A Veiled Apology To A Record Store Area Manager

Serial confessions smeared across these online nooks and crannies with all the grace and restraint of the ‘November Rain’ video; as I may have mentioned before, I spent the musical hinterland between education and the ennui propagation of grown-up vocation in record stores.

Not so much browsing the vinyl racks for treasure; that’s been a constant since small trousers. Rather, this was a way of enduring those few years of post-university fallow behind the counter instead of queuing up at one.

Unless you’re interested in droll tales involving The Verve’s Richard Ashcroft, this isn’t necessarily a riveting or even particularly relevant reminiscence (he stood bemused with his handful of blues CDs whilst his paramour Kate Radley – ex-Spiritualized and former J Spaceman girlfriend – acted all snooty because LGM wasn’t operating at the requisite level of deference, or something).

Those years did however reinforce my view that, should your uncontrollable predilection be for all things music-related, then you really should invest a couple of years working in a record store (if you haven’t already, that is). If nothing else for the playlist possibilities available should you accidentally host a couple of all-night parties in said record store before zombie-sytle reopenings in the morning.

Call it a rite of passage. Or a wilful misuse of corporate resources, what with hiring out the venue to yourself, then sending the part-timer to the liquor store whilst you cue up seven hours of sound. 

(Influence courtesy of this post from Crank The Shiny Tune, and a random Twitter conversation from maffblog; simultaneous, unrelated, and strangely warm rememberings).

*****

Below the words: something else that popped up on Twitter tonight. Too young to have been an aspect of LGM record store adventures or insincere admissions on the off chance that an old boss may be reading – but if this had of been released in 1996 or thereabouts, it would have been blasting out loud and proud long into the High Street small hours.

Chris T-T / (We Are) The King Of England

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Comments
12 Responses to “A Veiled Apology To A Record Store Area Manager”
  1. Gary says:

    Hi, it’s Gary

  2. I will always be interested in droll tales involving snooty Verve and ex-Spiritualized members and little baby record store worker Lazer Guided. Get to it, young squire!

  3. Apparently, yes. Good. Will add a ‘comment’ later.

  4. Once upon a time I worked in a record shop too. It was fun; it was shit. Depended on the customers. Had stuck-up cunts people like Radley too come in now and then. Mostly always “girlfriends” of some nano-celebrity or some poseur whose taste in music didn’t stretch further than U2, Simple Minds, or Bob “Reggae is vile” Marley. Best bit was being able to listen to literally everything and getting the chance to discover some amazing sounds. Worst bit was being almost blind in the smoke haze caused by the numerous ‘jazz’ cigarettes that a few punters copiously consumed while browsing the racks.

    • Every week, pop-art doyen Peter Blake would shuffle into the store and buy a five-pack of C60 tapes. Apart from a format after your own heart, jf, I reckon he might have been selling bootleg copies of Sgt Pepper and Weller’s Stanley Road down Camden Market.

      There’s nowhere better than working in a record store to broaden the musical horizons. There was plenty of jazz in my store, and a fair few cigarettes, but never the two together – probably a good thing.

  5. Made a wee mistake in my “stuck up cunts…” phrase… should have had an “and” in there. Too bad.

  6. Never worked in a record store. Never realized my lifelong dream of dating a girl who had a bigger record collection than mine. Every girl I ever dated had the same Hooters album. On cassette. Stuck in the car player.

    • Ha! Having dated (well, lived with) a girl with a bigger record collection than mine, it’s not recommended – never trust a DJ, of either gender; the post-break-up division of the record collection was one of the longest nights of my life. I’m still fuming about that rare Spacemen 3 single I know I bought…

      • Cheers to that young squire… having also had the devastating division of the record collection [two days and multiple shouting matches] with a DJ. My tangible collection still resembles a metaphorical block of Swiss cheese.

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