Twenty or more years ago I predicted that, twenty years thence, one would be able to call for particular pieces of music, text and art at a whim, and that pretty much the entirety of human knowledge, the diverse wisdoms of ancient and modern cultures would be available to everyone, or at least everyone in the developed world (as we are fond of calling it, as if the 'development' were complete, or assured).
Do you remember, when younger, lugging that case full of LPs to friends' houses and to parties? Or having to compile tape cassettes of your favourite tracks, or that you thought would improve your chances of hooking up with that girl or boy you had your sights set on bedding (this was rather a ritual at one time)?
The invention of the Walkman took music outside. You could take a little of the aural luxury you enjoyed at home out of the home, listen to pieces in settings appropriate for them and vice versa.
It's five in the morning. So I find myself wandering along the roads of memory. I am about, I am about, I guess, nineteen or twenty. There is the scent of pine cones after rain, a kind of juniper tang. It is cold: there are gloves.
In my hand is a case of LPs, then unfashionable, not so much now. I am on my way to a friend's house where we will know what we like and like what we know.
