Post by franklinmarsh on Feb 21, 2013 14:20:08 GMT
Music. Not only hath it charms to soothe the savage breast, but it can also set your toes tapping. Marco liked music. He didn’t subscribe to the theory that vinyl had better sound quality than CDs, but he had very poor eyesight, so preferred the old 33 and a 1/3 album covers. He could discern more. An old record player, a legacy from his late father, now graced his poky little flat, and charity shops provided him with the food of love, so to speak, and therefore play on.
As a result of not knowing what you were going to get when setting out to make a musical purchase, meant that his collection of long players was vast and eclectic. From Rachmaninov to The Ramones, from Robert Johnson to Roberta Flack, from Mantovani to Megadeth, if he liked the cover, he bought it. They tended to be cheap, too.
The cover he had discovered this lunchtime had tickled his fancy. Some concentric circles on a metallic rainbow coloured background, possibly representing raindrops. Surrounded by an off-white frame with The Kostyevsky Variations in black script (reminiscent of the Radio Times masthead). Nothing else. A blank white back cover, and an unmarked spine. He pulled out the paper inner sleeve and checked the album. Blank white circle in the middle. A white label. Were these valuable? Or was that acetates? He didn’t know and didn’t particularly care.
The grooves were unscratched, and seemed to be divided into six individual tracks. Probably not prog or classical then, his first suspicions. No price on the cover either.
He mooched to the counter and woke the elderly lady snoozing at the till.
“How much, dear?”
He pronounced each word carefully and loudly, in case she was deaf.
“Eh? Oh…er…fifty pence?”
“Sold!” he bellowed, and produced the septagonal coin from his trouser pocket. As he handed it over, there was a definite spark. The old girl sqauwked, and dropped the money. It landed side up, and whirled back across the counter towards Marco. He slapped it Queen side down, and pushed it back towards the woman, making sure his finger was well away from the metal before she gingerly scraped it towards her clawed other hand, then dropped it into the till which resembled her in age and tone.
The receipt was placed carefully on the counter and her trembling hand snatched back before human contact could be made.
Marco thanked her, and she thanked him equally insincerely. His shoulders felt the glare as he hurried back into the winter sunshine. Once outside he decided to forego his work colleagues obligatory “What’s that crap?” piss-taking, and decided to drop the LP off at the flat before returning to work.
Carefully placing the vinyl disc on his ancient but serviceable turn table, something made him guide the arm across to be gently helped down onto the rotating grooves. He glanced at his watch. You should be back at work, Marco, old son. A faint hiss emanated from the speakers. He waited, heart in mouth, hands in pockets, brain seething with expectation.
He frowned. A joke? A misspressing? John Cage? Crass? The Wit And Wisdom Of Ronald Reagan? Just that faint hiss. Should he move the needle on? He felt a little hurt. Waste of money. It’s only 50p. Still.
The knocking woke him. Surprised to find himself in his tatty armchair, Marco growled “What?” at the door. The volume and tone of his voice surprised him. It evidently surprised the knocker, too. The raps petered out nervously.
“Mr. Blandford?”
Mrs Bradley. His landlady. A snotty, miserable stick insect who didn’t like music. Or indeed anything else.
“Yes?” Again, louder and….nastier?...than his normal timbre.
“Rent.”
“Tomorrow.” Silly cow.
“Today.” Her tone was approaching his.
“I always pay on the first Thurs…”
“THERE’S NO NEED TO SHOUT, Mr Blandford. Today is Friday. You’re a day late. I don’t want this to become a habit.”
Fri…the dozy bint. He’d…..he looked at the record player. The album sat there, impaled upon the spike. He ‘d picked it up at lunchtime…..Wednesday lunchtime…..
“WELL?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bradley. I’ll pop out and get it now.”
The tone was conciliatory but inside he was raging.
“I should think so, too.”
Footsteps receded.
He returned to the flats replete with his rent. He knocked upon Mrs. Bradley’s ground floor door. It opened to reveal a flushed lemon-sucker.
He proffered the cash with a half-bow, and a weak smile.
Mrs Bradley snatched the money and began with Well really Mr Blandford as a precursor to a diatribe about good manners, the lack of them, how lucky Marco was to have such a luxury apartment at such a reasonable price, in fact she was thinking of putting up….
The edge of the door, propelled by a kick from Marco, hit her Roman nose dead on, pushing it inward and spreading it outward simultaneously. The wooden oblong crashed against the wall, as the landlady performed a reverse somersault upon her entrance hall floor.
Marco, unaware of the blood speckling his cheek, stepped inside.
The water was so warm, so comforting, almost sexual. He felt cocooned.
Stepping out of the shower, he frowned at the lilac towel, but enjoyed its feel against his skin. He dressed quickly and paused to consider the unfamiliar topography of the bathroom. Funny…
Stepping out of the washroom, he saw the rolled up carpet propped up against the wall. Must take the rubbish out. It should just fit into the flats’ large plastic refuse container. He could always fold it in half….
Dark outside. Strange…
Marco breezed back into his own apartment. Ah, familiar territory. He spotted the album on the turntable and frowned again. Wasn’t it…? As he approached his record player, he cursed as he noticed a mark on the previously pristine label. Bugger! That’ll knock down the value.
