Since blog no.1 loads of people have told me that they remember the years I worked behind the record counter I mentioned briefly whilst discussing my need for high volume on music. They should - the years were quite extensive and covered several shops. It would be all too easy to breathe a smiley sigh and go on about how much fun we had and the shenanigans we used to get up to so that's exactly what I am going to do. Obviously I can't discuss all the shenanigans (my kids might one day read this) and in places I am going to have to change names to protect the guilty but hopefully this won't detract from the enjoyment.
Also, there's so much to say that this might have to be part of a trilogy or a small book. Perhaps a large volume, who knows?
Let's go back to 1991 - a time when people thought that Bryan Adams would be at number one until hoverboards were invented and that the Conservatives might be in power until the same time. I was almost 19 years old, still had 20/20 vision, a ring through my nose and jeans so tight they appeared to have been sprayed on. My weekends were spent banging my head to Axl Rose, Jani Lane and Bret Michaels and swearing that I was never EVER drinking again. (Ms Waters - you have a lot to answer for!)
My first counter was at a now closed shop whose name I shall refrain from mentioning lest the person who I will describe later recognises themselves, gets their broomstick out and tracks me down. I shall just say that despite internal aspirations (delusions) of grandeur it was not a national chain.
It was in this shop that I got my first taste of shoplifters, bomb threats, people on day release and the harsh reality that the colleagues whose instructions you were supposed to follow were not always the sharpest knife in the drawer.
It was also here that I got my first taste of new release deliveries, record reps and the knowledge that who, not what, you knew was your ticket to freebies enough to drown in. Let's start with the first. Back in a non digital era, Monday mornings in the shop were a zoo. If someone had a big new album out it would be bustling from the moment you opened the doors. Said album had normally been in the shop since Friday but because of record company embargoes it wasn't to be sold until Monday. We would play the cd to try and get more interest over the weekend and whilst it was on, I often had a conversation that played out like this:
Customer: Can I have a copy of this new album?
Me: It's not out until Monday
Customer: But you're playing it now.
Me: Yes, we can play it but I can't sell it to you until Monday.
Customer: Can't you pretend it's Monday today?
Me: No.
Customer: I'll go and buy it from HMV then.
Me: They won't be able to sell it to you either.
Customer: They will.
Me: They won't.
Cue flounce out from customer who proceeds to sheepishly show up Monday morning to buy the album avoiding eye contact with me throughout the entire transaction.
Monday mornings were often so busy that once I was so flustered that I accidentally called an artist by the nickname we had given her in front of my customer. I searched through a box to no avail and shouted to a colleague across the shop just as a song ended (of course) "Have we got the new Mary J. BILGE cd?" The horror as the customer pursed her lips and pretended she hadn't heard me. It could have been worse - I could have asked if anyone had seen Kate's Bush.
1991 was a time before health and safety had gone mad and so staff would generally, at some point in the day, find themselves alone on the shop floor invariably trying to serve customers, file cds, answer the phone and keep an eye on the little scumbag eyeing up a Bob Marley t-shirt. It would normally be at this point when the area manager (AM) would come in and demand to know why there were still unopened boxes left to be sorted. Despite your protestations that it was 3pm, you had not had a break all day and you and one other person were manning the shop single handedly because two people had phoned in sick, the AM would rant about "If it's not on the shelf they can't buy it".
I rarely want to spew vitriolic rage about someone but if I were still in contact with the AM now, I would be tempted to psychologically torture them until their nose bled and they had no idea why. Yes, they were that vile. When they left a couple of years later me and three friends went to their leaving party. We bought them a bottle of vodka, drank it in my bedroom before we left and then replaced it with water and handed it over. It was a small victory but even as I type now, it makes me smile.
Speaking of undesirables, I once approached a would-be shoplifter and asked if I could help him find something. He whirled around and with a stare branded with the biggest pupils you will ever see leaned into me and declared that he was 'taking this rack of t shirts'. The absolute mania on his face almost made me ask him if he wanted a bag as he lifted about four out and strode out of the shop. Normally, I would have laughed along and tried to dissuade him but this time I didn't. Security from the nearby mall came in to tell me that they had apprehended him some time later and he had a machete in his pants - this is not a euphemism.
Finally, let me end the first part of this series on a nice note (*puts on hipster face*) - I went to a lot of free gigs. A lot. I saw the early days of Pearl Jam, Faith No More, Nirvana, Nine Inch Nails and so many more. These were courtesy of records reps who were agreeable in handing tickets over as long as you played their latest releases. Although the Warner reps did once threaten to rescind my privileges when I got rather drunk and tried to engage Evan Dando from The Lemonheads in some innane banter. They soon came back though when they realised that there was no way they could market the new album by TAFKAP without help from their independent shop devotees.
