The Curious Assembly
Imagine, if you will, a door. It’s old, painted wood, unlocked. The hinges swing freely.
There’s a set of stairs heading down.
The light from behind you falls diagonally on the bare floor of a room below the house, down amongst the supporting brickwork and pipes.
You proceed down the stairs, they’re solid. The walls are solid. The bare bulb hanging from the ceiling has a string; you pull it and light up the room.
Old sport memorabilia, old boxes from long-since-thrown-out consumer goods, nostalgic framed items with a crack in the glass.
In with all the detritus, is a box dusty, covered by a cloth, filled with Records stuck together with static and ectoplasmic gunk of entropy and years gone by.
Old mix cassettes. Scratched CD cases with fading, half-torn price tag stickers
You thumb through them looking for something with an obvious value. Maybe you can trade it at that Vinyl place that’s always buying old stuff. You look at the covers, some lurid, others plain, enscribed with obscure fonts, posed pictures with hairstyles and clothing long out of fashion.
You’ve never heard of half these bands.
Beside you there is a player. You knew it would be there. It’s an old combo machine and you know it will play whatever’s in that box. You have time, there’s no need to rush today.
You make a space beside that old player, pulling away the dust cover. You reach into that box and pull out a cut at random, wiping a finger across the cover so you can read the text.
You put the track into the machine and start it up, the music bursts forth, surprisingly clear and clean, as if it was recorded yesterday.
You will sit in that room and lose yourself for the next little while, listening to track after track from someone else’s youth, from some alternate universe.