44

IN WHICH… I CHANNEL THE HUNT FOR RECORD SHOPS

Gilbert O’Sullivan greeted me as I walked into Jersey airport after the short flight from Southampton in mid-July 2018. There he was, clad in scarf, overcoat, skinny jeans and dark shoes. Striding purposefully along in front of one of the island’s sea walls, heading for who knows where. Possibly his home, and his Frobisher Drive recording studio just a mile or two away from where we had recently landed. He was on the greatly enlarged front cover of his about-to-be-released new LP, his 19th studio album, featuring the evocatively titled track ‘Dansette Dream and 45s’.

I started to wonder just how many copies of the new record Gilbert could seriously expect to sell. Would it even be enough to cover the costs of recording it in his own studios and paying the supporting musicians? Seriously, I can’t believe that it would sell into six figures, although it appears he is, or has been, ‘big in Japan’. A new ‘greatest hits’ collection would probably pick up some Radio 2 plays and ‘oldie’ station exposure, maybe an interview on BBC Breakfast or the like. But a new Gilbert record? My best guess would be maybe 10,000 copies worldwide. I hope I’m miles out and it goes silver or gold or even platinum. Mind you, I have no idea what that actually means these days.

If I’m honest, I was not going to buy one until I found a cheap new CD copy (which I did on Amazon in March 2019 for £3.10!), and I say that as someone with a soft spot for the man, who first appeared to the music buying public as some kind of 1950s throwback-looking kid in short trousers… wearing a flat cap, showing off a short back and sides, and inventing ‘Peaky Blinders’ chic 40-odd years before it became trendy.

I had been in Jersey for only an hour or two when I passed ‘Lovejoy’, the St Aubin antique(ish) shop which had been there for almost as long as I’ve been visiting the island (the shop closed in 2019) – a mere 30 plus years. There had seldom been anything vinyl in Lovejoy to attract my interest and, indeed, this visit was no different. I looked unenthusiastically through a large quantity of records which all, as predicted by Lovejoy himself, contained music of a brass or military band variety. At the very back of the premises, I spotted a suitcase full of CDs, only one of which I could reach without toppling the piles of what was, to me, junk surrounding it. The one was Liege and Lief by Fairport Convention, and, said Lovejoy, it could be mine for just one English pound coin, or Jersey pound note.

I proffered the former, and asked whether brass or military band was the only vinyl variety he stocked. ‘At the moment, yes. I acquired a large quantity recently.’ He was likely to retain a large quantity of it for some while, I suggested, asking whether he knew where I might find a more rock-related sample of same. ‘As it happens, I do,’ I was told. ‘This guy buys and sells vinyl.’ And he handed me a scruffy sliver of paper bearing the name ‘Mel’ and a mobile phone number.

Later, lazing in my hotel room, I texted a message to ‘Mel’: ‘Hello, Mel. I am on holiday on the island and was in Lovejoy’s this morning. He told me you were the man here to ask about pop/rock vinyl, so that’s what I’m doing. Do you sell vinyl, or know who else on the island may, I wonder?’

One of my regular Jersey haunts is the racecourse. Off we went for a Sunday afternoon there trying to find a winner or two. If you’re a racing fan writing a book about vinyl and the big race of the day, the Jersey Derby, features a horse called Black Night, whose racing colours as sported by the jockey are significantly purple, what are you going to do? That’s right, foolishly back something else – which loses! After the racing exploits I received a short text message from ‘Mel’:

‘Here’s my web site: www.discogs.com/seller/whitelabelrecords.’

But I could check out a website at home. I was really more interested in checking the vinyl out where I could see it while on holiday. When I googled Whitelabel Records it declared there was a record shop of that name in Jersey, based in a location called Eagle House, so I responded:

‘Do you have an actual shop in Jersey, or are you purely online?’

Back came the reply:

‘I do have a shop but I’m on a break at the mo. I can drop records round to you if need be.’

No details of the shop location, I noted. Odd. So I ask:

‘When does the shop reopen, I’d like to have a browse. Is it actually in Eagle House?’

Meanwhile, I knew where there were two record shops dealing in second-hand vinyl in Jersey’s main town and capital, St Helier. Taking advantage of excellent weather conditions I set off to walk the three miles to visit the pair of them. R&L Collectibles, and Music Scene.

After striding out along the beach in heatwave conditions with no protective shade I was sun-blasted and a little tired when I arrived outside R&L, to find a notice on the door: ‘Back in five minutes’. No indication as to when that notice had been placed there. With possibly four minutes and 59 seconds to kill I thought I’d check out the nearby charity shops. There were five of them, but they yielded nothing in the way of essential purchases, and 15 or 20 minutes later I was back in front of R&L reading the same ‘Back in five minutes’ message. I thought I’d go and ‘do’ Music Scene whilst waiting for the few hours of what clearly passes for five minutes in Jersey to elapse. This shop is tucked away down a side street near the old cinema.

