Most of the time, when you order a CD, you don't get a handwritten note from the musician thanking you for your purchase and telling you to 'play it loud'.
That's what happened when I bought Euros Childs's new CD, Face Dripping. If you don't know who he is, he was a leading member of Gorky's Zygotic Mynci, Welsh teen indie psychedelic sensations. Since then, Euros has been producing wonderful, odd, melancholic stuff. (Bandmates John Lawrence has been recording electronica as Infinity Chimps and Richard James has recorded some ethereal wonderfulness under his own name too). Euros also has an album out with Norman Blake of Teenage Fanclub, under the name Jonny. It's very good.
So anyway, is this personal touch a sign of things to come as record labels fall apart and musicians make their livings from touring and a cottage industry? Or does Euros have so few fans that we're now on first name terms? How I hope it's the former. You all need some of his magic in your homes.
You can download the album for free here, but do leave a donation: musicians need to eat you know.
Last Saturday was Independent Record Shop day, on which we were meant to give our money to small capitalists rather than big ones.
Actually, the independent record shop is my natural habitat. Weeks of my life have been spent leafing through racks of dusty records by bands who reached No. 78 on the Indie charts with a split single on Fierce Panda or some such label. It's difficult to point to the indiest record in my collection, though Spare Snare's acoustic, Scottish cover of 'Say My Name', Teen Anthems' 'Welsh Bands Suck' and The Period Pains' 'We Hate The Spice Girls' all spring to mind.
Going to an indie store is a special experience though - far better than the fake mateyness of HMV and the like. The checkout monkey recently addressed me thus 'Find everything you needed, buddy?' and added 'buddy' to every subsequent sentence. I didn't 'need' anything I'd bought, I couldn't find what I actually wanted, and we'd never met previously. Buddy, indeed.
No, go to a proper record shop and there's no false bonhomie. It's like an assault course - difficult, often humiliating, but ultimately good for you. I spent a good chunk of my life at Cob Records in Bangor: seeing one of their yellow plastic bags is my madeleine.
Cob was especially difficult for non-locals because as well as convincing the staff you were worthy to buy one of their records, you had to either speak Welsh or look apologetic for not being able to do so - learning a few phrases was essential (and a pleasure, I should add). Similarly, occasionally purchasing 7" singles by the staff's bands helped (this was the high point of Welsh indie - most of them produced, played on or supported Gorky's/Super Furries/David Wrench/Ectogram (with whom I'm still friends)/Melys/Serpents etc) and learning their children's names made it more likely that you'd leave the shop with only a few mocking comments about your taste in music. Buying music on the 'wrong' label was enough to attract opprobrium. OK, they would imply, you're feeding our kids, but don't expect gratitude if you think that Creation is socially acceptable. I got away with it, I think: my first two purchases (made blindly) were Gorky's Zygotic Mynci's Patio on 10" and Tindersticks' Kathleen, also on 10" - credible enough to serve as an entrée.
I ran this gauntlet several times a week. I'd go in on Friday and go through the list of next week's releases, having perused NME on Wednesday. Then I'd return on Monday to pick up the loot. Usually, this would be a couple of plastic bags full of vinyl (I didn't have a CD player until 1998), sometimes more. Added to my order, the men (yes, all men) would have added 'stuff we thought you'd like/should listen to', which usually consisted of their own releases, or any old crap ordered in error and lingering in dark corners. I would, intimidated and pleased by their kindness, gratefully take whatever they recommended. The bags would be hauled over the counter (which was festooned by stickers and posters for bands which lasted, on average, for one gig or a single mention by sainted John Peel) and the pattern would repeat itself every week. I'd also call in at random times just in case interesting second-hand stuff had come in - leading to my large collection of Ankst's back catalogue and a big pile of Datblygu records.
Leaving North Wales was a huge wrench for many reasons, but Cob was a part of this. My current location had an OK shop which closed within weeks of my arrival. Birmingham had a couple of good shops, but they're closing. Trips to Manchester are always fruitful, but I'm no longer so tribal. After having to sell 400 7" singles one summer to stay in my house and eat, something was lost. Internet shopping isn't the same. The very best indie outlets on the web are Action Records and Norman's Records (huge range, friendly people, authentic indie snobbiness) but the social aspects are lost: the smells, the cameraderie of slipping a record out of its sleeve to spin it under the light or work out which pressing it was before loudly declaring it inauthentic, the quiet nods of recognition when fellow victims are spotted, the shameful pleasure of purchasing a records despite the shop owner loudly announcing that 'this is shit, mate' and pressing a load of other things on you - you can't get this on the web.