He carefully gripped the edge of the vinyl with the tips of his fingers, and pulled it off the player. It wasn’t a mark on the label.
1. Sandra Bradley
Marco smiled and replaced the album, then lifted the stylus and gently guided the needle to the beginning of what must be Track 2.
As a result of not knowing what you were going to get when setting out to make a musical purchase, meant that his collection of long players was vast and eclectic. From Rachmaninov to The Ramones, from Robert Johnson to Roberta Flack, from Mantovani to Megadeth, if he liked the cover, he bought it. They tended to be cheap, too.
The cover he had discovered this lunchtime had tickled his fancy. Some concentric circles on a metallic rainbow coloured background, possibly representing raindrops. Surrounded by an off-white frame with The Kostyevsky Variations in black script (reminiscent of the Radio Times masthead). Nothing else. A blank white back cover, and an unmarked spine. He pulled out the paper inner sleeve and checked the album. Blank white circle in the middle. A white label. Were these valuable? Or was that acetates? He didn’t know and didn’t particularly care.
The grooves were unscratched, and seemed to be divided into six individual tracks. Probably not prog or classical then, his first suspicions. No price on the cover either.
He mooched to the counter and woke the elderly lady snoozing at the till.
“How much, dear?”
He pronounced each word carefully and loudly, in case she was deaf.
“Eh? Oh…er…fifty pence?”
“Sold!” he bellowed, and produced the septagonal coin from his trouser pocket. As he handed it over, there was a definite spark. The old girl sqauwked, and dropped the money. It landed side up, and whirled back across the counter towards Marco. He slapped it Queen side down, and pushed it back towards the woman, making sure his finger was well away from the metal before she gingerly scraped it towards her clawed other hand, then dropped it into the till which resembled her in age and tone.
The receipt was placed carefully on the counter and her trembling hand snatched back before human contact could be made.
Marco thanked her, and she thanked him equally insincerely. His shoulders felt the glare as he hurried back into the winter sunshine. Once outside he decided to forego his work colleagues obligatory “What’s that crap?” piss-taking, and decided to drop the LP off at the flat before returning to work.
Carefully placing the vinyl disc on his ancient but serviceable turn table, something made him guide the arm across to be gently helped down onto the rotating grooves. He glanced at his watch. You should be back at work, Marco, old son. A faint hiss emanated from the speakers. He waited, heart in mouth, hands in pockets, brain seething with expectation.
He frowned. A joke? A misspressing? John Cage? Crass? The Wit And Wisdom Of Ronald Reagan? Just that faint hiss. Should he move the needle on? He felt a little hurt. Waste of money. It’s only 50p. Still.
The knocking woke him. Surprised to find himself in his tatty armchair, Marco growled “What?” at the door. The volume and tone of his voice surprised him. It evidently surprised the knocker, too. The raps petered out nervously.
“Mr. Blandford?”
Mrs Bradley. His landlady. A snotty, miserable stick insect who didn’t like music. Or indeed anything else.
“Yes?” Again, louder and….nastier?...than his normal timbre.
“Rent.”
“Tomorrow.” Silly cow.
“Today.” Her tone was approaching his.
“I always pay on the first Thurs…”
“THERE’S NO NEED TO SHOUT, Mr Blandford. Today is Friday. You’re a day late. I don’t want this to become a habit.”
Fri…the dozy bint. He’d…..he looked at the record player. The album sat there, impaled upon the spike. He ‘d picked it up at lunchtime…..Wednesday lunchtime…..
“WELL?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bradley. I’ll pop out and get it now.”
The tone was conciliatory but inside he was raging.
“I should think so, too.”
Footsteps receded.
He returned to the flats replete with his rent. He knocked upon Mrs. Bradley’s ground floor door. It opened to reveal a flushed lemon-sucker.
He proffered the cash with a half-bow, and a weak smile.
Mrs Bradley snatched the money and began with Well really Mr Blandford as a precursor to a diatribe about good manners, the lack of them, how lucky Marco was to have such a luxury apartment at such a reasonable price, in fact she was thinking of putting up….
The edge of the door, propelled by a kick from Marco, hit her Roman nose dead on, pushing it inward and spreading it outward simultaneously. The wooden oblong crashed against the wall, as the landlady performed a reverse somersault upon her entrance hall floor.
Marco, unaware of the blood speckling his cheek, stepped inside.
The water was so warm, so comforting, almost sexual. He felt cocooned.
Stepping out of the shower, he frowned at the lilac towel, but enjoyed its feel against his skin. He dressed quickly and paused to consider the unfamiliar topography of the bathroom. Funny…
Stepping out of the washroom, he saw the rolled up carpet propped up against the wall. Must take the rubbish out. It should just fit into the flats’ large plastic refuse container. He could always fold it in half….
Dark outside. Strange…
Marco breezed back into his own apartment. Ah, familiar territory. He spotted the album on the turntable and frowned again. Wasn’t it…? As he approached his record player, he cursed as he noticed a mark on the previously pristine label. Bugger! That’ll knock down the value.
He carefully gripped the edge of the vinyl with the tips of his fingers, and pulled it off the player. It wasn’t a mark on the label.
1. Sandra Bradley
Marco smiled and replaced the album, then lifted the stylus and gently guided the needle to the beginning of what must be Track 2.