Phonogram - Jeff Vicario

This is not a song about the record label Phonogram.
The song title was supposed to be Gramophone but when I wrote the lyrics in early 2020 I wasn’t super focused on details. Or creating a coherent narrative for that matter. Or doing a google. So, I got it wrong. Mea culpa and all that sort of rot.
I came up with the first line ”A dusty pile of records in the upper left hand corner” and somewhat inevitably ended up writing about being a record collector - which I was - and less inevitably about a jazz enthusiast being preyed on by some sinister, black van driving entity clad in white. Which I wasn’t. Either, or. I do like some jazz though.
I wrote the song very quickly, which was the style of the day (shakes fist at the clouds) and thought nothing more of it except I quite liked the track and eventually released it on my album Simple Songs (available here: jeffvicario.ba.... All the while I thought I had written a song whose title referred to a turntable.
Then one day on or around the summer of 2021 I realized two things. One, a phonogram is NOT a turntable. And two, continuum is NOT pronounced the way I do it in the first verse. Extreme annoyance with self commenced. Did I make an attempt to fix things? Like call the song Phonograph and redo the choruses? Maybe redo the first verse and emphasize the right syllable in the offending word? Did I f...
So, on this partially re-recorded version (new rhythm guitars and real bass), rearranged and most definitely remixed version the original vocals and song title remain.
The lyric video is a jumble of free video clips and stills from Pixabay except for the thumbnail and album cover at the very end. Blue Lemming took the picture.
I wrote this song and play all the instruments except drums (Benny of GarageBand & Logic Pro fame).
Lyrics:
A dusty pile of records
In the upper left hand corner
Of a shelf weighed down
By years of neglect
And disorder
A continuum of hoarder genes
Passed down through generations
A catalogue of memories
And deep deliberations
Don't feel left out
Nobody wants you to
And anyway
Sign this form
Don't look at it
It's for your own benefit
Phonogram
Idle hand
Phonogram
One sixty gramme
A black unmarked van drives up
And disturbs your meditation
On the merits of some jazz great's
Reputation
A white clad arm reaches out
And stops the world from spinning
You reach inside
The pocket of your robe
And keep on grinning
Don't feel left out
Nobody wants you to
And anyway
Sign this form
Don't look at it
It's for your own benefit
Phonogram
Idle hand
Phonogram
One sixty gramme