I can still hear it now, crackling on plastic, like fatty bacon in a pan of cheap oil. Jumping occasionally, the words melting into the room at 45rpm. "London calling to the faraway towns, now war is declared, and battle come down..." Reggae bass, punk guitar. Muscular as all hell. London Calling was the double album released by The Clash in December 1979, marking the band's critical and commercial breakthrough. I didn't buy the album immediately because, quite simply, this pimpled little snot couldn't afford it.
At the time I was also still listening to, ahem, rockabilly-lite group Matchbox, purchased for me by a clearly inebriated Santa Claus in my 11th year on this planet. I even doubt it was the smash Rockabilly Rebel: it was the quietly gushing When You Ask About Love. By the time my musical tastebuds had evolved, and my paper-round earnings had grown exponentially, I purchased the seven-inch Clash vinyl with picture-perfect artwork. Complete with sophisticated pop songwriting I bought it from the second-hand box in Tom Russell's music shop (note to Tom - myself, Craig and Chris blagged a few singles as well when we asked you to reach up to some ancient metal guff behind you. Sorry). The Clash was followed in quick succession by seven-inch gems by the Psychedelic Furs, Lords of the New Church, Gang of Four, Joy Division and, yes, the Bluebells. Raymond, the brother of the band's manager, lived along the road and I managed to scam a few limited editions. One in particular was a large blue vinyl seven inch in the shape of ... a bluebell.
I was, of course, in a band. Plastic Reality. Along with my co-thief, Chris, and Deirdrie. It was pretty major counterculture stuff. As long as our mums knew where we were. We lasted about a week when we realised no-one could sing or play an instrument. But I digress. Vinyl, it seems, is making another comeback with downloads being ditched to spark this revival. Among other things the rising sales are down to bands such as Arctic Monkeys and The Killers rediscovering the format and the enduring desire of music fans to collect. Vinyl was supposed to have been killed off long ago by CDs and the pod-generation who bought music online. Despite the recent closing down of Fopp, the small independent vinyl record chain, latest figures show a decent jump in sales in the first half of the year, while sales of CD singles continue their slide down the path of metallic mediocrity. According to the BPI, the British record industry's trade association, the sales of seven-inch vinyl have grown 13%, with the White Stripes's Icky Thump the best seller.
I still don't really "get" downloads. I find them annoying and soulless. Records should be rummaged for in stores, preferably ones that smell of cardboard and a skinny, long-haired taste fascist reeking of something illicit, who never speaks. This quiet resurgence might also herald a pang of guilt in Sam (no, I won't mention her surname), who is still "holding on" to my collection of vinyl albums and seven-inch records. I'd better explain. Around 1987, at the height of my half-way-decent collection, I decided to go travelling around the world. Fifteen months away from university. During a moment of madness I was talked into giving my collection to Sam, a rather cool and occasionally Christian/bonkers fellow student, who promised she would look after them in my absence. A pile of boxes was duly despatched to Gibson Street, in Glasgow's university land, where she lived with a group of mutual friends, tree huggers, part-time feminists (not at the weekend) and baggy trouser wearing, patchouli-oil smelling loonies. The Clash, the Smiths, Steve Winwood (how did that get in there?), Tears for Fears (the first time round), Flock of Seagulls, The Only Ones, Bob Marley and a little bit of Floyd. Love letters to the dying light. Her painted eyes widenend.
By the time I had returned from my world sojourn, via Australia and some new age ethnic rubbish, Sam was nowhere to be seen. At least not in the same vicinity as my vinyls. Despite repeated attempts to detect their whereabouts Sam has managed to trouser the whole collection. They say record collections help you look into the owner's soul. If that's the case then I'm now in trouble. About the only thing vinyl I have left is the velvety Jim Reeves welcoming me to his world and some Elvis warbling on about Christmas. Thanks, Dad. As for Sam, happily ensconced in England along with my London Calling vinyl of joy and all the rest, perhaps it's time to hand over my youth. While vinyl is on the up. Or I start revealing surnames.
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