Next time - the most moronic questions I was ever asked, how to deal with admiring customers and Christmas Counter Culture. Bet you can't wait.
Friday, 24 January 2014
Saturday, 18 January 2014
So, is it you?
Much has been written and spoken about Sherlock in the last few days as series three drew to another enigmatic close. The latest villain and his face licking antics left viewers gasping as the programme took on a darker twist than we have probably ever seen. It was not, however, Charles Augustus Magnussen that had me literally scrabbling back in my chair to get away from the screen but Sherlock's arguably ultimate nemesis.
Andrew Scott's portrayal of titillatingly charming psychopath Jim Moriarty genuinely frightens me. Although truthfully that's not giving his scaring credentials much of a shout out because I am still too scared to watch Doctor Who having been traumatised by the opening sequence during the Tom Baker days. Oh, and don't even think about putting the Wizard of Oz on if I'm at your house. The scene where the Wicked Witch of the West is up the tree unbeknown to Dorothy makes me feel a bit sick.
Nevertheless, Moriarty is terrifying simply because he could be your mate. He could be your mate's boyfriend. He might be the man who cleans your windows or the woman who served you in Asda this morning.
It's estimated that approximately 1-2% of a general population are psychopaths - about a million potentials in the UK. Given the average amount of friends a person has on Facebook, this indicates that most of us will know a psychopath. But how will we know? Will it be the moment they strap explosives on our bodies and call a famous detective to solve a puzzle before we can be released? Unlikely.
If you get the chance, read 'The Psychopath Test' by Jon Ronson, the book whose line (spoken by a convicted murderer under questioning from a clinical psychologist) "I have no idea what the emotion is on that face but it's the one people have just before I kill them." sent a chill of horror down my back.
You see, apparently, there's a test that mental health professionals use to determine if a person's personality traits tick enough boxes for them to be labelled. I am guessing that the quoted man above's tick list was fairly extensive.
The point I am trying to make here is that the stereotypical characteristics of someone who you wouldn't wish to bump into down a dark alley when walking home alone aren't necessarily the ones you should be most afraid of because statistically, you are far more likely to encounter psychopathy elsewhere.
Keep an eye on anyone who doesn't care when you tell them your cat has died. Watch that person at the office who makes 'friends' with everyone and becomes the most cold hearted manager you ever had. Try to avoid the person who talks about their third time base jumping. Oh and definitely give a wide berth to the person whose need for instant gratification is spellbinding.
Why? Psychopaths tend to have a few common traits but on the surface they lurk with a different face for every need. Statistically, we all know one but who is it? Have a think...
It isn't a family member nor is it a friend. You've discounted your colleagues and the people at the gym. There's no way it could be the window cleaner and you would state unequivocally that it isn't the woman who served you in Asda. So, is it you?
http://www.channel4.com/programmes/psychopath-night
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Psychopath-Test-Jon-Ronson/dp/0330492276/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1390076211&sr=8-1&keywords=psychopath+test
Andrew Scott's portrayal of titillatingly charming psychopath Jim Moriarty genuinely frightens me. Although truthfully that's not giving his scaring credentials much of a shout out because I am still too scared to watch Doctor Who having been traumatised by the opening sequence during the Tom Baker days. Oh, and don't even think about putting the Wizard of Oz on if I'm at your house. The scene where the Wicked Witch of the West is up the tree unbeknown to Dorothy makes me feel a bit sick.
Nevertheless, Moriarty is terrifying simply because he could be your mate. He could be your mate's boyfriend. He might be the man who cleans your windows or the woman who served you in Asda this morning.
It's estimated that approximately 1-2% of a general population are psychopaths - about a million potentials in the UK. Given the average amount of friends a person has on Facebook, this indicates that most of us will know a psychopath. But how will we know? Will it be the moment they strap explosives on our bodies and call a famous detective to solve a puzzle before we can be released? Unlikely.
If you get the chance, read 'The Psychopath Test' by Jon Ronson, the book whose line (spoken by a convicted murderer under questioning from a clinical psychologist) "I have no idea what the emotion is on that face but it's the one people have just before I kill them." sent a chill of horror down my back.
You see, apparently, there's a test that mental health professionals use to determine if a person's personality traits tick enough boxes for them to be labelled. I am guessing that the quoted man above's tick list was fairly extensive.
