Sadly, it’s over. It is clear to me that the bond I believed existed between us was a mere figment of my imagination. I am embarrassed, naturally. For a time there, it seemed as if you could read my mind, anticipate my every whim, each passing desire. I see now that I was horribly mistaken. In an instant, it is if I am suddenly in the presence of a stranger who does not know the first thing about me. Or, more to the point, one who does not know the first thing about my musical preferences. I’m sorry to say this but, dear ‘Recommendations for You’ on the iTunes store, you don’t understand me at all.
Sadly, it’s over. It is clear to me that the bond I believed existed between us was a mere figment of my imagination. I am embarrassed, naturally. For a time there, it seemed as if you could read my mind, anticipate my every whim, each passing desire. I see now that I was horribly mistaken. In an instant, it is if I am suddenly in the presence of a stranger who does not know the first thing about me. Or, more to the point, one who does not know the first thing about my musical preferences. I’m sorry to say this but, dear ‘Recommendations for You’ on the iTunes store, you don’t understand me at all.
I probably should have dumped you long ago, but the memory of those first giddy encounters led me to hope that things would, at some point, get better. Even now, the remembrance of recommendations past causes a mist of warm feelings to descend upon me like summer rain. Ahh. Perhaps it was the sheer novelty of having a machine tell me that it cares about me that caught me so off-guard. I suppose I was flattered. I know better now.
Perhaps our romance was always doomed because, when all is said and done, my heart belongs to record stores. They were the very reason I came to digital purchasing relatively late. For me, there has always been something quite lovely about a record store. There was always the thrill of discovery as you rifled through the racks –encountering albums that you had only ever heard spoken of in hushed, reverent tones or the giddy joy of purchasing something on the strength of the cover art alone. Try replicating that with an MP3. Then there is the matter of judgement – it’s like no other retail experience.
Whether it is a law or a substantial and overwhelming co-incidence, every good record store must employ someone at the front counter called ‘Lloyd’. Always slightly haggard of appearance and possibly hung-over, Lloyd is the absolute arbiter of what is and is not good taste. Granted, such judgement is plainly rendered useless when it comes to clothes, but music is an entirely different matter. When you hand up your selections, the grizzled, bloodshot eye of ol’ Lloyd crawls across the cover in silence. It’s an awkward moment. Finally, the moment of approval comes in form of a grunt or in the slightest of nods that a moment’s inattention would let pass by undetected. A particularly tasteful choice might even prompt a comment along the lines of, ‘Great album. Ever heard any Little Feat?’
There are few greater compliments on this earth that for a record store attendant to share their knowledge with you. It’s like being granted entry to an exclusive club. A glorious world in which looks, dress sense and hygiene count for little and knowledge – sweet musical knowledge – is prized above all else. When a record store employee shares his or her thoughts about music with you, it’s a sacred bond. Granted, one that lasts no longer than sixty seconds and involves a cash payment, but a sacred bond all the same.
When I discovered that I could purchase music without so much as leaving the house, I’ll admit that I was seduced by the convenience and efficiency. Not to mention the fact that such purchases came without the tell-tale packaging that instantly alerts your loved ones to the fact that you have just kicked a sizeable hole in the weekly household budget. Better than just efficient, it was discrete. Not that things were perfect. Buying music with a simple mouse click has its problems – it feels cold, a little distant. I even missed the ritual of trying to get the CD out of the plastic, the successful extrication from which always felt as if it should be greeted with a musical flourish to herald a magical act of escape. I miss looking at the cover. And reading the liner notes. I don’t know why I need to know who played the harmonium on track three or which band member ran down to the shops for a pie and a Big M at a crucial moment during the recording process – I just do. In an age of picking tracks as they please you, liner notes are all but extinct. Sometimes you can download a ‘booklet’, but it’s a pretty feeble substitute.
I probably missed Lloyd most of all. That’s where you came in. At first it felt like someone was reading my mind as I gleefully snapped up everything ‘Recommendations for You’ suggested. Then something, somewhere, went horribly wrong. Like so many things, it unravelled over time. First it was the occasional recommendation that I buy the latest Madonna or Lady Gaga single when, in truth, I’d sooner fill my ears with hot wax than to listen to anything that either of them saw fit to unleash on the public. Then there were the recommendations to buy various singles by reality show contestants. Suddenly, it was as though we were drifting apart. Ironically enough, it was when you recommended ‘My Heart Will Go On’ by Celine Dion that I knew we were truly sunk. I demanded a retraction. You, being the machine that you are, did not respond.
My heart will, indeed, go on, but not with you. It belongs to Lloyd and to real record stores everywhere. Try as you might, you can never replace a real record store attendant. At best, you can only simulate the experience. It is, I feel, the curse of being inhuman, no matter how hard you try to convince us otherwise. So, ‘Recommendations for You’, allow me to return the favour and recommend the song, ‘It’s Over’ by the late, great Roy Orbison. A soaring piece of emotional pop-opera, chances are that your mechanical heart won’t be moved at all. That, I am afraid, is your loss. I can say, however, that it comes with Lloyd’s stamp of approval. That, at least, still means something.