Undrafted

A few years back, I was living above a second-hand record shop in the centre of town .   A funny little place that specialised in second-hand ska and reggae records . The owner was a veteran of the old school—a guy in his late forties who looked like John Lennon (in his mind, at least). He went by the name of The King, and the shop was his castle, where he held court in his own kind of way. His business model was this: He'd buy up old vinyl collections, take what he fancied for himself, then use his shop to make a profit on what was left over. My flat shared a doorstep with the shop, and I was always in there listening to records on his all-in-one 1970s portable turntable setup. Two turntables, a two-channel mixer, built-in speakers, a microphone input, and a preamp—all packed into a black veneer flight case. It looked like a coffin. But it was a fully functioning portable party rig. Plug a power cord directly into the case, and away you go. Most days, I'd be in my flat r...