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Comments on my various Instagram and TikTok videos have included quite a few questions. Some of these I’m trying to cover in new videos, but here are some thoughts and answers now.

Sagging shelves

Some of you have commented on the sagging shelves, depressed by the weight of the vinyl on top. I, too, look at them, wondering if they will ever capitulate. I hope not, and they have been in place for around ten years, so surely… I do wonder though, as another album is squeezed in, if the risk might be increasing. Does MDF have a shelf life (pun accidental) and will it decompose and cease to be any time soon?

Sleeve protection

One of the most frequent observations is that I don’t protect my album sleeves in outer covers. And you’re right, in a perfect world, I would have outer sleeves on all my albums. But the records are quite tightly packed, and I find the flimsy polythene covers catch up when I try to slide the record back in place. And the thicker ones take up space that, when accumulated along the length of a shelf, would lose me space for an album or two, and space is at a premium. More, my fingers get chaffed by the sharp edges!

When the album cover is die cut or has some other oddity that might catch up when sliding back into position, or if I know the record had accrued a nonsense value (that I’ll never benefit from as my records are going nowhere!), then I will use a tough outer cover to protect it. Otherwise, I trust myself to take care. But the records themselves are different. I ensure they have the correct inner sleeves and the open edge is at the top of the outer sleeve (never facing the open edge) to protect them from dust.

“I can see you”

Some of you have been spotting albums in the background of my videos. You may see my tange is quite wide and diverse. I’m pleased to say I’ve been invited to theboAtpod so in a few weeks, you’ll be able to hear selections from my collection.

Save that url and I’ll tell you when I’m live.

Prepare to be shocked! (Or disappointed!)

Reissued albums and ‘overly expensive audiophile editions’

I might buy a reissued album if I don’t have the original that is ludicrously expensive. Or I might just say that I’ve managed without it for many years, so why worry now and leave it in the shop.

My first and favourite records

I can answer the first – though why anyone would be interested is beyond me! The second is impossible.

In my experience, people’s first records tend to be ones they would prefer not to admit to, especially if their tastes are still being formed.  They tend to be easy to listen to, sing along to, or in my case, sing to an audience of friends and family. It was My Old Man’s A Dustman, by Lonnie Donegan. I knew all the words and would perform it when family friends came round for lunch. My parents must have been misguidedly proud or very forgiving, and it always struck me as odd that the friends didn’t come round so often after my performances! Needless to say, I don’t play it now (though I still have it). At least, not often!

As for favourite – I have been listening to and buying records since 1960, and I have had unnumerable favourite records in that time, and can return to any of them depending on my mood. So there isn’t any one record I can call a favourite. And why would anyone want to know, anyway? Music is so personal that anything I like may be a complete anathema to someone who, in other matters, might agree with me  and share my opinions. What’s more, I have records that I listen to one day that I think are the greatest, then another day, wonder what I saw in them. Plus, I have so many that I might mention one album or a single and then, five minutes later, think of another, then another. No, it’s a question I can’t answer! Can you name your favourite record?

Vinyls or vinyl

Strictly, there is no plural to vinyl. The dictionary calls the word a “mass noun” like furniture and rice. And I have always avoided using “vinyls”.

Then I was given a t-shirt with the dreaded word on it. I tend not to wear it, or at least when it can be seen and certainly not at record fairs! But many other grammatical issues are constantly disregarded, like split infinitives and the incorrect use of “literally”, so if someone slips in a “vinyls”, I’d rather concentrate on their message than pick on the word they use.

Cleaning records

Of course, well looked after records shouldn’t need cleaning, but old ones that were neglected back in the day, or ones bought second hand, might need something. There have been a number of suggestions offered – such as water and wood glue – and they all terrify me. I have bought the special cleaning cloths, brushes and all kinds of gizmos to clean up records. In the end, I have bought a professional (and expensive) Pro-ject vacuum record cleaner.  It sucks out all the grime from the grooves, and does it very well. I used it on a much-loved but ill-cared for album and couldn’t believe that, when I put it on my turntable and played it, it sounded immaculate, as if new. That only applies to discs that are dirty, of course. Scratches and damage across the grooves are there for ever.

But on buying new copies of albums I already own – that’s a tricky one! I have some original albums that are worn through frequent playing or that I would like to hear in true stereo (if the original was mono), or perhaps in a way that offers me a new perspective on the original. So I am occasionally lured into buying remixed reissues or audiophile pressings. Verdict? Mixed feelings. Where an album is stretched over two discs and plays at 45rpm, there is invariably a noticeable difference and I think I can hear elements in the performance I hadn’t been aware of before. Whether that’s worth the usually high cost, I’m not sure, but I have occasionally given in and probably will again if the right album is made available.  But ‘remastered’ reissues tend to leave me cold. There’s nothing about them that seems to match the original pressings.

