You are a record collector of a certain age. You have a fondness for late 60s/ early 70s British prog. On holiday in a small seaside town you are browsing 2nd hand records in a junk shop when you come across a record that you have never seen before. You have never heard of the band or the album title. It has an elaborate gatefold sleeve, and it’s on ISLAND Records! Now you pride yourself on your near-encyclopeadic knowledge of the late 60s Island catalogue so this is something of a shock to say the least. You pull the record from the sleeve and, yes, it has a pink Island label. It would seem to be a 1st edition (perhaps the only edition) and it’s in mint condition. It has no price tag and you’re thinking it must be worth a fortune, whatever it is. You ask the shopkeeper. They are indifferent, busy with something else. “You can have it for a tenner”, they say, without looking. You slap a tenner down and all but run out of the shop. You’re on holiday. You don’t have a turntable with you so the record glints at you tantalisingly unplayable while you consult Wikipedia. Nothing. No mention of this band, this record, or any of the musicians listed on the sleeve. You look up the Island Catalogue No. It’s allocated to… withdrawn. Withdrawn. What? What IS this record? You can hardly wait for your holiday to end so you can get home and play this record. Your partner gets thoroughly irritated as you go through the motions of enjoying yourself. They hate this record already. “I wish you’d never set eyes on it!” As a goodwill gesture, you suggest going for a walk along the seafront. Peace reigns and small talk is made about where you will go for dinner. It is one of those perfect late summer English evenings. The seagulls are crying, the smell of fish’n’chips and seaweed. You almost forget the record. But as you both wander along you see a group of four young men, laughing and joking with each other, leapfrogging over bollards, amiably shoving each other the way young men do. Nothing remarkable about them except they all have long hair, scraggly beards. No hoodies or sports fatigues, instead they are wearing tight flared jeans, brushed denim, tye dyed. Instead of trainers, leather boots. As you walk past, you pick up the faint aroma of patchouli and underarms. Odd. They ignore you until you are almost out of sight. Then you notice they have all fallen silent and are looking at you from behind. You find a little restaurant that seems pleasant enough. You and your partner eat an unremarkable meal, pay your bill, leaving a tip that reflects that you are on holiday and are just about to leave when the four young men bundle in through the entrance, laughing and joking noisily as before. They spot you and immediately fall silent. One of them has a knowing smile. The others look uncomfortable. Odd. You smile nervously in their direction and leave without saying anything.
The remainder of the holiday passes without incident. The young men are not seen again. Finally, you’re back home. Partner gone out in a huff. “I’ll leave you alone with THE RECORD” said with no small measure of vindictiveness. You remove the record from the impeccable vintage sleeve, dust it (although it is in perfect condition), check for spindle marks again – although you know there are none. You put it on the turntable, lower the stylus onto Side 1. It’s great! Really good! Touches of Traffic, Spooky Tooth, Mott The Hoople, Free – all that that you would have expected, the period trappings of which you are so fond, but the songs are really good! Did Nick Drake hear this? You wonder. Did John Martyn? Could that be Richard Thompson guesting on lead guitar? He’s not listed in the credits. Sure sounds like him. It’s maddening! You can’t find out ANYTHING about this record – and it’s really good. Four songs on Side 1. Not too long, not too short, solos are beautiful models of taste and economy. Flip it over. Side 2 is even better!
Partner comes home before the end. “Its really good!” You say, beaming like an idiot. “I’m so pleased”. The sarcasm fills the room. You are alone with THE RECORD. What can you do?
The next day. You wake up after a fitful night’s sleep. The record has disappeared. Completely. You suspect your partner. They deny all knowledge. “What record?” They are convincing. They really don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. It has disappeared. It is as though it never existed…