Snap, crackle and pop

The vinyl cult of slow

And they called it puppy love

My love affair with all things phonographic started before I’d even learnt to walk. Family legend has it that by the age of two I had figured out how to flick the ‘start’ button on our venerable, Teutonic-tank-quality Dual HS 43 fully automatic turntable with my chubby little fingers, all so I could listen to a small troupe of voice actors perform The Emperor’s New Clothes or Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. The deck’s combination of warm wood veneer and cool steel dials exuded a quiet authority, while its sheer heft gave it its own gravitational field – one I couldn’t help orbiting. For me, it was the late-70s equivalent of the iPad: self-service bliss. Lying on the floor with my head pressed against one of the speakers, I was instantly transported – sometimes, as the photo above attests, to the Land of Nod. But it wasn’t just the high drama and existential stakes of the fairy tales. I was just as mesmerised by the spinning of the record and the click-whirr-click of the tonearm lifting and gliding across to juuuust the right spot before gently kissing the vinyl and slipping into the run-in groove with a satisfying little pop.

Now, several feet taller and untold shades greyer, I’m back.

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