Ironically, now I know I can clean up my records to make them sound perfect again, I’m happy to allow the pops and clicks to remain, knowing I can remove them any time I please! Only if the damage distorts the audio do I get back to the faff of cleaning – then I ‘ll do a batch. But, as many of you say, the occasional surface noise is part of the vinyl experience!

I’ll try and keep on top of other questions either in the videos or here. For the moment, over and out!

In my recent blogs on Instagram and TikTok, I asked the question, why am I surrounded by so much vinyl. I have been buying records since I was ten years old and haven’t stopped yet! I asked why I don’t save the space and instead of downloading or streaming the music I want to hear. But then, instead of answering, in the next few posts, I diverted myself into a potted history of why an album is called ‘an album’, before digging out all my old records and gramophone to talk about 78s, breakable shellac. I then moved on to the birth of vinyl as a format, and to LPs, EPs and singles. 

So here I am, several videos later, and I still haven’t answered the initial question. The next one has to. But what’s stopped me so far? The answer is . . . I can’t! I don’t really know what it is that drives me to visit record shops, and what creates the compulsion to leave with at least one purchase, often more.

And it’s not a specific record shop. Everywhere I go, I seek them out. In fact, a journey (work, pleasure, you name it) is incomplete if I’ve not found a shop to browse vinyl. It’s usually my first task on arrival in a hotel after putting on the kettle – check out where the nearest source of music is, be it a record store or a promising-sounding charity shop. This might be an internet search; it used to be Yellow Pages. It could even mean asking at Reception. I have no shame!

But why? Perhaps it’s the hunt, the hope of stumbling across something rare or that I might never see anywhere else. Or the joy of discovering an artist or music I’ve never heard before. That if I don’t buy it now, I might never have the opportunity again. Or am I just drawn, like a moth to a flame, to the racks of discs and the smell of good old-fashioned vinyl?

I should add that I can be fussy. As my tastes are varied and I’m not looking for anything specific, if the shop is too neat and well organised, I get bored. If it’s too haphazard and means trawling through the same-olds (yet another Tom Jomes, Black and White Minstrels, Bachelors, Val Doonican….) I get disheartened. And if there’s too much to go through, with boxes and shelves stacked low and high, I give up unless I’m incentivised by a quick win. And while on ‘low and high’, why is it that charity shops invariably relegate their records to a box on the floor? Do they not recognise that their customer base is likely to struggle to bend down to browse, let alone stand up again after!

Then there are record fairs. At least you know what you’re getting, and they know why you’re there. But they are pop-ups and often in dark and dingy rooms, and because the sellers know we are there with the intention of making seeking out and making purchases, the prices are consequently high. And if the aforementioned cluttered charity shop with poorly treated, badly stored and hopelessly displayed stock is a turn-off, so are tightly packed boxes of over-priced albums and singles at a record fair. There’s no chance of stumbling on a rarity or bargain. The emphasis is on misprinted sleeves and first editions, sold at premium plus prices. They’re not really for the impulse buyer or the music lover like me. It’s all for building up ‘collections’.

I put ‘collections’ in inverted commas because that’s a word I despise when talking about my records. A collection sounds like a museum, where items are stored to be preserved, admired and gawped at. Collectors are either archivists or nerds. I hope I’m neither. I’m a listener. The ‘collector’ wants ‘mint’ or near mint condition discs. That means pristine covers and vinyl untroubled by having been played. I ruin my records because I have the temerity to play them. Not that I damage them, but the very act of a stylus caressing the grooves devalues a disc. It’s like a new car that costs a lot in the showroom and is half price the moment you take it on the road. But owning a car is pointless unless you ride in it, and a record is for playing, listening and enjoying. I don’t mind if a disc is a reissue or worn, so long as the sound quality is good. I can listen through crackles and distortions so long as they’re not too intrusive. It probably means my shelves of albums and boxes of singles are worth very little in monetary value. But they are priceless to me. Though if a better copy or original pops up, who’s to say I won’t snap it up!

None of which actually answers the question of why I surround myself with records and keep buying them.

Looks like I’ll have some serious thinking to do before I record that next video!

https://www.instagram.com/richardsmithwrites

In my recent blogs on Instagram and TikTok, I asked the question, why am I surrounded by so much vinyl. I have been buying records since I was ten years old and haven’t stopped yet! I asked why I don’t save the space and instead of downloading or streaming the music I want to hear. But then, instead of answering, in the next few posts, I diverted myself into a potted history of why an album is called ‘an album’, before digging out all my old records and gramophone to talk about 78s, breakable shellac. I then moved on to the birth of vinyl as a format, and to LPs, EPs and singles.

