The thrill of shopping

In the early 80's it was impossible to buy Big E levis, button down Ben Sherman shirts or even proper Clark's Desert Boots. You had to hunt the length and breadth of the country for the sniff of one of these original items.

"Have you heard about the mythical charity shop in Brighton that's got a whole box of button down Ben Sherman's?"
"There's a place in Bath that sells Big E's."

Such snippets of crucial information would be passed on at gigs or football matches only to the selected few. Many leads would turn out to be false but some did bring success. A pair of faded Big E's in Camberwell being a particularly memorable find.

But now of course you can get rare Lee Stormrider jackets, Big E's and a million different shades of Ben Sherman's all at the touch of the return button. I'm not saying that it is necessarily a bad thing. Just that it is now a different experience and one that takes away a little of the pleasure that wearing the right clothes should always bring.

Wimbledon

"...Championship point!"

Fred Perry, Dan Maskell, Lemon barley water, Bjorn Borg, Roger Taylor (no, not him out of Queen), Evonne Cawley, Roger Federer, Henri Leconte, Roscoe Tanner from Lookout Mountain Tennessee, The Graveyard of the Champions, Pimms, late night doubles matches featuring Frew McMillan & Bob Hewitt, David Vine, the resplendently miserable Ivan Lendl, Jeremy Bates, Betty Stove, Ilie Nastase and of course Des...

Music Shop Hell

Enter a music shop these days and the first thing that will happen is this… After a respectful period of time to acclimatise to the well lit environs and pleasant low volume clatter, tinkle & hum of assorted instruments being respectfully put through their paces, you’ll be greeted by a helpful shop assistant asking if you were ok or if they can give you any advice. Which leads one to immediately raise the not unrealistic question in one’s own mind; what sort of tomfoolery, skulduggery and out and out weird buggery is this?

I don’t expect my general health or well-being to be in anyway an item of concern for the patch bearded, heavily tatted beanpole sales ‘consultant’. Nor am I in anyway expecting any sort of advice from him on anything. Have I stumbled into MacDonalds for music? Is this the KFC of Rock?

When I go into a music store I expect the following five things to be present without fail.

1 – A deafening wall of sound to be emanating from the back of the shop, where the three shop assistants are storming through a set of quite ludicrously precise King Crimson covers.

2 – A small but uncompromisingly menacing coterie of girl friends and leather clad proto Hells Angels are listening with one ear whilst rolling up the largest doobie to have been constructed since Jimi rolled a whopper at Monterey (Please insert your own ‘maan!’ exclamation at this point).

3 – The overpowering stench of stale cigarettes, Lynx (for gits) and burnt rizlas mingling with the smell of damp carpet and overflowing toilet.

4 – A wall covered with flying V’s and Gibson Les Pauls, another wall packed with studded straps and skull ‘n cross bone motif gig bags and one wall with a broken glass cabinet propped in front of it featuring a till, an entry level Kays Kiddiecaster (sans strings/neck/pickups) lying underneath a sheaf of unpaid invoices and an ashtray made out of the remains of a melted wah-wah pedal.

5 – A small stand featuring sheet music, balsa wood acoustic guitars recorders & melodicas.

Nothing else!

I don’t expect help, information, a wide array of mint condition Rickenbackers, Gretschs & Fender Jaguars to choose from! I expect to be ignored, sneered at, ripped off and dismissed. So, I am starting a ‘campaign for the return to arsey music/persecution shops with obligatory longhaired stroppy muso shop assistants who belittle you at every turn!

CRAMPS begin here!