“I grew up in a house full of music—CDs and vinyl were everywhere. We sang along with household objects for microphones and tennis racquets for guitars.”
“The vinyl was always hallowed, cleaned with soft cloths, blown on to dislodge the last speck of static, reverentially lowered into the turntable. CDs were disposable—the cases snapped, the discs ended up in one of those big black zip-up folders in the car. Before long, tracks 4 and 6 jumped, track 5 got stuck in a hiccuping loop, and track 7 just jammed the whole CD drawer for weeks.
Not so vinyl, the sleek shiny record, the squared-off art of the cover, the neat rows and rows of lyrics printed on the sleeve to stop you making a fool of yourself when you sang along. They were squares of living history, tracing my whole life and even back to before my parents met.
My mum had a particularly impressive record collection: The Damned, The Ruts, Stiff Little Fingers, even an amazing punk compilation album called We Do ‘Em Our Way—perfect for thrash racquet and full-vocal salt cellar. But she was very clear about the fact that they weren’t hers.
She had had a boyfriend, briefly, in 1981 who’d been in the Merchant Navy. He’d gone back to sea and asked her to look after his records. Despite having trusted her with some brilliant vinyl, he disappeared. What do you do with someone else’s vinyl collection—with all those memories, with all that—emotional and financial—investment? It’s as personal as a fingerprint.
Frank McKechnie, if you’re reading this, my mum still has your records, boxed—although played often and for nearly 40 years—separately to her own, to our family’s vinyl story.”
—Lucy Spraggan
Lucy Spraggan’s fifth studio album, Today Was A Good Day is in stores now via Cooking Vinyl—on vinyl.
