There’s a physicality to turntables and a connection to the music that isn’t available with other media. The ritual of picking out an album, sliding the record out of its sleeve, cleaning the disc and then putting it on the platter. As the record spins up I lift the arm across the blank space before the first track. There’s a few crackles and pops, then the music begins, twenty or so minutes listening to the music as a single piece, the way the artist intended.
Compare this to an Ipod, it’s more advanced, more convenient, more robust but it’s cold. Press a button, the music comes out in an endless stream sorted by genre, artist or date. I don’t need the discipline of listening to difficult tracks, I just click next until I get something easier to consume.
When my nephew and niece come to stay they don’t ask for the Ipod, they ask for the “disco”, aka the turntable. Like me they seem to be fascinated with the rituals involved in playing the music. Then when the music’s playing the slow spin of the disc holds them entranced.
Sonically it’s prone to pops and clicks. Records get scratched or warped and yet still the warm imperfect sound is more comforting than the consistent reproduction of a CD or MP3.