So here I am, several videos later, and I still haven’t answered the initial question. The next one has to. But what’s stopped me so far? The answer is . . . I can’t! I don’t really know what it is that drives me to visit record shops, and what creates the compulsion to leave with at least one purchase, often more.

And it’s not a specific record shop. Everywhere I go, I seek them out. In fact, a journey (work, pleasure, you name it) is incomplete if I’ve not found a shop to browse vinyl. It’s usually my first task on arrival in a hotel after putting on the kettle – check out where the nearest source of music is, be it a record store or a promising-sounding charity shop. This might be an internet search; it used to be Yellow Pages. It could even mean asking at Reception. I have no shame!

But why? Perhaps it’s the hunt, the hope of stumbling across something rare or that I might never see anywhere else. Or the joy of discovering an artist or music I’ve never heard before. That if I don’t buy it now, I might never have the opportunity again. Or am I just drawn, like a moth to a flame, to the racks of discs and the smell of good old-fashioned vinyl?

I should add that I can be fussy. As my tastes are varied and I’m not looking for anything specific, if the shop is too neat and well organised, I get bored. If it’s too haphazard and means trawling through the same-olds (yet another Tom Jomes, Black and White Minstrels, Bachelors, Val Doonican….) I get disheartened. And if there’s too much to go through, with boxes and shelves stacked low and high, I give up unless I’m incentivised by a quick win. And while on ‘low and high’, why is it that charity shops invariably relegate their records to a box on the floor? Do they not recognise that their customer base is likely to struggle to bend down to browse, let alone stand up again after!

Then there are record fairs. At least you know what you’re getting, and they know why you’re there. But they are pop-ups and often in dark and dingy rooms, and because the sellers know we are there with the intention of making seeking out and making purchases, the prices are consequently high. And if the aforementioned cluttered charity shop with poorly treated, badly stored and hopelessly displayed stock is a turn-off, so are tightly packed boxes of over-priced albums and singles at a record fair. There’s no chance of stumbling on a rarity or bargain. The emphasis is on misprinted sleeves and first editions, sold at premium plus prices. They’re not really for the impulse buyer or the music lover like me. It’s all for building up ‘collections’.

I put ‘collections’ in inverted commas because that’s a word I despise when talking about my records. A collection sounds like a museum, where items are stored to be preserved, admired and gawped at. Collectors are either archivists or nerds. I hope I’m neither. I’m a listener. The ‘collector’ wants ‘mint’ or near mint condition discs. That means pristine covers and vinyl untroubled by having been played. I ruin my records because I have the temerity to play them. Not that I damage them, but the very act of a stylus caressing the grooves devalues a disc. It’s like a new car that costs a lot in the showroom and is half price the moment you take it on the road. But owning a car is pointless unless you ride in it, and a record is for playing, listening and enjoying. I don’t mind if a disc is a reissue or worn, so long as the sound quality is good. I can listen through crackles and distortions so long as they’re not too intrusive. It probably means my shelves of albums and boxes of singles are worth very little in monetary value. But they are priceless to me. Though if a better copy or original pops up, who’s to say I won’t snap it up!

None of which actually answers the question of why I surround myself with records and keep buying them.

Looks like I’ll have some serious thinking to do before I record that next video!

I received an official letter today. I tore it open in trepidation that it was going to be a parking fine or that I’d made some other transgression without knowing. It wasn’t. It was just a routine message about a public consultation. But what made it remarkable was, at the bottom of the page, a sentence that offered, ‘This document is available in large print or Braille, audiotape, easy to read or in another language,’ and a phone number to ring if you needed these. Which is all perfectly laudable until you think about it. If I were unable to read the letter because of a visual impairment or language difficulty, how would I be able to read the message offering me alternatives in the first place?

Which set me thinking of other examples of information that is offered but utterly useless. Take an induction video I was required to watch at an industrial site. Having left my car in their car park, I’d settled down in Reception to concentrate on what I needed to know for my visit. ‘Welcome’, a cheery voice announced. ‘Safety is our priority and here are a few important facts you need to know.’ A big number 1 appeared on the screen, followed by a picture of the car park. ‘When parking your car, make sure you are in a designated space, and that you reverse park.’ Too late. I had already parked and left the car or I wouldn’t be watching their video. They might as well have reminded me to get dressed or make sure I had a good breakfast before I came. Why tell me now?

Of course, useless or ambiguous messages are not new. London’s underground is famous for its signs, ‘Dogs must be carried on the escalator,’ leading many to linger at the top, waiting for the dog they are obliged to hold before being able to make it down to the platform. And I have long wondered how I’m supposed to get on to trains when platforms have a yellow safety line painted on them. Signs and announcements make it clear through a draconian message that you are to ‘Wait behind the yellow line at all times.’ I’ve let many a train leave the station without me on it in fear of crossing the line. I await until I’m sure no one in authority is looking before stepping over the line to get on board, expediting at any time to be arrested for contravention of the instructions.

