I may have mentioned that I moved into a shared office at my collective about two weeks ago. Ever so slowly, my officemate and I have been rearranging furniture, contemplating what color to paint the walls, and getting used to each other’s Tourette’s-like exclamations and other tics.
He is also engaging in a bit of spring cleaning (of about a decade’s worth of stuff). First step: getting rid of excess LPs.
My colleague has an actual *record player* hooked up to play through his computer. He tends to spin a lot of Elvis Costello, sometimes some Miles Davis, and a few other tracks he’s a bit stuck on.
Aside from his crate of favorites, he had a shelf full of records he wanted to cull. So, we carried over a giant stack to a local record shop (yes, they still exist!). The buyer proved to be rather discerning, selecting a short stack of disks (we assume he thought he could sell) and paying my colleague about 300 SEK for about a dozen or so. A pristine Hall & Oates record may have been among them, as well as a Paul McCartney album with photos by Linda on the sleeve (“poor Linda,” my colleague sighed).
We then carried the rest over to Götgatan at Slussen, in hopes of finding a secondhand shop at which to dump them. Sadly it was gone (replaced by a trendy clothing shop). So, back toward the office we went, intending to find the Myrorna on the other side of the island.
But first, we stopped at the local music shop, in the off-chance they might be interested in anything in the pile. A few steps down into the shop’s subbasement level takes you into a forest of beautiful guitars, drums, and other paraphernalia for the budding and experienced rock musician. An earnest conversation in English at the back of the store touched on Dylan and the qualities of some guitar brand I didn’t catch. And the owner/buyer here was much more forgiving of the stack of albums we presented for his perusal.
He took them all (at least 40, I’m guessing) — Pat Benatar, David Lee Roth, some old Cat Stevens, and who knows what else — for 400 SEK. And he let me keep the Broadway album of South Pacific that my officemate had buried in the stacks, but has never listened to… the buyer and I sang a few lines together of “I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair” (though he insisted it was “head,” not “hair”). My colleague surmised he had less to lose on a stack of unsaleable records than the actual used record shop.
I cannot speak to how much of this selection of LPs was (once?) my colleague’s taste; possibly not much, as he gathered some from the garbage room in the basement of the building. But he did mention with great affection the Swedish hair bands in the mélange. Ah, nostalgia — it’s such a problem for packrats!