"I can't see anyone getting into analog without a record-cleaning machine."
—Michael Fremer, Stereophile, Vol.19 No.6, 1996
"If you listen to records, you need a record-cleaning machine. Period."
—Corey Greenberg, Stereophile, Vol.17 No.5, 1994
"We all know that stingy audiophiles die young, have bad astrological signs, produce children with poor SAT scores, and get rained on a lot. You must fork out enough money to buy the VPI or the Nitty Gritty to avoid these dire fates."
—Anthony Cordesman, Stereophile, Vol.8 No.1, 1985
***
Alright, already!
Damn. I hear you.
It's been brought to my attention—time and time again, I'll add—that buying a record-cleaning machine might just be a good idea.
For me. I'm beginning to believe. I had my doubts, of course. Why would I need an entire
machine when I had some perfectly fine
Pledge dust cloths? Real men don't need no stinking record-cleaning machines. But it soon became clear that the Pledge cloths would only do so much. And I was never absolutely certain that they weren't in some way harmful to my precious record collection; that they might actually add more dust than they removed. And, besides, I needed those Pledge cloths for keeping my wood floors shiny. The records deserved something better; deserved something all their own. I mean, I am serious about this stuff. Music and sound are important to me, and I'm willing to spend a little time, energy, and money to help my music sound its best.
When I think about it, it becomes clear that this whole vinyl saga began for me nearly a decade ago, back in college. The director of our art department,
the magical Marie Roberts, suggested that I take possession of a shitload of old records that had been collecting dust and mold and other things from Fairleigh Dickinson's defunct music building. Because I could never turn down such a generous offer, despite not having the storage space or a turntable on which to play the records—and I'm talking
hundreds and hundreds of records—I agreed. I carried these records like Butch Coolidge's pops carried that precious watch. Not up my ass, no, but for a long, long time, through many, many seasons and relationships and homes. I carried these records from Teaneck to Kearny to Lyndhurst to Harrison to Dunellen to Bloomfield to Newark and, finally, to sweet, sweet Jersey City. Along the way, these same records saw horrible things; things to be forgotten.
These records need to be cleaned. If only I could clean myself like I could clean an old record. Set me on a spinning platter, splash me with a 50:50 mix of ultra-pure water and isopropol something-or-other, and suck up the grime.
