Twenty years ago, every Saturday morning across the bridge of Triana and Sevilla approached me to buy an LP. Every Saturday. I have a modest collection of vinyl because it was not long and the music began to be sold in yields and cost three times as much, although produced at a cost ten times less, not including the lyrics or photographs of the musicians. But this is another issue. Of course, I can say that my LPs are well amortized, scrapes and again the needle on the turntable, put on full blast, until my mother complained about having to endure the music so high. What good was this compact unit Sanyo brand that my father bought. Radio, cassette, plate and amplifier all built, with eighty-watt speakers and more than half a meter high.

It disappeared relatively recently, four or five years. But the truth is that my records had not heard more than ten. This Christmas, my little brother gave me a turntable and to read the records, transforms the music of the LPs in sound files… The good thing about these devices is you can leave work for hours and they will do the work without complaining. So turning, turning, while listening to old songs, my music of LP has become part of my music.

The ipod is responsible for giving life back to my youth records. In this commotion, I thought of something funny and unexpected. Listening to Pink Floyd, the slow soft synth and guitar plucking solitude in Shine on you crazy diamond, I felt that I returned back to my adolescence and early adulthood. I remembered my fifteen years, when a classmate recommended me a record called Tubular Bells Mike Oldfield of one, when I discovered the strength of the strange mix of the Queen’s A Night at the Opera. But I remembered my youth, not by the music, that too, but mainly by the magical background noise that accompanied it. The sound of frying of vinyl records. I realized that my memories accompanying sound. How odd that something so trivial and attached to everyday life, thus enhances feelings. As an odor that suddenly brings to mind a childhood memory remote and forgotten. I went back to enjoy music with the chest clean of age and a head full of hope thanks to the small sparks that accompanied the music. Memories scratched by the needle of the turntable. How curious!