I stood outside the closed shop, reading the message on the window: ‘Closed. Reopen 21th Saturday. See you all then.’ Yes, ‘21th’. So I visited the third St Helier vinyl outlet, Seedeejohns. This sells only new vinyl which, as you will no doubt have noticed, can vary quite wildly in price. I was not in the market to pay the best part of 30 quid for a new vinyl issue by any contemporary artists, and baffled as to why reissues of classic Led Zep, Free, Beatles, Stones material should vary in price by several pounds. But, determined to come away with something from my so far thwarted shop visits, I decided to invest a tenner in a brand new, still sealed, reissue copy of the 1983 Thin Lizzy album, Thunder and Lightning, probably the cheapest product in the rack.

There is a further communication from ‘Mel’:

‘I’m not based at Eagle House any more, I have a unit out of town.’

But, again, no clue as to where. I ask:

‘Are you shut for a long while, only I’m here for another week or so…?’

‘Back on Monday’ comes the slightly abrupt response. ’Can visit on Tuesday if you are open,’ I text back.

‘Mel’ texts again:

‘Tuesday after 2 would be fine. If you let me know what you want (from my Discogs’ list) I can take them off the site.’

Tuesday after 2. Okaaaaay… but where? Now I decide on a different tack, and list a number of ‘titles which have caught my eye’ from ‘Mel’s online lists, including stuff by Tom Petty, The End, Gilbert O’Sullivan, Nils Lofgren, Nick Heyward, then ask:

‘Where would I need to come to be able to see them, and do you have other rock/psych stuff at the shop?’

The answer contains a slight surprise, revealing that ‘Mel’ is actually ‘Mal’ and that ‘I’ll un-list these (records you’ve named) and send you directions later today.’

Great. Perhaps I will at last find out where this mysterious shop is.

Meanwhile, I have been intrigued by the posters around the village of St Aubin, advertising a forthcoming ‘Silent Auction’ which is to be supported by a variety of ‘exciting stalls’. Wandering into the parish hall the first glance around does not really ‘excite’. I take a look at the Silent Auction offerings. The deal is that you can write down a purchase offer, provided it exceeds any offer already submitted, and then at an allotted time the auction closes and the highest bid wins. There isn’t anything I am tempted to make a bid for, although the fact that a watch has attracted an initial bid of £2, followed by a next one of £45 – a significant jump – strongly suggests that whoever made it is either a complete time-waster or, more likely, well aware that this particular item has a substantial sell-on value.

I begin a circuit of the ‘exciting stalls’ and come across one hosted by a charming, elderly lady, amongst whose goods there is a quantity of CDs. They appear at first glance to be in good order. Closer inspection shows them to be in ‘like new’ condition. There are several Leonard Cohen titles, a few Waterboys, some Donovan, Elbow (why did I go for that?) and, a great find, Frankie Miller.

‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘Could you please tell me how much you are asking for these CDs?’

‘Yes, dear, of course. They’re 50p each.’

Now I’m excited. I buy ten, amongst them one I don’t really need but which a friend staying at a nearby hotel would love, a ‘Best Of’ double CD by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons which, like others I’ve seen, mysteriously fails to include one of my particular favourites, ‘Silver Star’. He’ll think I’ve spent at least a fiver on it and will, I trust, feel obliged to buy me a large drink to celebrate such ostentatious generosity… despite the fact that he’ll be thinking, ‘I’ve got nothing to play that on, but it would be churlish to refuse it.’ I’d like to think that he will eventually read this confession!

No word from Mal, 24 hours after he has promised to send me details of his shop’s location. Nor is there any word after 48… but after 52 comes a lengthy missive via the technological miracle of text:

‘Head along St Clements coast road in the direction of gorey (sic), go past the ambassador (sic) hotel, which will be on your left, carry on along the road, past the new development on your left. Carry along the road for about 300 meters (sic)…’ By this time, I’m thinking, come on, just give me the address, I am capable of reading a map or using my phone to find the place. ‘…there is a turning on your left called rue de pontlietaut (sic). If you see Le Hocq pub you’ve gone too far… Head up the lane and I’m the big house opposite the first street lamp. It has a small drive and a double white garage. It’s called ivy (yes, I know, can’t be bothered to point it out any more) cottage. If you get lost call me on this number and I’ll direct you in…’

Well, now we’re getting somewhere, but perhaps he is planning to take me to his shop once I get to his house.

