Wall of Vinyl
The Virgin Megastore. Times Square. New York City. Two weeks ago. A group of 23-24 year-old consumers embrace the revival of vinyl.
The iconic LP has been working its way back for several years now. Old school albums, shrink-wrapped and banked against an entire wall, like 1975, sulk behind the CD’s in a rebellious stance, refusing to totally yield. Teenagers peruse them in classic fashion, with left hands pushing back the stack, right hands flipping the albums front to back. I smell Fleetwood Mac hiding in the grooves. I smile. This is part of me. Part of my life.
“So, you look like a guy who would know his way around the vinyl,” said a young man wearing a hooded sweatshirt.
“I spun my share,” I said, staring at a twenty-something Bob Dylan from a record on the wall.
“You got any of these originals?” he asked. “Like, from back in the day?”
“I do. I have this one right here,” and I pulled Boston’s first album with the funky spaceship.
“Was that the band McCartney did after the Beatles?” he asked.
“No,” I smiled. “Wings.”
He looked confused.
I walked into another section of the crowded store and saw a Lenny Kravitz wannabe wailing on Guitar Hero in an enclosed area created for this game. It was hypnotizing.
This kid jerked and arched and leaned back like Jimmy Page without a spine. A small crowd gathered. Young girls whispered as the tattooed guitarist gyrated and twittered his lashes, winking like Sarah Palin in a debate.
I watched the crowd and a fairly robust gentlemen stood at the corner of the entrance, taking in the performance. His furrowed face said everything his mouth never uttered. I turned to walk away and nodded to him.
“Pretty wild, huh?” I said.
“Na,” he said in a thick Jersey accent. “I just rememba when we had to play da real ting in baas ‘round Jersey, over in Brooklyn, different places. A different time.”
A smile crinkled his 50-something face. He had no tats. His hair was close-cropped and gray. I noticed his fingers, calloused and arthritically bent into a permanent fret squeeze. Look at Keith Richards hands.
“Almost got a session with Bruce,” he said. I assume he meant Springsteen, but I didn’t ask. “Had to work overatime to pay da bills dat night. Couldn’t do it. I tink about dat a lot.”
He nodded and walked away into the songs along the wall of vinyl. He wouldn’t even look at them. It was a different time.