I share an office with two other guys. We're all of a certain age, and that age is one that includes vinyl when records were known as albums.
He's just told me he's lost the lot in the floods. We're trying to work out the monetary value of some of them: that's OK, but how do you put a sentimental value on an album?
When I pick up and look at an album from my modestly extensive collection, not only do I revel in the sleeve and enjoy the notes and designs, but each one triggers a range of memories: from the time I bought it, to who I was with at the time, what I did when listening to it, who I played it to and who liked it and who didn't, and so on. Taste, touch, smell all come back to me. Rooms are recreated, drinks re-drunk and, er, smokes resmoked.
I only have to listen to the first notes of Pretzel Logic, for example to be transported back to working in a now defunct country club cum night club and messing around with cars and so on in a dusty yard when I should have been studying. Or walking across newly cut grass to the pool getting drinks for mothers and their toddlers who enjoyed the lawns in the daytime. Or skinny dipping after a busy night in the club. Or evacuating everyone when there was a bomb scare.
Each album can do that to a chap; release a waterfall of memories and feelings.
So, in theory, my friend could replace every single album eventually through ebay and other sources. But now whenever he picks an album up he'll know it's not the genuine one that he played to so and so and she liked enough to... you get the gist.
How do you put a value on that?
He's just told me he's lost the lot in the floods. We're trying to work out the monetary value of some of them: that's OK, but how do you put a sentimental value on an album?
When I pick up and look at an album from my modestly extensive collection, not only do I revel in the sleeve and enjoy the notes and designs, but each one triggers a range of memories: from the time I bought it, to who I was with at the time, what I did when listening to it, who I played it to and who liked it and who didn't, and so on. Taste, touch, smell all come back to me. Rooms are recreated, drinks re-drunk and, er, smokes resmoked.
I only have to listen to the first notes of Pretzel Logic, for example to be transported back to working in a now defunct country club cum night club and messing around with cars and so on in a dusty yard when I should have been studying. Or walking across newly cut grass to the pool getting drinks for mothers and their toddlers who enjoyed the lawns in the daytime. Or skinny dipping after a busy night in the club. Or evacuating everyone when there was a bomb scare.
Each album can do that to a chap; release a waterfall of memories and feelings.
So, in theory, my friend could replace every single album eventually through ebay and other sources. But now whenever he picks an album up he'll know it's not the genuine one that he played to so and so and she liked enough to... you get the gist.
How do you put a value on that?
3 comments:
A lot of cost counting going on now.
I just hope people will be able to prepare better in case it happens again.
Though you're right, some things you just can't replace.
This is indeed very true. I have to confess however that in my recent move from the House of Gloom, I took ALL my vinyl records to the charity shop. Ahem.
Tsk, Girls!
I think there a re a lot of people much worse off than my mate, Mig, and I feel so sorry for them. Thing is though, he's 10 miles from the floods. It was his mates storage faciltiy that got the floods: if only he'd kept them at home.
we'll all be paying. Today's headlines: 10% on home insurance. Tomorrow's maybe even worse.
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