As today is ‘the 21th’, the date on which Music Scene’s proprietor indicated he would be reopening, I decide to risk another jaunt to the premises, and indeed the message was accurate, if somewhat ungrammatical. Danny, the sun-tanned guy who has been running the place for several years recognised me from previous visits and told me he’d been away for a few days in Vienna. ‘Means nothing to me,’ I replied, only to hear a rush of wind as my favourite record-related joke whooshed straight over his head.

Danny has always had a decent range of less familiar CDs in the prog or psych area amongst his racks, albeit they are usually ones I’ve seen there before, but this time round I spotted Thin Lizzy’s 1971 eponymous debut album – padded out with the tracks from their ‘New Day’ 33 rpm EP. My vinyl copy of that pretty scarce waxing (up to £300) suffered from being played as we gambolled by the sea in Salou, Spain when I went on holiday with it and several of my pals, shortly after its release. The predictable result is that it is a little marred by sand scratches. Life can be a beach, can’t it?

Vinyl-wise, Danny has a large section from the fifties, sixties, seventies and other ‘ies’ worthy of perusal. I picked out a compilation from the reissue label Tenth Planet, featuring three Bill Fay tracks, some other very obscure early psychish bands and, bizarrely enough, one by Barry Fantoni, the 1940-born author, cartoonist and jazz musician of Italian and Jewish descent. The LP was in decent-looking condition, but unsealed and priced at £20, which, I told Danny, was a little more than I felt it warranted. ‘The record came out a few years ago, I bought five copies. I recently sold the last sealed one for £30 and thought this one warranted a £20 selling price.’

‘Has it been played?’ I asked.

‘Only in the shop,’ came the far from comforting reply.

‘I’d go to 15…’

‘No, I’m trying to turn the locals on to psych, I’m sure I’ll get 20.’

Not from me, though.

I went back to R & L as well, where the guy in charge had at last returned from his ‘five minute’ absence. The owner was chatting to a friend who had come in and they were now comparing notes about the holidays, vehicles, records, hi-fis, etc which they either owned or took, each desperately trying to outdo the other. If one was planning a £2000+ Barbados holiday, the other was about to spend £5000 on an Algarve luxury trip. If one’s speakers were like listening to the band in the same room, the other could hear notes that weren’t actually even being played… He showed his mate an original 1960s Small Faces’ LP: ‘I’ve had this for sale in the shop for £120 for ages. No interest. Just put it on eBay – bidding’s already up to £135…’

His CDs were fairly enough priced but he was telling his mate that he had just acquired a collection of a thousand CDs – ‘mainly prog’. Some of them were clearly already there in the racks, being sold for around five or six pounds each. Earlier that week I had visited a local car boot sale on the island, where an early-middle-aged man was selling off hundreds of very desirable, excellent condition rock CDs, for £1 each, of which I had bought ten, only for him to chuck in a free one by Jeff Beck. Another customer handed seven CDs to the seller for pricing. He looked through them: ‘Mastodon, Mastodon, Mastodon, Mastodon, Mastodon, Mastodon, Mastodon… seven quid, please.’

I’d asked him whose collection this had been and why he was selling it off at such give-away prices. ‘I’m having to downsize. I had hundreds of them and besides I can download them now.’ I was suspecting now that he might have been the one who’d sold the CDs to Mr R & L who probably got them for under a quid each and was now banging them out for at least 400 or 500 per cent profit each.

A slight embarrassment had occurred at the boot sale when I realised I had forgotten to bring my wallet with me, so I asked him to look after the CDs while I chased after my wife to get some money – only for her not to have brought her purse. Which meant I had to walk back to our hotel in blazing hot sunshine, get my wallet, walk back in blazing hot sunshine to pay for the CDs, then walk back again in blazing sunshine to stash them safely in a hotel room cupboard – and whack on huge quantities of after-sun cream. This was probably the first time I’d been to a car boot sale and actually almost enjoyed the experience, even though I now had sunstroke.

I’d occasionally stumbled across them in Jersey before, and once or twice come up with decent booty – ‘Rejected’, a single of which I had previously been totally unaware, by Bern Elliott’s former backing group, The Fenmen, was the excellent dividend I received here a couple of years earlier. It cost me two quid, and is not only an excellent psych outing for the former beat group boys which I have no intention of selling, but also gets a £25 rating in the ‘good book’, aka RRPG. That definitely hadn’t made me a real fan of such record-buying opportunities, though, which tend to be overrun with hordes of people with no interest in vinyl, but who are happy to spend hours getting in the way of those of us who have!

One Sunday morning in July 2018, with nothing better to do after listening to The Archers’ omnibus edition, I had noticed in the local paper that there was a car boot going on a couple of miles away, so decided to take a spin down there to have a look. It was like a ghastly vision of some dystopian future in which an eternal stream of people is forced to wait for many hours in their identikit cars to enter a field, often having to pay for the doubtful privilege, before exiting to wander without purpose around a line-up of hundreds of table top displays or car frontage heaps of household detritus which would struggle to be accepted for most local charity shops, paying a few pennies here and there for something for which they will have no long-term use and definitely no such need.

