The morning after the record party, staid, foggy, calm and indifferent. Just two of us. Beer, wine. Bruce Springsteen, John Lennon, Jefferson Airplane, J-Dilla, Emitt Rhodes and a pathetically warped Magical Mystery Tour I made a mistake on. So warped the needle arm lifted entirely off the record skating across lines like freak storm. Reminder I’ll be returning to Discovery Records on Queen St. to exchange it for another copy, surly beefcake mutton chop grouch starring back questionably behind the counter at me like I’m crazy, exchanging a second hand record and all, I plan on glaring back at him considering the hundreds upon hundreds of dollars I’ve given them over the years, I practically paid their hydro bills, its the least he can do.
Plastic Ono Band cracks out of the portable player and I sip beautifully strong coffee glancing up at warm haze that coats a city outside her window. Early yard fires send firetrucks. Memory of late night quips on Phil Spector the murder man still on trial blazing wild hair and dark moon prescription sunglasses in the courtroom “there ain’t no guru, who can see through your eyes” hollers Lennon on side one. Genius guru wall (and life) of sound snorts wild bull through John’s electric, scratchy, patchy, howling god. The Long Play Record is the last refuge from the digital decibel surrounding our ears screaming for a warmth and substance that doesn’t exist in the kilobyte realm. Last sip.
The responsibilities of life weigh as time drifts close standing beside still in a shower, head strong, early morning refresh reminded more time that passes the quicker it becomes, racing by every tooth brush, every sneeze, every stolid breath. How can one possibly set aside time for the record party amongst drivel-dravle work week mega job and the passing of grey hair bleeding heart? Perhaps the reconciliation with souls before us on golden black vinyl, their dark secrets like our own, their hopes and fears pouring through a needle and out through a single speaker onto us becomes the answer we search for, the question of managing time to fit within this momentary abyss the album and solitary friend of the ears, every single chance you can get.
~ ceeho
