I started playing music for public consumption in November of 1989 in the equipment-challenged studio of KREM FM. Most people’s home stereo sets had better electronics than the fourth or maybe fifth-hand hodgepodge of relics that sat on the formica-covered desk in that studio. One turntable from an electronic jumble sale—$125, two tape decks from the now defunct Maya Electronics—$350 apiece, playing music to Belize on the nation’s first private radio station—priceless.
In those days, I went armed to the musical frontlines at 3 p.m. with TDK sixty-minute cassette tapes, filled with what we called back then “rockers”. If one wanted to be a deejay of any reckoning, one was mandated to make regular visits to King Street’s Record Shack and George Street’s Stone and Baron. Kenny Morgan introduced me to the world of dancehall on vinyl, which was in all ways a superior playing experience to cassettes, which were always a cueing nightmare. Compact discs came onto the scene and replaced cassettes, but vinyls were stubborn, partially because reggae music continued to be produced on 45s mostly, and some on lps, but also to a substantial degree, because deejays were romantically committed to the vinyls.
I guess the belief was, any fool could have cds or cassettes, but the distinguishing mark, the visual qualifier of superiority was possession of vinyl. Kind of like a membership card to flash and confirm an exclusive status. From the mid-nineties onward I proudly served in this exclusive fraternity of vinyl soldiers, serving musical need from technics 1200 turntables overladen with the hottest wax. Me and my records, till death do us part, or so I thought, at least until MP3 came along.
MP3 was a marriage wrecker, although I fought off this adulterous temptation for a long while. MP3 or MPEG-1 Audio Layer 3, as it is scientifically called, is a digital audio encoding format that compresses audio files so that it can easily be stored on computer hard drives. In this age of electronic technology, gadgetry and Internet, from I-pods to cell phones, the MP3 has become the hottest chick on the corner. Instead of CD players or turntables, deejays now equip themselves with laptops and hard drives stuffed with thousands of tracks, no longer needing the services of an airport porter to carry their full musical arsenal into the session. Technically speaking, MP3 sacrifices major audio elements for the sake of compression, hence its audio quality is inferior to CDs, which are the best as far as sound purity goes. Nothing beats the richness of imperfections ,however, that the vinyl record brings to the table, but convenience has defeated romance and a couple years ago I succumbed to its lure and started my affair with MP3. My vinyl collection has been accumulating dust cobwebs, vanquished to the Siberian outskirts of my home.
I was forced into an attack of conscience and guilt only recently, though, when an esteemed music-loving friend of mind, Ras Miz, went on a tirade against the gadgets in the music. He considers them impurities and those who use them to be guilty of no less than sacrilege. Anybody who knows Ras Miz knows he has no shortage of bluntness in his verbal repertoire. Thing is, my brother wasn’t aware that I was one of the musical infidels who perpetrated this violation. I smiled, but inside I felt like a Judas Iscariot to my beloved records.
Ras Miz’s condemnation notwithstanding, I will continue delivering my musical meals as an MP3 platter, but in my defense let me say, I have not deserted my true love, the vinyls. I am but a victim of pragmatism. I will, however, spend some time cleaning up my record collection. Technology cannot yoke me away completely from my beloved vinyl.