It’s been years since the turntable was hitched up to a stereo receiver. But it is again, and for the last few days I’ve been playing records I haven’t heard in years.

John Klemmer’s Touch. The Antiphonal Brass Music of Giovanni Gabrieli. Joni Mitchell’s Blue. Switched on Bach.

Time capsules, all of them. I remember who I was when I listened to these albums — and what I thought about when I played them.

And then there are those timeless movements I’d almost forgotten: slipping the records from their sleeves, holding them by the edges with flat palms, lowering the arm so the needle glides gently onto  vinyl. Slow, careful, mechanical motions.

The music that emanates (at least from my down-on-its-heels collection) is not an audiophile’s delight. It’s snap, crackle and pop. Scratchy. A sound that’s known better days.

High fidelity? Not really. Except this: It’s music the way I remember it best.