Word: waxes
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...MP3s, shopping for old-fashioned records can be a frustrating business: many high-street music stores have simply relegated their LP offerings to the trash can. Luckily, a committed cadre of record-shop owners are still keeping the vinyl dream alive. Here's where to replenish your wax. VIENNA Tucked away in the Windmühlgasse, just behind the city's busy Mariahilferstrasse shopping street, lies an Aladdin's cave of audio treats. Teuchtler is crammed with more than 180,000 records-split between classical, jazz and pop-as well as some 40,000 old 78s. The store once sold...
...TOKYO The city is in the grip of a vinyl revival, so you'll find it easy to satisfy your wax-cravings here. Head to Udagawa-cho, a five-minute walk from Shibuya train station. The area is crammed with dozens of vinyl stores, ranging from hip-hop specialists like Dance Music Record to purveyors of the unusual such as Yellow Pop, whose stocks include decades-old Japanese Rakugo-spoken-comedy records-and pressings of sporting events...
...around Bangkok for decades. After more than a few fingers of bourbon, Squaronians delight in chewing the fat under the Texas Aggie flag and the moth-eaten Cape buffalo head that?alongside yellowed Waylon Jennings and Kitty Wells record covers?grace the bar's wood-paneled walls. They'll wax nostalgic over fortunes made and squandered, over women loved and comrades lost. They'll whisper of gun running in Laos, of Tet and of black ops. Tall tales? Who knows. Truth, legends and conspiracy theories overlap and blur once the booze is flowing...
...planting some roots, tenuous though they may be. The person you are when living somewhere, strolling around damp street corners and lazying around Regents Park and getting dressed for a newspaper job is not the person you are when you’re on holiday, pushing through queues and wax museums and hustling to get to the play on time, map flapping in the wind like a cape as you barrel down Picadilly Circus...
...imagined myself an aggressive young reporter in those days, and I had prepared a series of incendiary questions that I have long since forgotten. Reagan was wearing a brown suit; his red foulard was tied in a Windsor knot. His hair swooped dramatically; his cheeks were an odd wax-museum rouge. We shook hands and came out fighting. At least I did. He cocked his head, smiled and flicked me off his sleeve. An entirely unnerving experience, but not untypical. Reagan's sunny opacity was legendary, especially when it came to relations with the press. His discipline was legendary...