West Germany, 2003.
My Dad was a cool cat. He had a record collection to rival the best of them; stored lovingly in the basement, next to his immense library of equally loved books. Beatles, Rolling Stones, Charles Trenet (the guy who sang La Mer), just to name a few out of hundreds.
My mother; a well intentioned but malevolent Marie Kondo was clearing out the house one winter. The annual school Christmas market was on – all proceeds to charity.
What better way to sweep out the dusty old collection of junk in the cellar? I mean, noone has a vinyl player anymore. So it went, and all for a good cause.
A year later, Dad descended into his den of cool, keen to dust off a record for his own enjoyment, and to start dividing them up for his children to enjoy in years to come.
But – there was nothing there. Desperately, he scrambled through the empty vinyl boxes. Under the sack of potatoes? Nothing. Behind the laundry basket? Nothing!
In one dark, dusty corner, he pulled out the last few records left behind: a couple of German folk vinyls, best left to history, and an all-time classic: Rumors, by Fleetwood Mac. Everything else was taken, but this was spared.
A few years later, he tearfully handed me that record, knowing what he lost. I brought it with me to Australia, to escape the brutal, annual spring cleaning of my mother.
While I have nothing to play it on, I treasure it as the last remaining vestige of my father’s wild, tasteful youth.