Having pretended to enjoy the time they have clearly just completely squandered, they return to their vehicle to queue for many minutes before departing the depressing scene, for which relief they will at least this time not be charged.

Many record shop owners to whom I have spoken seem to have tales of the feeding frenzies which they have seen when they have been to boot sales, usually very early in the morning and when anyone seen to be packing plastic is immediately surrounded by vinyl vultures desperate to separate them from it for a matter of pence, and pestering them even while they are trying to lay it out for viewing.

‘It isn’t an attractive sight or experience,’ one told me. ‘I don’t now tend to go anywhere near them – and for specialist sellers they are practically useless as no one wants to spend any more than the absolute minimum. Yes, you might get lucky and stumble over a treasure or two, but you’ll almost certainly invest more in time and tribulation than you could ever make from selling stuff on.’

I have, though, oddly, managed to put together almost a complete collection of Melissa Etheridge CDs for no more than £20 in total via car boots. For some reason people just clearing out a few CDs and DVDs seem to have scant loyalty to La Etheridge, whose music I have enjoyed ever since my wife bought me one of her early LPs as a birthday present. I also really admire the way in which she has the knack of writing songs which offer no obvious clue to the identity or sex of the person at or about whom she is singing them.

A message from Mal finally arrived, asking what time I’d be able to visit him. ‘Around 4 would be perfect,’ he said. For Mal, maybe, but not for me, and I requested an earlier appointment.

‘I’m back home now this morning. I’ll be here till 2 if that’s any good. Let me know when your (sic) on the bus and I’ll meet you at the bus stop at Le Hocq.’

It was ideal. A bus to the Liberty bus station from St Aubin, then the Number 1 out to Le Hocq. As I exited the bus I spotted a middle-aged chap with a large forest of beard, wearing a white t-shirt bearing a quirky ‘Moomin’-like design.

Yes, this was Mal. ‘I’m 53, I’ve lived in Jersey in this parish all my life.’ Mal led the way off of the main road, down a side road or two and up to a large house with a big double garage outside. But whither the record shop? With a theatrical flourish – appropriately enough, as he is involved with the Jersey Opera House, the leading thespian venue on the island – Mal whipped up one of the garage doors. And, reader, there revealed in all its glory was what could only be described as a record shop, with records racked all around the sides and vinyl LPs neatly attached to the ceiling! ‘It’s open to visitors who I am happy to invite along. I did run a conventional shop in town but eventually got fed up with having to sit waiting for people to come in,’ explained Mal.

I got down to the business of flipping through the racks, from whence I pulled out a John Mayall Bare Wires LP (later reissue of 1968 version, non-gatefold but with insert), and Graham Nash’s Earth and Sky solo album from 1980. Both fairly priced at a fiver each. Then there was the double Record Store Day reissue of The End’s Introspection/Retrospection (Mal said he had taken some stick from various sources for being able to offer RSD releases and was likely to be ‘struck off’ in future); Volume 6 of the Diggin’ For Gold 16-track vinyl compilation of ‘demented 60s R&B/Punk & Mesmerizing 60s Pop’, also sealed. I also came away with a Stephen Stills’ solo record, ‘Right by You’; Ry Cooder’s Paradise and Lunch; an excellent eight 7ʺ vinyl singles’ pack of The Turtles’ ‘greatest hits’, mint in a sealed pack; and, recalling my arrival on the island, Gilbert O’Sullivan’s Off Centre. Mal generously ‘threw in’ 12ʺ singles by likes of Nick Heyward, Tom Petty and Nils Lofgren. We parted as new best friends with the declaration that I would return to see him and his shop/garages (the other one contained several thousand dance albums and 12ʺs).

Appropriately, Mal signed off with a text message: ‘Hopefully catch u next time you’re over.’

I brought home 27 CDs and 11 vinyl LPs (only one double) plus the 8 vinyl single pack, from Jersey. Every morning at 8.12am while I was there I’d meet fellow holidaymaker Duncan Pearce outside my hotel and we would set off on a regular half hour morning walk, putting the world to rights en route. Duncan’s passions in life – after lovely wife, Pauline, of course – are classic cars and racing bikes, of which he owns more and knows more about, than any one person should. We agreed that these are his equivalent of my CDs and LPs. During one of our morning perambulations, Duncan asked me what was my ultimate record collecting ambition.

I told him: ‘My aim is to own every piece of music I know I like – and every piece of music I don’t yet know I like, but feel I might do.’