Kevin Courtneyon a legacy his son can dance to
Dadrocker's been doing a bit of advance spring cleaning, going through the CD collection to clear out some musical clutter. The new Razorlight album? That can go. The old Razorlight album? That can go too. All those "girls night out" compilations that used to clog up the release schedules? Out. All bands that sound like Coldplay or Arctic Monkeys? That should clear a big space.
As I sift through the CDs (oh, look, Pink Floyd's first album - in mono) I'm thinking I should store the best stuff for Daniel to find when he's a teenager. It'll be like discovering a treasure trove of classic rock from the last century, with a few Noughties gems thrown in too.
There's also some vinyl, which I bought in a sad, middle-aged attempt to rebuild my teenage record collection. Okay, my copy of Exile on Main Stis a special edition repressing, and if you actually played my copy of Led Zep IVon a turntable it would skip like a May queen bustling through the hedgerow. But my 12-inch of Fools Goldis still in pretty good nick, and my gatefold In the Courtof the Crimson King is pristine.
I can picture the scene in 2018, when Daniel's band is being interviewed before their sellout 10 nights at the O2: "Yeah, well, my Dad used to be a rock journo, and he had all the coolest records. I have him to thank for turning me onto some great music."
He won't be the first pop star to credit his old dad with turning him onto 1960s psychedelia or 1970s prog. Local girl Jenny Lindfors learned all her Joni Mitchell/Laura Nyro moves from raiding her parents' musty vinyl collection. Duke Special probably got his love of vaudeville from snaffling his dad's 78s. And Richard Hawley certainly didn't find out about Matt Munro from watching The Tube.
I can definitely say I was hugely influenced by my dad's record collection. One listen to The Wolfe Tones' Rifles of the IRAwas enough to send me running out to the record shop for the latest Bowie and T.Rex. At least there are no naff rebel anthems in my CD collection, although there are probably a few dodgy protest songs.
It's a strong fatherly instinct, wanting to leave a legacy for your son and heir. There are many things a dad can pass on to his son (a gold fob watch, the family business, pattern baldness, an irrational loyalty to West Ham) but none is as vital as a good record collection. And this is probably the last generation that will get to smell the mould off their parents' LP collections. Rummaging through your dad's computer archives and coming across a few old downloads just isn't the same thing.
My dad has promised to leave me one valuable piece of recording history, which I'll pass on to Daniel: an original Edison wind-up gramophone, complete with a collection of wax cylinders. You slide the cylinder onto the spindle, wind it up, lock the needle in place, and voila!
I'm Forever Blowing Bubblesstarts bubbling out of a brass horn, in a tinny voice broadcast directly from the roaring twenties. Let's see Daniel try and download that.
kcourtney@irish-times.ie
