A good friend surprised me last night with a belated birthday gift of old Bob Dylan records. I think I squealed. He handed me a short stack of awesomeness wrapped up in a haphazard bow. They were dirty and roughed up with love. Edges shabby and soft with age, ink faded to that genuine crack that cannot be imitated. The paperboard sleeves smelled stale (like paper once wet and now dry) and arid with dust settled oh-so-sinisterly into the groves of the record. The vinyl snapped a bit with static electricity when I pulled them out, and many still had that sheen to the surface that makes my stomach do little dips of excitement: the quality is still good in that spot.
Examining a newly acquired record is such a tactile adventure for me. Scrutinizing the condition, feeling the stiff and course covers, smelling the ghosts of cigarettes, plastic, household perfumes- that inexplicable cocktail of smells given off by things dug out from attics. Contemplating how Bob looked oddly like Adam Sandler in the mid-80s…
It surely the best surprise in quite a while. I can’t wait to get home and clean them.
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