The British Invasion and Return of the Turntable
I found myself waking up very early Saturday morning, so I brewed a pot of coffee and contemplated the day ahead.
It was 5 a.m.
The only item on my agenda was breakfast with a friend at 9:30 and a haircut followiing.
What the hell was I going to do in the meantime?
There were nothing but infomercials on television.
I glanced at my turntable and thought "Why not?"
Nobody else was home. I could play my stereo as loud as I wanted.
So, I opened the closet in my man cave, and began flipping through the hundreds of vinyl records in my collection.
For a turntable, I have a Hitachi HT-40s that I purchased in the early 1980s. I love it.
It's a unitorque, direct drive with a speed adjust and strobe.
I stopped thumbing through the albums when I came to the first record I ever bought.
The History of British Rock Vol.2.
I remember buying it at the local record store: Co-Op Tapes and Records.
It was the stereotypical record store of the late 1960s.
It was a dusty old storefront with a wooden floor.
There were rows and rows of bins filled with albums.
Wire racks hung from the walls featuring the latest releases.
The staff consisted of an assortment of long-haird hippies in bell-bottomed jeans and tie-dyed t-shirts.
They seemed to know everything there was to know about contemporary music and never failed to recommend their favorite albums.
They burned incense and played the latest releases on the store's stereo system.
If you were a steady customer, like me, you got to know their names.
It was like the sitcom Cheers, but they sold records.
I was a teenager infactuated with the British Invasion.
The Beatles were my idols.
I'd save the 50 cents my mother gave me every morning for a school lunch to by records.
Albums were selling for $3.50. As a result, I never had a weight problem.
Anyway, I pulled the album out of one of the half-dozen orange crates I have stacked in the closet.
I raised the turntable's