Tongue album is shot, too (and I'm not likely to find that anywhere), but I've still got Blondie, Billy Joel, Jimmy Eat World (the record I bought when they were playing at people's houses in Southern California), ELO, Elastica, Bob Dylan (Highway 61 Revisited, sweet lord yes!), Oingo Boingo, Sleeper...where the hell are my Pulp 45s?!  And my Tori Amos-Under the Pink?  Oy vey, it's just too much.  So many discoveries - the biggest surprise being that I know the words to the entire second side of Abbey Road...how did that happen?  And how is it my mother left me absolutely no Queen?  Sure, I've got everything on my iPod, but I want to listen to Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy via needle, dammit.

Yesterday morning I got up early, felt a little queasy from that extreme earliness, then made myself deliriously happy by putting on my one and only Billie Holiday album, An Evening with Lady Day.  If you only have one, it should be one where the Lady talks about the blues, tells you there are two kinds, then starts in with Fine and Mellow, knocking your socks off a couple later with What a Little Moonlight Can Do.  I think this would sound wrong coming out of my iPod or my computer speakers.  It needs the atmospheric aging of that scratchiness.  Just like Billie's songs never sound right when they're sung a little too well by some cherub-faced, white bread girl who thinks perfect tone is everything.  Give me a bit of ruin, Billie or Nina, these are the women I wanted to be when I was growing up and had dreams of singing.  Them and Freddie Mercury.  I know it doesn't make sense, it doesn't have to. 

Effing Madrigal singers.  Really, mother.