This is the first in a three part series by Chumki Banerjee on her love for vinyl. Read Part 2 with interviews with Bob Packham from Cult Vinyl and Carl from Hairy Records and Part 3 with an interview with Geoff Davies of Probe and Probe Plus.

Vinyl Addiction, My Plastic Predilection and Pushers Tales (those that deal in the hard stuff) - Part 1

By Chumki Banerjee - 24/3/2014

Vinyl Addiction

I’ve always loved messing with knobs, unable to resist a fiddle, a twiddle, irremediable errant, wantonly wooing misadventure, irresistible urge to push physical and metaphorical buttons run rampant, trampling my mishap prone life.

Thinking back, such predilections are probably the root of my vinyl addiction, stemming from the first button I remember depressing, aged two, curiosity conquering caution, in delinquent dereliction of nursery school rules; while teacher’s back was turned; I guardedly pressed middle C, on forbidden piano, to release frisson of delicious shiver, ringing rebellion, alarming still air; the first disobedient step setting me firmly on my path of stubborn defiance and dissent and, in doing so, inadvertently discovering one true amour; the sound of music.

Hooked by my first fix – the pursuance of pleasure from pressing things I ought not – enslaving me with a craving, only surpassed by musical ecstasy; a cocktail of the two inducing a delirious high of delight, a habit which circumstance contrived to feed.

As a child, though we had no money for luxury, we were rich in generosity; my parent’s flat was an open floor for all who passed through, on impoverished wanderings through life. Waifs and strays, pockets bare, bearing melodious voices and glittering guitars, the treasure they bestowed more precious than silver or gold, the gift of music. One such grateful itinerant also endowed us with the miraculous machine, which fuelled and fed my incipient lust for music combined with buttons, knobs and dials; a Grundig reel to reel tape player, complete with handheld microphone, round, brown and shiny as chestnut, which over the years captured ramshackle rhapsody of sound, from acoustic to Eurovision.

Helping my father record; pressing play and record without one incalcitrant button popping up was a feat, especially for small fingers; the scent of Bakelite, warmed by energy emitted from highly excited electronic components, radiated sensual aroma, elixir for euphoric elation which haunts me still.

Time takes its toll on tangled tapes and innocent pleasures. I remember the day poor Grundig, in groundhog meltdown, was consigned, crazed to attic, in favour of hardcore hi-fi, surreptitiously sourced through second hand ads, collected at dusk, from hammer horror hulk of West Hampstead house.

Fickle philanderer, I fell into swoon the minute I heard sweet voice of vinyl spring from its lips, forever seduced, melting in allure of familiar musky aroma, exuded from heatedly expressive, compliant fidelity of compressed plastic, smitten by flashing eyes of decibel lights surging, rising, falling, cool green peaking to red, font of fulfilment umbilically connected to tremulously trembling speakers, faintest moans amplified to fervid excitation, monitor membrane heaving chest, emitting essence of ecstasy in purest sound, shaken to the core by the throb of deep throat bass.

From that point on there was no going back, forever an addict on lifelong quest to score most exotic black stuff; an insatiable appetite; graduating from warm familiar Woolies and WH Smith, to, later in life, trawling seedy streets of Soho and dank basements, for that elusive 12 inch, descending to depths of degradation, seeking electronic dance elation, in the darkest dimensions of anonymous internet.

The magic of that moment; needle tracing first track, extracting life’s breath from nothing at all, injected into atmosphere, moving atoms to ethereal sound; has never left me. Even now, when I know how records are made, science cannot tarnish the awe that never fades. CDs never quite brought me to that perilous peak of ravaging, rampaging, ravenous rapture; cleanly clinical they always left me slightly wanting.

Clutching at straws of proof, my uninformed mind surmised that greater bandwidth might offer an explanation for why vinyl sounds more expansive but, having been disabused of such stupidity by those with many more functioning brain cells, I have no science to stand in defence of this delusion. But, just as an invisible God commands exaltation without proof of existence, I am a believer in the supernatural ability of vinyl to capture capsule of air from another dimension, transport it in time, and breathe it back to infinite life, in glorious resurrection of vibrant sound.

