54

IN WHICH… I DATE JULIAN

I suppose it was inevitable. I was now actually making a date to see my local record shop owner. I’d been in to see Julian at Second Scene one Tuesday afternoon, but had barely had time to put in an order for a cup of tea when offered and cast but a cursory glance over a couple of covers, when I noticed a missed call on my phone which turned out to be a message to ring my wife asap. We were having the rendering on our house changed to some super-duper, upmarket substance which they use on the outside of space exploration rockets – or some such high-tech wonder-material. To put the new stuff on they had to take the old stuff off – in the process of which exercise they had also removed most of what held one of our bigger windows in place. The result was that you could now see through the gaps exposed to the outside world from the bathroom in which it was situated. Mrs Sharpe was pretty certain it was only a matter of time before the window fell and the walls came down. Like a reporter making his excuses and leaving the scene of an interview before getting to the crux of the story, I had to leg it before my house toppled to the ground. I sent an anxious text to the head chap in charge of the rendering work, demanding that he drop everything and immediately rush round to save my home. Eventually this situation was resolved but I felt the need to complete the visit to Second Scene which I’d begun. I sent Julian a note the next day asking him if he’d be in the shop that afternoon.

‘I am, but I’m sorting job lots upstairs, so won’t be very sociable. You about on Friday?’

‘Will the afternoon be okay?’ I responded.

‘Yes, that’s better for me’

‘It’s a date, then…’

Having stood him up once before, I had to be on time.

I was just a little late, but Julian was busy outside the shop when I arrived shortly before 3pm:

‘You remembered our date, then?’

After we’d congratulated each other on our powers of recall, I asked him what he was doing, shuffling about several lines of £1 records on what looked like a large shelf extending from the bottom of the shop window.

‘I’ve put this in to take the cheap records. Looks good, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, but why don’t you add some kind of cover to go over the records and keep them a little more secure?’ I asked. Then I answered my own question. ‘Although, I suppose that would be pointless. After all, it isn’t as if someone is going to come along and nick a load of Cliff Richard, various artists and middle-of-the-road crooners, is it?’

‘Really? The other day when I came back from lunch, someone came in and offered to sell me a bunch of records which I soon recognised as my own, which they had helped themselves to outside!’

‘How much did you offer them?’

I told Julian again that his shop window needed an eye-catching design to attract the attention of passing drivers and walkers. What had happened to the proposed psychedelic makeover I’d heard one of his customers offering to create for him?

‘He only dashed off a couple of ideas, but we never got any further with it.’

I told Julian a recent tale of woe over two John Pantry LPs I’d decided to buy. He is an obscure psych figure who produced a large number of excellent songs recorded by an equally impressive number of bands who may well have been created just for that purpose, back in the late 1960s and early 1970s, before, it would appear, discovering God with a very capital ‘G’, and reportedly becoming a vicar. I’d decided that after years of searching for much of his stuff unsuccessfully, I’d bite the bullet and buy the records from Discogs’ sellers. One of them was his final ‘pop’-orientated LP, the other a compilation of tracks written, and in some instances also recorded, by him, entitled The Upside Down World of John Pantry. This latter record was a Tenth Planet reissue of tracks recorded between 1967 and 1969. Together with postage from Greece, this would cost me 30 quid, but was described as ‘mint’ for record and cover, and contained an insert. The seller boasted a very high percentage rate of customer satisfaction. I was, though, a little miffed, when he sent a note to say the record was on the way, but could I reimburse an additional 2.80 euro cost charged by his local post office? Er… no!

When the record arrived it was perhaps the best, most securely wrapped item I’ve ever purchased. It took me the best part of half an hour to get it out of the box, in the process inflicting a nasty little jagged cut to a finger whilst bringing bread knives, scissors and teeth to the task. When the contents were revealed, there was an excellent cover. No problems with its description. Likewise, the insert. It had obviously been ‘fingered’ once or twice, but then who hasn’t? Otherwise pristine. So, hopes high for the record. Hopes soon dashed. The record could not be described as anything other than a passable VG in my opinion. It was dirty, dusty and very scuffed from, I think, the heavy inner sleeve in which it came, which also had a seam-slit down one side. I wrote to the seller, in very measured and restrained terms. I was going to keep the record anyway, but I wanted an explanation. My ten-line email received this response: ‘It is an UNPLAYED copy, so I can’t understand about scuffs etc. If you don’t want to send the additional postage, never mind.’ Breathing a hefty sigh, I just wrote back pointing out that ‘unplayed’ does not equate to ‘mint’.

Annoyingly, I had a similar problem with the solo Pantry LP which was advertised as ‘Near mint’ which I thought was quite a creative use of the word ‘Near’, clearly used in the same manner in which I might describe New Zealand as ‘Near’ Australia, despite the fact that it is a few hours away by plane.

The Near Mint record was at best VG+ in both cover and disc condition.

Challenged on this, the seller offered:

‘I really thought it was a lovely copy. It’s a tough LP to find and I’m usually pretty tough on conditions. Sorry it wasn’t up to standard.’

Maybe I was just doubly unlucky, but buyer beware.

Julian took the story as another very good reason to buy from a shop, where you can check the condition personally and not have to pay postage, adding:

‘I’ve never heard of John Pant… what was his name?’

Helen was now playing a record through to check its grading. Julian asked her what she planned to charge for it. ‘Well, it’s filthy and has a good few marks.’

It was playing remarkably well and sounding excellent, with a strong blues vocal, accompanied by driving guitar and wailing harmonica. Julian looked over at what I could now see was a double album with the gatefold spread out on top of some other albums. ‘Nice record’ he said, probably to encourage what I did next.

I looked at him. ‘I think I’ll have it.’

An instant illustration of the difference between direct and remote selling. If I had received this record having bought it online, I’d have been shocked by its appearance. Having heard it played through and decided to buy despite the condition, I was perfectly happy. Helen offered to clean it on the shop’s in-house equipment and we agreed on an £18 price for what I now knew was Fathers & Sons, on the Chess label, LPS 127, and featuring Muddy Waters, Otis Spann, Michael Bloomfield (guitar), Paul Butterfield (mouth harp), Donald ‘Duck’ Dunn, and Buddy Miles. A very impressive line-up over the 16 tracks, all recorded in April 1969, six of which were ‘recorded live at Super Cosmic Joy-Scout Jamboree’. The SCJSJ, explains the cover is (or more likely was) ‘an Academy of open enquiry designed to explore all cultural concepts, with the idea of creating new approaches to ethics, religion, philosophy, art and science’. I later checked the record out on the Discogs website and could find only one copy available from a UK seller. It was a ‘near mint’ copy going for £40 plus £3.50 postage. I was very happy with what I’d got.

After our in-shop date had finished, and we had agreed to see each other again to continue the relationship, albeit without any guaranteed long-term commitment to each other, I took the train back. As I disembarked I couldn’t help overhear the conversation going on between two fellow commuter travellers: ‘Well, that’s the trouble with tortoises… they can’t tell you when they’re ill.’

A bit odd – but not as odd as mates can be…