I remember my first “record player”. My siblings and I shared two suitcase box-type turntables: my younger brother and I claimed one that had an orange leatherette finish and my older sister had a patriotic red, white and blue-striped one.
Between my brother and I, our vinyl library consisted of maybe four records – no music, just stories. We spun our little 45s so often that it didn’t take long for those cheap turntables to really show their age.
Like most inexperienced spinners, we were taping pennies to the head of the play arm just so the needle would stay in the track. It wasn’t long before you heard more of the static and popping from dust and scratches than the actual recording. The fun officially ended when the record player my brother and I shared slid off the bed and smashed to pieces on the floor.