Driven by a combination of boredom and OCD, I sat myself down this afternoon to catalogue my records by artist, album title and year of release on an Excel sheet, hoping to both get a complete list at the end of it, and a chance to listen to some long-ignored discs in the process.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
I must’ve started about four, now it’s past ten – the hours in between have passed in a strange, disorienting haze of discographies and dates: a sort of musical netherworld boiling up in my head as I’ve popped on one unrelated album after another. I can barely remember what I’ve heard either – Frank Sinatra (of all people) was on at some point, and some Portishead. I also own something by a group called Electric President – fuck knows how I’ve come by it, I expect one of my friends is to blame. Turns out it’s pleasantly goofus electropop about spiders and so on – or maybe I’m thinking of something else. Who can tell anyway with these bands?
And a live record by Moloko – I didn’t even know one existed, let alone that I owned it. Have I even heard it before? No clue. Why did I get it? Who knows? Is this normal?
What’s truly irritating is, the collection is large enough to make this exercise annoying and difficult and yet, after all this, looks pretty stringy and pathetic anyway when listed out on a spreadsheet like that. Might be the least rewarding thing I’ve embarked upon in ages.
At this point, I’m about three quarters done with the “loose” albums. The “complete” collections come next.
I’m dimly aware that somewhere in this house there is every Ringo Starr solo album that ever existed, and it’s only my pop induced stupor that is holding me back from jumping out of the balcony to put an end to it all.