Tom Dunne: The deeply personal record collection that stopped me in my tracks
'I felt like a child on Christmas morning... There were some albums I’d wanted for years — key releases and towering work'
Once, for the purposes of daytime radio, I had to interview Eddie Izzard. What’s unusual about this is that I did the interview in a wheelchair. I’d signed up to spend 24 hours in a chair to raise awareness of how incredibly difficult it is. Then, at short notice and only a few hours in, we were offered an interview with Eddie, at his hotel.
It was decided that I had to stay in character. A real wheelchair user cannot decide when and if they use the chair. So, a wheelchair-friendly taxi was booked and the now arduous journey to his hotel room began. The interview was great. And as regards the chair, he didn’t ask and I didn’t say.
I was reminded of this and other ‘daytime radio adventures,’ when a friend called me this week. She was calling about a neighbour’s vinyl collection. It had belonged to the neighbour’s husband, a vinyl fanatic who had passed away a few years back. She wanted his records to go somewhere where they would continue to be loved.
I have form here, so I journeyed over, delighted to be asked. It was a treasure trove. I felt like a child on Christmas morning. I was soon emitting gasps of astonishment. There were some albums I’d wanted for years — key releases and towering works.
Some of The Beatles' records were dated, in handwriting, to within weeks of their actual release. Others contained reviews of the albums cut from the pages of the music papers — a practice I thought unique to me. The place of these albums in this person’s life, intimately connected to milestones and happy times was palpable.
I’ve had previous experiences like this. Once, Philomena Lynott had invited me to look at Philo’s records in her house in Malahide. There were albums from his teens and his time in Britain. There was even an acetate (test pressing) of Live and Dangerous with handwritten notes from, producer, Tony Visconti.
But one had stopped me in my tracks, made me put the albums back as I had found them and thank Mrs Lynott for her time. It was not a well-known album at all but it had been inscribed with the words: ‘Caroline Crowther, Christmas 1973'. It had obviously belonged to his wife, bought by or given to her long before she’d met Philo. It must have ended up with his the way all couples' record collections get mixed up together when they first meet. Holding it, this little bit of their shared past, suddenly felt intrusive.
But the experience that came back to me most vividly in all of this had occurred in a retirement home in Dublin. Here, as part of an item on what it’s really like to live in such a home, I was dispatched, with a producer and microphone, to find out.
It seemed a very pleasant place. Staff and residents were happy to talk but one lady made more of an impression on me than the others. Some residents were couples, but this lady was a widow, a quiet and quite shy, gentle, woman.
She warmed to me and as is often the case in these situations seemed far more eager to discuss my life than hers. I was happy to talk. I mentioned my love of music and she became very excited: “I have records myself, you know?” she said.
She produced a record case from beside her bed and opened it. It contained about 15 albums, all of them by French artists I was not familiar with. “We never had children,” she said, “but every spring my husband and I would travel to Paris and each year buy an album to remember it by.” She stroked the albums warmly as she said this. I knew her husband was gone and I knew that in many ways these albums were all that was left of their entire world. It was unspeakable poignant.
“Do you play them?” I asked.
“No needle,” she said; it seemed, just a little bit, too promptly.
I suspect playing them would have been simply too much for her.
The records I brought home this week are being played again and my daughter is working through The Beatles ones, completely delighted with them. I hope this is the right thing to do with them. I believe it is.
PS: I met Eddie Izzard again some years later. He never mentioned the ‘miracle of the chair'.
- Tom is making a contribution to a charity in acknowledgment of the records gifted to him.
