Black and grey tattoo of a record turntable with a vinyl record and tonearm on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Turntable and vinyl record on a forearm

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey tattoo of a turntable shows a vinyl record on the platter, a tonearm resting on the left and a rectangular plinth with a small control knob. The record has soft, feathered grey shading that suggests a sheen, while the outlines and deck are solid dark ink. The design sits flat across the inner forearm against a plain light background.

Forearm

Find an artist for this

Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The last bus had gone by the time Maud Okonedo finished stacking the crates behind the Crown Street shutters, and the rain had settled into that fine grey drizzle that makes every streetlamp look like it's sweating. Her brother Dele had left the corner shop's back door propped with a brick, the way he always did, so that the old Technics in the storeroom could hum at her when she came in. Nobody else in Hollins Lane owned a turntable that still worked. Nobody else would have bothered.

Keep reading

She lifted the needle arm with two fingers, the way Granddad had taught her, and set it down on the outer groove of the only record that mattered, a battered copy of a Lagos highlife LP with a coffee ring on the sleeve. The platter began to turn. For a moment there was only the hiss, and then the horns came up through it like someone opening a window in another flat, and a woman on the far side of the lane laughed and shouted something up at her own bedroom.

Maud didn't go to the window. She turned the volume up instead, and the shutters rattled in time, and the brick slid a little further from the door. Across the road the bus shelter filled slowly with people who had nowhere to be until morning, and one by one they turned their heads towards the open shop.

By two o'clock there were twenty of them dancing on the wet pavement under the one lamp that worked, and Maud was still keeping the record spinning, lifting the arm, setting it down again, as if the night were a groove she had decided never to leave.