All of which is a tortuous tale to explain why I am so distressed, at finding it more and more difficult to source my essential drug.

When I first moved here, Liverpool City Centre was afloat with the stuff, freely available, the market flooded by wholesale ditching of entire personal collections and corporate clearouts, crackling with electric surge of white label dance releases. In addition to standalone shops; from Quiggins on School Lane to The Palace on Slater Street and even further reaches of Dale Street; every conglomeration of alternative stalls featured several vinyl purveyors, from second hand to cutting edge dance. But over the years, these emporiums of euphoria have evaporated into an ether of faded history and now I am reduced to less than a handful, which have managed to hang on by their cuticles.

Hairy Records on Bold Street was one of the favoured few, bastion of bulging battered boxes, a delirious disorder of delicious discs. Even after its owner Bob died in October 2011, there was hope that the shop would survive, despite his sad demise, but its resuscitation in hands of music impresario, ‘Spike’ Beecham, in November 2011 was but brief reprise, his Vinyl Emporium forever shutting its doors in February 2013.

For months I fretted, forlornly stalking those shuttered panes, hoping against hope that this was just an extreme example of its ordinarily erratic opening times, but even I could not continue to cling to this conceit, close my ears to rumours that its entire stock was up for auction on EBAY; it finally sold in February 2014, erasing erroneous expectation forever.

Bereft of blackened hands and broken nails, I mourned the passing of prising dust encrusted, magnetically sticky sleeves apart, narrowing my eyes to penetrate accumulated slime, focus enough photons from eternal gloom, to decipher title, determine whether I held trick or treat.

No longer would I warily kneel on wool worn to shreds of bare thread; bedraggled remnant of what might once have been carpet, reduced to grimy rag. Nor could I steady myself on shaky shelf, struggling in perilous squat, to inspect contents of a mystery box. Liverpool bands, which lingered forgotten, were pushed against blind wall, under precarious racking, unattested, un-feted on unsanitary floor at back of the shop.

Fearing complete failure of supply, I felt the time was well overdue to review remaining options for securing my vinyl opiate, in a deflowered Liverpool City Centre, to seek reassurance from suppliers who remain, that their passion remains strong, in tune with the times and to capture some of the history of this endangered breed.

Scoring a City Centre fix in desperate times:

Charity Shops

Though they have a tendency to veer towards the pick of Top Of The Pops , if you steer away from such travesties, charity shops have always been a reliable, if erratically stocked source of second hand vinyl, including some real surprises; the other day I noticed the Heart Foundation shop on Bold Street had a collection of Shakespeare readings. For music, the best of the bunch, for me, is OXFAM on Bold Street, variously good for popular, dance, classical and 7” singles. Well sorted, with a glass cabinet for ‘Sleeping Beauty’ specialities, this is where you might chance upon the hit to fit your empty slot, your shiny red apple.

HMV

Dealt an almost fatal financial blow, buckled, knees bent, ready to fall but staggered back to unsteady feet. Previously, vinyl had been eradicated from its serried ranks but finds itself revived, with whole new section to itself, which includes remixed and re-mastered re-releases, many on 180gram vinyl, and smattering of new sounds issued by industriously determined new artists. Limited pressings, on ’superior’ materials, these are expensive articles, organics of the record world. However, as everyone knows, pleasure is not always proportionate to girth; while it might weigh well in the hand, heavy vinyl does not of itself ensure better sound, the grooves your needle caresses, are the same as they ever were on a clean, unscathed lighter vinyl copy.

The Bluecoat Record Fair

A monthly affair which is fun, though prices are slightly elevated and there are noticeable gaping spaces where you might expect favourite classics – presumably saved for more specialist markets.

