My name is Barbara and I’ve been a vinyl-abuser. In youth, I did unspeakable, shameful things to records. I’d leave them out of their covers. I’d abandon them on the floor and walk on them; sometimes dance on them. I’d balance wine glasses, ashtrays and nail varnish pots on them. If a track started jumping, I’d stick a penny (or three) on the stylus. When records were trashed, I’d buy them again.
Which is how I emerged from years of music journalism with several wrecked copies of the Jesus and Mary Chain’s Darklands and a scratched, filthy record collection worth about 20 pence. While fellow music hacks sit pretty on vinyl goldmines, what remains of my collection will one day have to be disposed of by toxic waste experts wearing biohazard suits. What an idiot. Then again, as the lady sang, je ne regrette rien. My vinyl may be worthless, but the feelings and memories are priceless.