Go to your local shop. If you don't, their employees will roam the streets. Record shops are Care in the Community for nerds. Download anything on a major label - buy the rest in your local shop.
It's been a weird day of extremes - frustrating, evasive meetings (or meetings with frustrating, evasive people) to heartfelt, sad but also joyful farewells to one of the best colleagues anyone could ever have. I'm tired, crabby and beset by minor admin… so here's one of my favourite songs, Starmoonsun by Gorky's Zygotic Mynci
It's been a momentous and hugely expensive weekend for me. £3000 later, I've moved house for the first time in 9 years and 10 months, from the cramped room in which I wrote my PhD (occasionally) to a city-centre apartment. It's now piled high with boxes of books and my beloved vinyl records - I'll post some photos tomorrow, but I've cleared a space on the bed at least.
I'm now persuaded that going to the pub, then to a nightclub and dancing until three a.m. is not the ideal way to prepare for a weekend of heavy manual labour. Still, it was fun.
Taking down the old room was weird. Mostly joyful, but very hard work, and I kept finding things which touched off odd memories. My madeleine moment was finding photographs, and a load of band t-shirts from the mid-nineties, when I was rake thin: they were mostly skinny-fit and cool: Velocette, Gorky's Zygotic Mynci, Silver Sun, Super Furry Animals, Catatonia, the Belle and Sebastian 'Study at Stow' shirt from 1995, my 1970s Adidas v-neck shirt, a C+W embroidered shirt, alongside my old biker jacket, which will definitely appear in public again. The t-shirts, despite forming a significant role in my cultural development, will be awarded to the girls I know who can squeeze into them. Despite all the swimming, I won't be seeing a 28" waist again unless I develop some horrendous disease. Anyone know of a good one?
Anyway, I need to say a massive public thankyou to: James (who used the excuse of driving the big white van to air his most reactionary views: the Daily Star on the dashboard was the piéce de resistance); Gerry, Mark, Dan, Neal, Anita and Howard. They all overcame their various disabilities to shift massive, heavy things for almost 12 hours. Nothing was broken nor lost, and nobody complained, despite the intense provocation afforded by my half-arsed organisation. I'm not, it's fair to say, going to have a second career in logistics.
I also saw Cynical Ben on Friday. Having explored the delights of Walsall and Willenhall for the day (he's a local lad) he texted to cancel going out for a drink with the words 'Fuck the Midlands, I'm off. The idea of spending another 3 hours here is giving me the fear. Sorry'.
He relented, and sat in my first-year poetry lecture, and had the good grace to not openly mock or heckle, so thanks to him too! He even met Zoot Horn, which was all a bit postmodern.
For a change in the summer months, I'm not alone in the office. It's rather pleasant - we're all quite relaxed, the place is in turmoil as offices are moved, and there's an end of term atmosphere, though term ended weeks ago. Our least favourite student, a serial cheat, has finally been defenestrated and it's raining - all in all, a perfect day.
One difference is the silence. I usually have music playing, but one of my office colleagues is a punk rocker (he's been in The Prefects and then The Nightingales for 30 years, and the other is an early music fan (Monteverdi for preference). I swing both ways in the this regard, but can't please both of them, so I've opted for silence. Perhaps it's a good thing - over-familiarity may breed contempt for everything other than the absolute best (e.g. The Field Mice - how do you like them apples, Cynical?, Reich, Tallis and Gorky's Zygotic Mynci), so perhaps playing less but paying more attention would be a useful exercise. I listened to Let's Active before they turned up this morning and was highly impressed. They're Mitch Easter's early-80s band, while he was producing seminal REM albums. Imagine indiepop mixed with Southern Gothic.
Sarah's just come into the office and presented me with another book! Hurrah! Archie Brown's The Rise and Fall of Communism, which was on my list.
Somehow, shamefully, I'd forgotten how good Gorky's Zygotic Mynci's Barafundle album is. I've played four Pastels albums now, so it's on to bucolic Welsh psychedelia.
