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| Photo Credits: Ed Neal |
Vinyl Memories is an exploration of the connection between people and vinyl. It’s been said from the beginning of the deterioration of the vinyl era, that vinyl holds a certain magic with the people that still collect them - the beauty of feeling the disc itself and knowing that there was an artisanship in its creation, gives it a powerful character.
What I found incredible about this exhibition was that it was not the vinyls themselves that stood out, but the meaning they held for their owners. I found it outstanding that some of the people really had a strong bond with their prized possessions; it reminded me slightly of being a youngster with a toy that you just can’t sleep without.
The vinyl that stuck out most for me was a copy of Exodus (Bob Marley, 1977). I find it prudent to mention that I actually own a copy of this same vinyl, so it was not the disc or sleeve that grabbed my attention except, perhaps, for a slight moment of recognition but the story that had been posted beneath...
Lindsey Darking, Consultant Copywriter and Editor, MCS:
“Later on I saw Bob Marley again at a concert at Crystal Palace in 1980. I had a boyfriend from Zimbabwe at the time, who was determined to speak to Bob Marley. I didn't rate his chances, as the band was heavily guarded in a compound with a high wire fence and Dobermans. But my boyfriend – no doubt because he looked like he could be with the band – just walked confidently past the guards and got in. He told me afterwards he had sat down and chatted to Bob Marley and shared a smoke with him. I’ll never know if it was true, but I think it was.”
In our era of instantaneous everything, I find myself unable to garner a connection with anything because of how quickly we achieve gratification. No longer do people spend hours, days and weeks wondering what that song they heard in the shop is – we have Shazam for that. No longer do we spend hours in the record shop flicking through mountains of crap for that one speck of gold we've been searching for – we have iTunes for that.
Having left the exhibition with images of a signed copy of The Queen is Dead (The Smiths, 1986), a picture-disc of Disintegration (The Cure, 1989) and the infamous photo of a cow acting as the sleeve of Atom Heart Mother (Pink Floyd, 1970) spinning circles around my brain in desire – I find myself thinking about my own vinyl collection, and the connection that it holds with me.
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| (the signature is on the other side, so you’ll have to go if you want to see it!) |
My friend Michael Davies was moving house and we were clearing out the garage, and we found boxes of vinyls stacked up at the back of room. I thought I was going to have a heart attack from happiness, having just been purchased a vintage record player (1973) for my birthday and only owning two vinyls at the time, I asked if I could take my pick. I ended the day with a box of over a hundred vinyls (which once you've experienced vinyl, you know is enough to break a weak man’s back) and a smile so wide that I probably looked like the Cheshire Cat.
My vinyl collection, which has now grown in size, is one of my prized possessions – containing multiple 1st UK prints in mint condition from Led Zeppelin IV to Genesis: The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway with a message “A Porky Prime Cut” etched by hand into the run-out groove, by the most accomplished record cutting engineer in the business, George Peckham.
In retaliation, perhaps, to modern society and technological evolution in all of its clinical glory – we find ourselves within a war between cultures old and new, as the resurgence of vinyl becomes ever stronger. I’m not one to take sides in a fight, generally attempting to understand both points of view but taking all of this into account, it haunts me to admit that iTunes is the anti-Christ.
Ed Neal
Music/Film Editor
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