COLUMN

By David Knopf

I’m tickled pink vinyl’s back.

That may be what 33 rpm records are made of, but when we didn’t know any better, we called them albums.

We never would’ve called them vinyl because it’s a plastic, and back then plastic was out.

There was even a song, Jefferson Airplane’s “Plastic Fantastic Lover” to commemorate our disdain for anything unnatural, like vinyl siding or margarine.

Vinyl sounds better now because it’s so retro, so throwback modern, so nostalgic without the arthritic pain.

My daughter, 21, recently discovered albums. She and I like much of the same music, which is itself a topic for scientific research. I own many albums, everything from funky bluesman Slim Harpo (“Baby, Scratch My Back”) to Hank Williams’ Greatest Hits to the Grateful Dead.

Before Sarah discovered records, my random assemblage was collecting dust. I listened to CDs, having exiled my tattered cassette tapes to the basement.

But then Sarah and her roommate started buying albums, even before they had a record player. And when she came home she’d go through ours and make it fairly clear that if we both met an untimely death, she really wanted Bob Dylan’s “Blonde on Blonde.”

It was fortunate that her discovery meshed with my lust for thrift stores, bargain-hunting and searching for the impossible.

So I started buying records for her. I had the time because newspapers, like records, followed in the footsteps of dinosaurs and laid me off.

Money was an issue, so I would call Sarah before completing a transaction.

“Hey, Sis, it’s me,” I’d say. “I found Aretha Franklin’s Greatest Hits for two bucks. Pretty mint. You want it?”

If she did, I’d lay out the money.

It’s sad when a parent can’t lavish a $2 gift on his first-born child, but these are tough times, despite what the White House and a certain computer-illiterate presidential candidate say.

So I’d buy the album and test it out at home.

If Sarah wasn’t answering, and the record was a steal — like Dire Straits’ first album in like-new condition for $4 — I’d roll the dice.

“Sis, now you don’t have to buy this,” I’d say, “but I found it in Parkville and didn’t want to drive back what with the price of gas.

Then, here and there, I’d buy an el cheapo album for myself. Last week, I bought a Bo Diddley 45-rpm single for 25 cents. It’s a gem.

Of the albums I’ve bought, only one was a dud. That was “Bark” by the Jefferson Airplane, a 1971 release made after the band reached its peak. It should’ve been called “Barf.”

Sarah already had it, so I was out the 75 cents.

My daughter’s thrifty, but not like me. I’m like a tight suit after Thanksgiving dinner. Sarah, on the other hand, will spend $6.99 or $8.99 for a record she really wants.

I wouldn’t spend that on the Complete Works of Jethro Tull unless I could sell it for a profit.

Anybody can pay full price.

Vinyl’s rebirth has lavished us with other benefits. There’s the exercise factor. My turntable plays one record at a time and is in the other room, so I have to get up after every six songs to flip it over.

Records are also tougher than CDs. They may scratch, but they don’t make that irritating echoey noise CDs make when they skip.

Album covers tend to show wear, but at least they don’t break like those cheap plastic CD cases.

There’s also the environment to consider. When you save a record from the landfill, you’re doing a good turn. Think what a nonbiodegradable Sly and the Family Stone vinyl can do to the groundwater.

And if you wind up with a clunker like “Bark,” you can always fling it like a Frisbee. Just remember to pick it up. It’s a ’60s thing to do.

David Knopf can be reached at dknopf@kc.rr.com.

 

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