21 May 2006
Since the recent move, I have been listening to my old records again, retrieved from the barren wilderness of my brothers damp flat. Its been like getting back my memories. Those albums were so important to me growing up. Poring over the covers, reading the lyrics, admiring the art. Now its all about how many tracks can you fit in your phone, a million hours of muzak compressed in your pocket, coming at you non-stop, convenient and soulless. How easy it has become it seems not to have to make a choice, to have to get up and turn the record over, dust it down, give it a clean.
So in one sense this drawing of an old Hank Williams album I was just playing harks back to a sorrow for having somehow lost that excitement of my youth, of hunting down from shop to shop in order to find that elusive record (no Amazon in those days), buying it, guarding it carefully all the way home, then playing it for the first time.
It also reminds me of a time of my life I am not proud of, of a person I feel I owe an apology to.
But that's another story.