A guy approaching middle age — wife, kid, mortgage — decides the best way to relive his carefree adolescence is to go out and find the LPs he used to love.
Not just the same records, but the exact same copies he used to have — scratches and cover stickers and girls’ phone numbers and all. Since he still lives in the small town he grew up in, he figures most of his records probably haven’t gone very far. But he discovers almost all of the record stores have closed, or moved, or consolidated with other stores. He spends a lot of time at record swap meets, looks up long lost high school buddies, talks to the parents of friends who have moved away.
His era is a little after mine, like 1979-1989, so his collection of records is foreign to me: Pixies, Replacements, KISS, Guns ‘n Roses. Mainstream pop of the day. But that’s what he grew up to, so that’s what’s important.
He owns CDs of all his favorites, but for some reason finding the original vinyl becomes important. Possibly because he’s about to take a grownup job in a different city.
The book is a meditation on growing up, growing older, the Rose-colored glasses of nostalgia, and the mania of collecting and the emotional bonds we can form with inanimate objects.
Well written. Not particularly deep — not like “High Fidelity” — but an entertaining afternoon’s read.
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