In basic terms I am an archeologist and anthropologist.
Digging through the dusty bins of discarded gold, hunting for treasure others have tossed aside like common refuse.
The record store is my excavation site, the crates of old vinyl are the sarcophagi of forgotton wisdom, and the records I bring home are the cultural artifacts. My music room is my museum.
I power up the system, flip the turntable's dustcover up, slide the record out of the sleeve, place it on the platter, gently toggle the start switch, watch as the record begins to spin and the tone arm lifts, sways left over the empty groove before the first track and watch until just before the needle kissses the groove.
Then the sound. A sound like no other sound in the world. The sound of the needle making contact with the record. Some people say it's a pop, some say a thump, some say it's a pop-grinding sound.
For me, it is the Tibetan Singing Bowl, indicating the start of my twenty minute meditation.
I sit down, put my feet up and listen. Sometimes I close my eyes, other times I just sit, looking at nothing.
The music starts and my mind empties, filled with the empty spaces between the notes. The rhythmic beat of the drums, the pulse of the bass, the melody of the instruments lay out the canvas for the lyrical poetry that will be painted. The speakers pulse, in and out in rapid cycles. But its not hertz I hear; its a rythmic chant, a pray set to music.
I listen, I interpret, I relate... the music comes in, twisting its way through my brain, knocking loose memories. A cleansing ritual washing the stresses of the day away.
Music centers me, shows me the way, brings balance; both ying and yang. I am not a record collector. I am a collector of cultural artifacts... a meditator on music.
titsay
vaporwave
romaincrisis
izzy806
