So, I used to work at a record store. And I used to listen to records every single day. Vinyl ones, the kind that spin around and around and come in square musty cardboard sleeves with big pretty pictures on them. And I used to go see lots of shows. Lots of shows. And play in bands. And make mix tapes. And make top 10 lists. And listen.
Then I got older, got a television, got a (professional) job, got distracted, got sore feet when standing at shows for hours. time passed. iPods happened. Pandora happened. My left speaker broke. In short: I stopped listening.
Then I rode my bike through Europe for seven months, without any music or musical devices with me. I thought a lot on the road about technology, and how much of it and what kind of it i wanted to interact with when i got home.
Then I got home, and I unpacked. and I saw four boxes of records, those pretty spinny records. And I saw my old wood and metal turntable with a sagging belt and a “girlschool” sticker still on it. And I saw the big pretty pictures of big pretty rock stars on the album sleeves. And I missed them. I wanted them back, the physicality of their sounds, the well-rounded narratives of albums, with two sides, the history behind the objects, the me that always listened. So. Here we are.
Listen to every single record I own. In the order they come out of the boxes or the order in which they call out to me. (I don’t know how many this is; I’m not a crazy collector; I’m estimating 300.)
Until I finish, I am not allowed to acquire new music. Or alphabetize any of my current music.
Every album, every day: I’ll write something. (Monday through Friday only, kids. I’m not totally insane.)
You are hereby cordially invited to think about, read about, hear about
one record a day. For however many days it takes.
So. Ya wanna spin right ’round with me, right ’round like a record, baby?