I can’t honestly remember the last album I actually left the house to buy - The Offspring perhaps? System of a Down maybe? Whatever it was, I’m sure it was chicken soup for my tortured 14-year-old soul, but now lies forgotten in some dark crevice of my bedroom – all dust and cracked plastic. Unfortunately, this is about as nostalgic as my remembrance of physical-format music gets; a fact that might estrange me, and my generation, from appreciating Morgan Howell’s gallery of oversized 7-inch singles.

Howell’s renderings of classics such as ‘Ziggy Stardust’, ‘Please Please Me’, and ‘Paranoid’ are undeniably fantastic in their conception: un-stretched canvas stiffened with paint wonderfully mimics the creases, folds, and tears of the original 45’s, and Howell’s hand-painted lettering is lovingly meticulous.

Step nearer though and the execution isn’t so precise: the material used for the center of the records emerges disturbingly as cheap Styrofoam; detail that at first seemed painted on is actually printed. As with the nostalgic reveries that Howell’s art will inspire in some, a blurry, wide-angle view is more complementary than close inspection.

Howell does acknowledge that the intent of his art is to spark reflection on the music, rather than the paintings themselves: descriptions of paintings include snippets of musical trivia, and the original record sleeves are also displayed close by. Howell’s canvases dwarf these tiny squares of paper, effectively communicating the impact these records would had in a time when music was harder to come by, and accordingly treasured.Howell’s work left me with a brief, but false, sense of nostalgia; a slight longing for the reverence his art shows, but that I’ve never experienced. Slipping in the ear-phones of my MP3 player as I left the gallery, I soon forgot about it.