Cult Vinyl

Snaking unit, snuggled in dip of sunken ground floor level, in exotic maze of Renshaw Street’s Central Hall new Quiggins, Cult Vinyl more than fills in Bluecoat Fair’s missing teeth. A cornucopia of cosseted second hand LPs and singles, a more organised and less laconic version of Hairy’s, Cult Vinyl’s stock is carefully chosen and well cared for; many records look un-played, dust covers un-obscured by mulch of sweat and dirt which afflicted Hairys offerings. Leaving aside esoteric oddities, the probability of finding that quintessential, essential classic you yearn for is fairly high.

3Beat Records

At its height, dance music whipped up electrostatic storm, flowing like radioactive water, unable to quench insatiable thirst, impossible to staunch inexorable flow, it rained 12” vinyl. With Cream at its space ship helm, the city was awash with its satellites; diaspora of small units, dispensing delirium, dispersed throughout town. Preternaturally bright lightening strike, grounded, burning itself out; as spaced out smiles turned to gurning frowns, blissfully rapturous highs plummeted to downs, dissolution followed disillusion, until there was only one left dancing; 3Beat on Slater Street, a shop I hold very dear, ever since dance music stirred my soul, ripped out my heart.

In those giddy times, vinyl was what Djs spun, fingers tracing tracks, aligning beats, manipulating music, mood and feet. With its knobs, buttons, effects, smell of melting vinyl and inexhaustible flow of new tunes, this was music I could touch, explore, music made for me to adore, and I did.

To keep up with new releases was an impossible feat; internet sites like Juno did a good job, assimilating and categorising welter of disorder; but teasing anachronisms in their own times, tunes turned from trendy to passé as soon as they were out there. The only way to finger the latest Djs pulse, was to follow his or her patronage, drink at same font. 3Beat was and is the best source of reliable, hot off the press, ready for decks, dance record knowledge; opened by Djs for Djs, their taste is impeccable, only the best.

Currently run by two DJs/ music producers I really respect, Adam Helliwell and Thomas Tuft, though dance music may have embarked on a more reflective phase, this is the place which still throbs to the latest beat, the place I trust to make my heart flutter, with inspired choice. I may be blasé now, about how I spent hours flicking through white labels, assembling selection to listen at bank of decks, but it wasn’t always so:

My first 3Beat experience:

On my 10th attempt I managed to walk through the door. The challenge didn't stop there. The headphones are large (for a woman) but have added value, for a man, if you can't afford hair gel or after shave. Holding the head phones on with one hand and jammed between two large scouse housers, is not an ideal position for a nervous amateur DJ who suddenly can't remember how to switch the decks on. The needle flies across the record and one earphone doesn't work, the other is bursting my eardrums. I'm sure they're turning it up on purpose. My records have a life of their own and slither around uncontrollably. I shuffle to the next deck, praying it works. I am scarlet and about to cry and then a tune comes on and I forget everything, 3-Beat is heaven and I want to stay here forever.

For total immersion in dance music passion, 3Beat is the place to be, even if plucking up courage is only way through the door.

Probe

Probe’s current incarnation on School Lane is a mere shadow of its original intention, but still the place for an erudite selection of enigmatic new releases, both local and worldwide, familiar to further flung reaches of musical genres. There are CDs and a small selection of second hand stock, but its pleasures for me are; its source of out of the ordinary new vinyl which others do not stock; its iconic history; and its indomitable creator, Geoff Davies. Though his shop is now gifted to ex wife Annie, Geoff’s Probe Plus Record label is still going strong and, of course, its evocative releases are stocked by the shop, which makes the place even more special. More of this extraordinary man later, one of the ‘pushers’ interviewed below, so read on.

The Pushers' Tales

Having confessed my addiction, I took this opportunity to investigate what turns people to peddling vinyl, how this malleable substance has moulded their lives, why a place like Hairy Records could not survive, whether there is hope of continuing supply, what a day in the life of a vinyl pusher is really like, the pleasure – and the pain – of life after.

Part 2 - Interviews with Bob Packham from Cult Vinyl and Carl from Hairy Records
Part 3 - An in depth interview with Geoff Davies of Probe and Probe Plus

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