The Vinyl Ritual
I do not recall how Ole became my childhood hero, but I think it started on my first big boy scout trip to Norway. Ole had become our troop leader, and the five boys in our group immediately fell in awe of this guy who was a couple of years older than we were. It is possible that he was given this responsibility at the beginning of our trip and then took us under his gentle wings for the duration of our adventure. He brought something in his possession, something we had never seen before, a portable battery-driven record player. It could not play LP’s, but he had a stack of forty-fives that he played at all times. Tunes like “She loves you,” Please Please Me and Love me Do!!!! All the new hits by The Beatles. We wanted to be as fresh as he was and sang along “full blast” every time he put one on the turntable. Another talent that Ole had was that he could blow the trumpet and did so every morning at daybreak. Imagine! Playing the bugle, how cool was that?
We all went to the same Catholic school in Copenhagen, and though he was probably a couple of grades above me, he still thought I was a fun kid because he invited me and my friend, Henrik, to his home after school to listen to vinyl and 78 RPM records. Ole’s dad had a huge collection of Jazz records, which Ole shared with us. Louis Armstrong, Fats Waller, Benny Goodman, etc.
Ole would lean back in the one comfortable brown worn leather chair in the room and open the world of Jazz for our virgin ears. It was not the first time that I listened to records, of course, my parents had a small collection of classical 78’ts which seldom was attended to at home, but this was different. For the first time, I was introduced to the ritual of the record player. Ole would get up from his seat, walk over to the record player, a brand-new Garrard which had three settings: 45, 33, and 78 RPM options. He would pick out a disk, sometimes an old 78, and other times a new vinyl “Long Playing” and gently holding it between his hands, letting the record slide out of the paper sleeve into his fingers. The record player had a red, stiff cardboard lid that Ole would open with his pinky, still holding the disk in his hands. Then lower it to the center of the turntable, put it into a safe position on the holding pin in the middle, and then let go of it. With his right hand, he would lift the pick-up arm, which made the turntable start to spin as it let out a clicking noise. He would slide the pickup arm over the rim of the disk and then lower the arm and with the needle down unto the record using a lever on the right side of the player. There was a Whoosh from the needle hitting the spinning record, and then seconds later, out of two large Teak B&O speakers, the room was filled with the most wonderful music I had ever heard. He would then turn around and sit back down in his chair. My friend and I sat on the floor like his devotees looking at him with big eyes. We sat there in silent anticipation. When the tune was over, and the needle reached the Woosh, Woosh, Woosh on the very inner groove, the ritual repeated itself. Ole would get up, lift the arm of the record, and gently put it back, first in the sleeve, and then into the cover. After several tunes, his dad would come into the room and serve us tea. 
These afternoons spent with Ole and listening to his records was my big introduction, not only to the world of Jazz but also into the ritual of playing Vinyls. A ritual I still perform with utmost care in my own home almost every day. I think back with appreciation for this young man who, by his kindness and love for Jazz music, taught me the sacred ritualistic act of record playing and listening.