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.

About Terry Taylor

Terry Taylor has worked at nearly every major agency in the industry, including Chiat/Day, DMB&B, BBDO, Ogilvy & Mather, Earle Palmer Brown and Arnold. Besides national awards in Communication Arts, D&AD, Clios and Addies, his portfolio boasts the likes of Nissan, Pepsi, SAP, Budweiser, Twix, Virginia Lottery, Barbados and Burger King. Perhaps you’ve seen his work on the Super Bowl, or his recent novel on Twitter, or his picture in the post office. Okay, that’s not him.
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