Boo blog: Autumn #3

October 5th, 2009 → 9:00 am @ boo hewerdine

10


Share

I haven’t always been a work-shy puffy-sleeved singer/songwriter, you know. Although these days I am paid to express my feelings through a nascent folk beard there was a time when I knew the salty sting of manual labour. I remember struggling home at night, every muscle in my shattered body singing with the dull ache of pure hard graft. I used to work in a record shop. The Beat Goes On in Cambridge was the indie shop in the Andys Records chain (note the daring lack of apostrophe). Upstairs was where we sold new records and downstairs the “secondhands”. The ceiling was covered in punky posters and my job was to look surly, smoke, and sneer slightly at any uncool purchases.

This was a time when record shops were not the welcoming places (if they still exist) that they are now. You could see the fear in a young person’s eyes as they held out a Big Country album to our unforgiving gaze. Difficult music would blare from the knackered speakers, there was a strong smell of stale instant coffee and the strip lighting would blink dustily when there was a particularly loud bit. It’s a miracle anyone dared come in at all. Those that did tended to be the fringier members of society. There was Colin the bin man. Every Saturday he would come in and ask if we had any new stuff. This meant hardcore singles by the likes of Discharge or Flux Of Pink Indians. He would cling to the counter as we played the latest batch. If the thrashy beat caused him to vibrate terrifyingly within the first few bars he would shout “yes!”. If he stood stock still (always quite a tense occasion) for more than thirty seconds it was “too slow”, a no sale. There was also the man who came in every week wearing a false beard (it’s true, you can ask my ex-manager Derek) and buy Jealous Guy by Roxy Music. Is it me or is that just a tad sinister?

Many of the skills I learnt in the Beat are now completely redundant. I think I’d have more chance of getting a job now if I put ‘alchemist’ under previous experience. One of the more risky tasks was ordering browsers – the large black plastic signs that would separate albums into categories or artists. These were ordered from a gentleman in Leicester who was both hard of hearing and had no knowledge whatsoever of twentieth century popular music. Thus an order for Fats Waller and Fats Domino came back as the, admittedly, space saving Fats Domiwaller. MC Hammer became McHammer (you cannae touch this!) and Thelonious Monk… The Loneliest Monk. One can almost picture the sad, tonsured Franciscan idly picking out the opening theme to Round Midnight.

It was, of course, the customers who were the main source of oddness. At least once a week I would be asked, “Have you got that song in the charts? It’s about love”. Some other requests:

“Is the new one by 22 Top out?”
“Do you have the theme tune to Grand Pricks?”
“Have you got any Bill Doggett? He’s dead, you know.” This said with a closed crash helmet on, spittle running down the visor.
“Can I have the Three Tops greatest hits?”

And my all time favourite. An older lady made her way towards the counter as Throbbing Gristle rumbled from the hi-fi. She waited patiently in line behind some mohicaned Exploited fans until it was her turn: “Excuse me, but do you sell string?”