60

IN WHICH… THERE ARE DEATHS IN THE VINYL FAMILY

It was always unsettling to hear of another departed record shop as I was writing this book. But I soon realised I had to come to terms with such unwanted news. If an outlet was closing there was presumably a good reason, and besides, new shops appeared to be opening relatively regularly to replace them, albeit not necessarily in the same places. In the course of writing this book I visited hundreds of record shops and fairs, but that still leaves plenty of others to get round to in the future, which I fully intend to do.

But during the course of my research I’d become particularly partial to taking the local H12 bus over to South Harrow, the original home of second-hand ‘royalty’ in the shape of Sellanby. When Sellanby closed down I was convinced that there would never be another shop in that part of the borough in which I have lived virtually all of my life. But a couple of years ago, and in almost the identical location which spawned Sellanby – South Harrow Market, directly under the local tube line, so close that you could feel the place rattle as the trains chugged into and out of the station – a young, part-time DJ, father, and knowledgeable music fanatic and vinyl freak named Chris took on a unit and set up his second-hand record shop, the nicely named Music Archaeology.

When I first heard rumours of its existence I was keen to make his acquaintance and once I did so I would make regular trips over to see Chris every few weeks. He was clearly not getting rich from the amount of money I and his other customers handed over as he kept telling me about his ‘other’ part-time jobs and roles which helped to keep the wolf from the door. I began to think he was perhaps slightly over-egging the ‘struggling to survive’ story, but on Tuesday 31 July 2018 I sent him a text, telling him I was planning to come over and see him at the weekend, only to receive the following reply: ‘Hi, Graham. Alas. The shop is no more. Emptied last week. I kept some and sold everything else as a job lot. I may open up again, but smaller. But right now I’m not sure.’

A poignant farewell from the man who enabled me to add a good number of scarce items to my collection. Chris is young, enthusiastic and now experienced enough to reopen elsewhere when the right opportunity presents itself. I salute you, Chris, for having the bottle to start at the tough end of a business which needs commitment and courage to enter. Shortly before this book was published I heard from Chris again: ‘I will get another place at some stage – but for now in full-time work, still doing record fairs. Been picking up stuff – selling some, keeping loads. Enjoying music as I don’t have to sell it.’

A couple of months after Chris closed, I heard that a bigger story seemed to be breaking. Cambridge’s Black Barn Records had quickly become a favourite destination when I visited the city. I’d rapidly realised that they stocked much of the material I craved, and had spent accordingly when able to get up there. Now, I was told that the owner of the shop – well, shops, as he had acquired another in Haverhill – was talking about closing them down. In April 2016, the Daily Mail reported: ‘Adrian Bayford and his then wife Gillian became two of the biggest Euromillions winners (£148m) in history after scooping the huge sum in 2012. The 45-year-old, who was running a second-hand record shop at the time of his win, has now returned to his retail roots by opening Black Barn Records in Cambridge.’ Although I never saw him actually in the shop, and there were stories that the shop was not being run in the most secure way possible, it seemed to be a very viable business. But the rumour mill was hinting that closure may be imminent. I searched the internet for clues, but found none. I rang the shops but could never get through to speak to anyone and calls were never returned – another ominous sign. Then on Saturday 10 November 2018, Martin texted me. He’d been to visit the shop in Cambridge: ‘It’s gone. Shop empty.’ All the stock seemed to have been removed, he elaborated, but there was no explanatory message to be seen.

There was still no media confirmation. Nothing on their Twitter or Facebook pages. Little doubt, though, that another great record shop had been and now gone. A Facebook page on which a collector named Scott White had posted that BB was closed when he visited, had produced a response saying that Bayford ‘is selling up apparently (sic) and moving to Oz’. But what would be happening to the stock, then? I managed to find someone in the business who had some information on the situation, telling me: ‘He was rumoured to be closing a couple of weeks ago in preparation for going to start a new life in Australia. The whole thing was a vanity project anyway, and he must have lost money. He reopened his old shop as a Haverhill branch in the summer, but it has only opened erratically, I think he has a mass of second-hand records – but heaven knows what he is planning to do with them.

Then, on a sunny morning in London, 10 April 2019, I was stunned by shock news from the other side of the world, some 11,704 miles away in New Zealand, which completed a devastating triptych of vinyl tragedy: ‘The jewel in Newtown’s musical crown, Death Ray Records, have sadly announced they’ll be shutting up shop after six years of servicing the community with a kick-ass selection of new and used records from throughout Aotearoa and beyond.’ This was terrible news. I’d been there only a couple of months earlier, when there was no such inkling.

Known as ‘Apa’ or Boss Dude, the Death Ray owner had absolutely understood record collecting/ors: ‘People who want to shop cheap are always going to do that. My true customers will pay the extra $5. They walk in and their shoulders drop, and their backs untense, and they’re totally in their zone. That’s what you get from digging through records, and you don’t get that on the internet. I’ve got lots of customers who come in and will go straight to the rare section. It’s better than being on crack, or an alcoholic. I’ve got guys who had fun times when they were young but have decided to lay off all that business, and have gotten into record collecting really heavily. I know some guys who buy and buy and buy and they’re listening to their records, and there are others might listen a couple of times and then it goes into the collection.’

It would be unrealistic to expect that these and other recently deceased shops could magically return to life at some stage. Each one we lose takes with it some of the spirit of record collecting and deprives us of a unique atmosphere, as all record shops are different, and irreplaceable – other than by new, exciting ventures in the same field which will bring with them their own take on this wonderful, ongoing vibrant vinyl world to which we all contribute in our own ways. I still mourn, four or more decades on, Dave’s record outlet in Wealdstone, initially operating from the rear of his Dad’s greengrocers. Dad was a dead ringer for Old Man Steptoe, long-haired Dave as wannabe trendy as son ‘Arold. Fruit & veg outside, exotic vinyl (and other substances) out the back. I bought a Van Der Graaf Generator LP one day. Brought it back, baffled, the next...

No point in getting too maudlin or angry about things...