I’m also intrigued how the platform announcer can say, ‘We are sorry to announce that the 10.55 service to Manchester Airport is delayed by approximately 50 minutes,’ (or however long is too long for you to be able to catch your plane). He or she must have recorded that message many years ago and quite how this apology can ring true after all this time is beyond me. Did the announcer believe it when he or she said it, anticipating the very train and duration of the delay? Or might it just be just corporate codswallop trying to mollify my frustration? And who are the ‘we’? The announcer and the studio recordist, who doubtless had a commercial for cosmetics or soap powder to record next?

Perhaps I’m too harsh. Maybe I should give credit that organisations are anticipating my likely frustrations if things go awry and that their actions are merely thinking of the worst case scenario and so have thoughtfully prepared an early warning message (albeit in the case of the car parking, late warning). Or maybe they are preparing their defence in advance, for any likely litigation.

I was softening until I remembered this sign I saw by the coast (in Northern Ireland).

Are people so ignorant that they need to be warned that they may get wet if they stand close to the sea. And what do-gooder thought it a good idea to warn people?

I despair.

What next? Signs on a garden gate: Beware of the dog – may bark. Or on a restaurant table: warning – knives are sharp and may cut.

I’ve made up my own, but I’m on the lookout for more examples of needless or mindless safety warnings.

What are you doing on New Year’s Eve?

It’s the question people are asking at the moment. And there’s much on offer. There are parties, communal firework displays, dee-jays down the pub, meeting old friends at the local, or simply staying in the watch Hootenanny on TV… Everyone seems to be making plans.

Not me. At the risk of coming across all curmudgeonly (again), I have no plans. Because I loathe New Year’s Eve. Even having no plans is something I hate!

It’s not that I haven’t tried to be sociable and to enjoy it. Over the years, I’ve booked theatre performances and seasonal musicals, but they’ve all ended around 10pm, leaving a couple of hours to fill. That has meant hanging on to the bitter end, staring at a glass of something I didn’t really want until the chimes ring out. And then there’s getting home in the cold/wet/wind (delete as appropriate, or, as more likely, all three). Where’s the celebration in any of that?

Much the same applies with New Year parties. Assuming they’ve not run out of steam by 11pm (and if those invited have children or pets, chances are it’ll be lucky to have lasted that long), there’s that feeling of hanging on until you can turn on the TV and watch the countdown, Big Ben and the fireworks. Standing around a TV, glass of Prosecco in hand, wearing a torn party hat is not my definition of fun.

There’s always the option of staying at home, of course, for a quiet family New Year. Except the TV diet is predictable and tedious, old films and dismal Christmas Specials and end of the year quizzes, and they all leads to fake bonhomie and celebration in a studio with people you don’t know or had forgotten about, as they wait for the countdown. But you know that is not really happening on New Year’s Eve, but was recorded in the summer, and that after they’ve cheered as ‘midnight’ is reached, they’ll be off into bright sun and down to sun loungers or the beach.

And wherever you are, however you choose to spend the dying hours of the old year, the nadir is the actual counting down the last ten seconds, followed by cheering and clinking glasses as the clock strikes twelve, the inevitable recitation of Auld Lang’s Syne, and the kissing and hugging and interlinking of arms of people you don’t know and would steer clear of any other time of the year.

Then, before it’s all over, there’s more chinking of glasses, before there begins more sober reflection on the future; of hoping the new year’s better than the one just ended.

And what’s to follow? A depressing void that drags through the long winter months until spring returns to bring signs of real hope and optimism.

It hasn’t always been January 1st. The artifice that we have created for our New Year used not to be fixed but was set by traditions based on astrological or agricultural events. For the ancient Egyptians, the new year began with the annual flooding of the Nile and the rising of the star Sirius, while for the ancient Chinese, the new year began with the second new moon after the winter solstice. It was only when the calendar we now use was created that January 1 was nominated as New Year’s Day. But it could be any day.

And that’s how I see it. All the cheerfulness, reflection, planning and resolution should not be pinned to one event, one day. It could and should be every day. ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life,’ is a cliched expression, but that doesn’t make it any less true. We can enjoy all the things we parcel up on one night in December on any night in the year. Perhaps it’s convenient that we all do it together and at the same time. But better, surely, to keep those thoughts, plans, hopes and neighbourliness for every day, not just once a year.

But what are you doing for New Year? Got any plans? Want to go down the pub? Yes, I know, it’s been a terrible year. Let’s hope for better in 2026…