record player

Every morning he would wake up, spin around to the record player at the side of his bed, neatly arrange lines of cocaine on the turntable, and snort.

There’s a guitar with three strings and a vintage Fisher-Price record player.

Adjacent to the bikes was a shelf displaying his bourbon collection—Dan hosts a podcast about whiskey, which he also records in his garage—and on the other side sat a record player and a stack of vinyl.

Winston already knew something was up because the table was set, the candles were lit, the kitchen smelled good, and Craig, my husband, was cuing up Ella Fitzgerald on the record player.

They also both happen to be from “Company,” the remarkable show that for a kid from New Jersey, listening to show tunes on his record player, sealed a lifelong obsession with the now 90-year-old composer-lyricist.

There was a portable record player in the foreground and a low table with snacks and drinks, and two other people were with him.

The recorded voice ceased; for a moment the record player hummed voicelessly.

Yes; so I learned, at the time they brought the record player, that she had gone to New Orleans.

And until the time that Mike came over and delivered the record player.

I think Mike was the one who brought the record player, and I don't remember the circumstances on that, but I believe it was he.