Like many on The Afterword, it is still 1973 in my head. In April, for the very first time, I bought a brand new album on the day of its release. I rushed home, put it on the ‘stereo’ and positioned myself centrally between the speakers hanging on the wall. Side one went very smoothly. I barely noticed the hedonistic party in the opening track, the louche afternoon sex of the one in the middle nor the financial transaction taking place under a grinding guitar in the side’s closer.

Satisfied so far and feeling rather pleased with my hard-earned purchase, I flipped the disc. Just as I carefully placed the needle at the beginning of side two, my mum walked in the room.

“Ooh, that sounds good,” she cooed, impressed by Mike Garson’s florid piano introduction to Time. Moments later, Time was “flexing like a whore” and falling “wanking to the floor.” Mum, without another word, spun on her heel and made a hurried exit. I was mortified. I didn’t dare look at her for days. We have never spoken about it since.

By October and my second on-the-day acquisition, the household had acquired head-phones. I listened intently. Thirty-four » Continue Reading.