Paul Harry Allen
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Side A

8/9/2019

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​If you're a regular reader of this blog, you may have gathered that I have a slight interest in records. As I was listening to one last week, I realised that I'd never actually replaced the stylus of that particular record player. I'm all for authenticity, but that had been there since 1979. ​
Once the practically had been dealt with and I knew there was a replacement one on its way in the post, I turned to the problem of how to continue listening. I finally relented and dug out my amp and turntable. For the Audiophiles, my listening choice is a 970 Philips Stereo Combo, as I like the way it sits there with its fake wood look. You can imagine how horrified I was when the turntable didn't work either. A piece of wire had come loose. Well it had come away from the gaffa tape, the universal go to for temporary measures. Tape aside, I couldn't help but see the irony, as this was supposed to be the reliable one, that one bit of kit that you wouldn't have to tap the back of to get the left speaker working again. So I did the only thing remaining. I got my tapes out, and how beautifully pleased I was.
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Obviously I'm not going to start advocating tapes, they were naturally a bedfellow of vinyl, but their perfect union can be personified by two terms; 'The Mixtape' and 'Home taping is killing music.' 

Let's look at the Mixtape. I know you remember them and no doubt a myriad of memories have started flooding back, and it was exactly the same for me. It was the personal touch, only your choice of tune, the perfect place for that song to sit and what it should follow. Whether you taped them off the radio or put your favourites together, it was the soundtrack of your choosing, and every one of those C90s embedded memories deep into your core. Everyone hears a song, and is then perplexed that the song they're expecting next doesn't come on. As that confusion builds, you're immersed in that time when you had played DJ with that song, and it's only when reality bumps into you, do you realise how much time has passed between you playing or making that tape and hearing that song again. ​
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Then, for the more serious listener, you could record a whole album. Not only could you experience the luxury of listening to that record without having to get up and put the other side on, but armed with this C90, you get another one on. This meant that you could take your records out of the house for the first time, where you could play them as loudly as you wanted and no one would sit on them. ​

While the world of vinyl was theoretically revived with Record Store day (It never went away) they are trying to do the same with cassettes. It just won't work, as you instantly loose that personal touch. You don't get any song titles that are written in different coloured pens, or any other low-fi embellishments like stickers or hand drawn stars. You occasionally got an exclamation mark. ​
Whatever your viewpoint, these cassettes contained ninety glorious minutes of music that was either your choice, or lovingly made for you. The picture should tell you this, and I deem myself one of the luckiest man in the world to have these in my possession. Not only because I still own it seventeen years after it was recorded, but the time and effort put in by my best friend instantly highlights how much a person actually cares for you. I still have this over the countless birthday cards I have recycled. 

Which brings me to the reason of why this blog was late. I have been playing tapes. But not just playing tapes. ​​​
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All or Nothing

31/8/2019

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​I have (at the time of you reading this) seven hundred and ninety two albums in my collection, with a spattering of around a hundred singles. Let us concentrate on the albums. The range is incredibly eclectic, rather like some calamity has happened in a record shop and no one's cleaned up yet. ​
Quite a lot of people are amazed at the amount, but to me, rummaging for these glorious discs of delight, is something I've always done and is no different to you spotting a book by an author you like or something else entirely. I say 'something else entirely' as I've realised that no one really collects things any more. Certainly not as it used to be. Yes there are still the extremists whether they're camped in Doctor Who or sports footwear, but with everything now either online or available at the click of a remote, gone are the days of physically buying anything and sadly music is, and still remains, its most prominent example.
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If you're reading this with one ear on Spotify, while I will be turning a kind blind eye (more on that in another blog) you will be laughing at how stupid a statement like that is, as you can certainly get way over the seven hundred and ninety two albums I have. But they're just the songs and that's my point. There's no album art, no mysterious sleeve notes to ponder over and most importantly, you're not listening to it as it is designed to be heard. This isn't necessarily to do with it being on vinyl, more about who is singing or playing, as it was their choice where that song should sit on the album; what it will sound fantastic to follow, or more importantly, what to begin with. You don't get any of that and have completely ignored the point of them making that record.

Everything is contextual so if it's buried in a play list or presented to you via a logarithm, then you're clearly not showing that singer or band the respect they are due. From the painstaking ponder over the exact words to say, to the gruelling sweat over nailing that chord. That's even before they recorded it.

I'm certainly not saying there's never any room for a playlist, but compared to the original home of that song, it's like telling Mr Holmes that you don't need a poo. Also, where's the Chase? Not the tv programme, but the actual hunting down of that record, where the hunter finally gets their game, whether its finally spotted in a dusty crate or excitedly unwrapped at Christmas. While my taste is incredibly wide, I'm a massive Sixties and Seventies freak, so I get to hunt properly; looking for musicians who could only record for Vinyl, who, when spotted entrapped and captured (most records come quietly) is played on the equipment of the time.

While I do have technology that goes past nineteen seventy eight (I don't write this with a quill) it really should sound like it was supposed to sound. Obviously with the records I like its been quite a few years since they were brand new, but no ones record collection is ever pristine, as we've all had that clumsy knock as we put it on or get up to skip the next one as it's too scratched. It's all part of your collection, and if you never experienced that, then I can only assume that you were the one that kept the box the toy came in.

It's all about the music, and can be perfectly summed up by John Peel's defence of Vinyl over CDs (remember them?). When challenged over the better quality, he said “Listen mate, life has surface noises.” These 'marks', whether on the record or the album's artwork, are the marks of lives left behind are what I love, whether it's the original owner's name or their insistence to rate each song and list its length (again, more on that in another blog)
John Peel would have been eighty yesterday (see 'celebratory' podcast) and so if you don't agree with anything I have said, then you're upsetting him. That's all I'm saying. After all, his memory hasn't faded out gently.
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No Apology Necessary, No Excuse Needed

10/8/2019

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I'm sure that people are baffled that I don't know what a step class is, but I can tell you what album Taxman is on, and who designed the cover. I'm incredibly impractical, yet naturally know what tune will fill the floor or people's lungs with song. There is no happier phrase than 'I haven't heard this in years,' whether said or heard. Don't ever expect me to solve a maths problem, although do expect me to tell you all the bands that Steve Winwood was in, as well as what song was on John Lennon's answerphone.
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I guess it's about what you can bring to the party in life and my passion for theses platters has further fuelled my desire to fill my glass of knowledge to the brim, and indeed not let any spill. Being a clumsy bugger, you would suspect that not all of it remains in the glass, but my hands are for once sensible, as how else would I know the band history behind Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, or even the story of how Captain Beefheart got their name?
I may have digressed a little, but essentially as I continue to refuel my passion, be it via dusty gem's plucked out of a box or the needle hitting a familiar favourite, it does nothing more than turn me into an anorak., of which I am immensely proud.

If you have a passion that no one understands, then congratulations (unless of course you're a serial killer) as you know what causes the endorphins to rush through the lesser travelled path. So come fellow anoraks, let us clutch at our toggles and raise high our flasks of tea.  ​
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  • Home
  • Projects
    • Lounge Sessions
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