Collection

Alright you sick twisted thieving fucks.
I realise you have 276GB of unforgivably lossy lossy (look that up I cba) mewsick on your hard drive, all of which you obtained in the most conniving and criminal of ways - illegal Internet download, but let's consider this fact:


87% of those cruddy mp3 files are shit.
That's not just my opinion (my opinion is actually in the high 90's tbh).
That's not just objective fact (probably same figure as mine).
That's YOUR fucking opinion you douche.


How do you expect to be able to separate the cream from the crud moron?


I has fowldors + I maintains em good.




I give a fuck.


Let's instead consider the bad old days.
The days when you'd sweat and bleed for four shillings and a ha'penny a week.
The highlight of that week would have been a Saturday afternoon trip down to Ron's Rekka Sto'.
You'd pop into Ron, red faced and beaming as Ron rubs his hands gleefully under the counter.


Ron knows you like the funkier shit and he's set aside some of the rarer imports he knows you will drool over and weigh up your cinema outing and decide to forgo the vague opportunity of a fondle with Francine for the sake of the latest rare motown 45 (because you my friend are a geek, and you shamefully choose trainspotter ornithologist collector ways over a good grope at the talkies).


Through the jigs and the reels and the chat and the listening you decide to definitely get the motown number and even though you hate the Rolling Stones, fuck it, you'll take Jumpin' Jack Flash because it's a damn stonking tune in fairness. Having your slacks let out will have to wait another week. Or perhaps Aunty Felicity might do it if you drop in for a spot of delightful teacakes and a natter later on.


After two years of toiling in this way you have built a sizeable collection.
You are the envy of your muso nerd mates and when they need someone to play some numbers after their weekly gig at Dandelion Garden (because dj's are all the rage these days) you're the man they call upon.


Now you haven't a clue about dj-ing. It's only one turntable so that will have to do.
But more to the point you can't read a crowd, and you can't program for shit.
First night you play all your funky shit up first, all in a row and then mellow the crowd out a little too much because you (quite rightly - with exception later when you get actually good at it) refuse to replay records.


It's not a great start, but you have one fucking solid gold weapon.


Will you ever play a bum track?


Fucking never.


Because you don't HAVE any bum tracks.


Every single single you eeked your hard earned cash out for is incredible because it had to be.
You couldn't click a mouse three times and download Ace of Bass' entire backcatalogue only to realise you do actually hate it all and would never ever play any of it in a set (idiot, a couple of their successful singles are fucking brilliant - listen PROPERLY!)
Back in the rough old times you had to actually listen when you made the choice to part with the moola.
You had to really consider which tunes gave you the biggest boners and which ones you sadly had to let go because they didn't make you cum a little right there and then in Ron's.


And hence, even after your first gig, with its faults and fuck ups, extended periods of dead air, playing album tracks at munchkin speed for a few seconds, its misread badly programmed come down iffyness, people think you are fucking amazing. Because they didn't even realise they fucking adored every single tune. Even the ones they'd never heard before.
And now they trust you and your taste and you just know when you get the sequencing down you will have them wailing and crying from the sheer exquisiteness of your set.


Get it?


Get it?




So here's your homework you spoilt techno-brats.
You're going to Ron's Rekka Sto'.


Take a virtual $50. Go on take it - it's only imaginary.
Go to discogs.com or ebay or wherever.
'Spend' it on VINYL releases (try to avoid reissues please) between 1967 and 1970.


Do not make a set list out of those tunes. Yet.


Do it again another three times at least a day apart and then make a set from the $150 worth.


(Strap on your virtual mask and striped pullover if you like and burglarise the Internets for the mp3s and make the playlist if you fancy. But I may call the cyber police on you.)


One bum track and you will never be a disco dj like you might have been if you worked the mines in those 'dark ages' we just fantasised about.