The point I am trying to make here is that the stereotypical characteristics of someone who you wouldn't wish to bump into down a dark alley when walking home alone aren't necessarily the ones you should be most afraid of because statistically, you are far more likely to encounter psychopathy elsewhere.
Keep an eye on anyone who doesn't care when you tell them your cat has died. Watch that person at the office who makes 'friends' with everyone and becomes the most cold hearted manager you ever had. Try to avoid the person who talks about their third time base jumping. Oh and definitely give a wide berth to the person whose need for instant gratification is spellbinding.
Why? Psychopaths tend to have a few common traits but on the surface they lurk with a different face for every need. Statistically, we all know one but who is it? Have a think...
 |
| Queen Moriarty |
It isn't a family member nor is it a friend. You've discounted your colleagues and the people at the gym. There's no way it could be the window cleaner and you would state unequivocally that it isn't the woman who served you in Asda. So, is it you?
http://www.channel4.com/programmes/psychopath-night
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Psychopath-Test-Jon-Ronson/dp/0330492276/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1390076211&sr=8-1&keywords=psychopath+test
Saturday, 11 January 2014
Passing the Baton
Those of you who know me will know about my ongoing love affair with music. Well, when it comes to music it's more like a bit of outrageous sluttery than a romantic encounter. That is to say that largely, I'm not fussy about the type although I do prefer some over others (rock could be used here as a rather laboured metaphor for redheads...but my husband has dark hair. Hmmm, more on that later)
My Spotify playlist is testimony to my musical slut fest; Ministry are on top of Matt Goss who happily spoons Macklemore whilst Lawson nestle snuggly between The Lemonheads and Living In A Box. People frown at my speakers when, after having hummed along to Bananarama's 'Cruel Summer', they are aurally assaulted by Pantera's 'Walk'. I just smile and shrug. "I like it" I offer as a form of apology as they waggle their finger in one ear trying to get rid of the shrill shrieking of temporary tinnitus.
That's another thing - having spent years behind a music shop counter, I think that my definition of what constitutes 'normal' volume has been warped. "How do you work with this racket?" I would get asked at least twice a day. I answered honestly "I don't even notice it's on" So, in my defence if I want to really hear it, it must make the wallpaper begin to slightly peel and render all outside noise inaudible. "You'll go bloody deaf!" my dad used to bawl after shouting upstairs for ten minutes. Perhaps I subconsciously decided to learn sign language based on this threat. That's another thing for future pondering.
I make no apology for my lack of music snobbery - there are very few artists whose music renders me running for the mute button. Although it is worth mentioning here that despite his fabulous sense of humour and clear all round niceguyness, Michael Buble's music makes me want to push cocktail sticks in my ears. So does Jessie J's, though I have no idea why.
Before I had children I swore that I would ensure that when I did, they had a passion for reading and for music. So far so good. Indeed, it is a gorgeous moment with my then 10 year old daughter that inspired me to write this about it. She loves music too. Loves it. Also, my 7 year old son can sing the lyrics to pretty much any song we ever have on in the house and that covers a multitude of genres and eras. One child plays the drums, one plays the guitar. Mission Love Music is currently a success.
My now 11 year old daughter is almost as tall as me. Her emotional maturity far outweighs her life experience and she exudes a confidence that I would have paid good money to have when I was 21 let alone 11. She will have a listen to pretty much anything and makes good, rationalised reasoning for why she does or doesn't like something. So, when I came home early last year and tried to find a song called 'Chocolate' that I had heard on the way home and had taken an instant liking to, she sat with me and listened as we played it all the way through on Spotify. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FfBKqaVk2Co
We loved it and now, pretty much a year later we love everything else that The 1975 have since and previously released. She looked them up and learnt everything about them. She searched for clips of them on YouTube and as their popularity grew and they played more and more events, so did her favourites list on said website. The fact that their lead singer has a bit of a swagger and is, ahem, quite handsome was not lost on her. Me? I might be 41 but I love a song that sends the dopamine flooding through your body as soon as you hear the opening chord. Also, can I hear anyone say cougar?
So, tickets went on sale for a gig at The Ritz in Manchester. It would be stupid not to go right? Wrong. Initially, we didn't buy them because sadly it was admission for 14+ only and Erin was only 10 at the time. Eventually though, we knew we had to. I had sweet talked security many times in the past and was sure I could do it again if need be. Doc Marten boots, eyeliner and a beanie hat made her look older than some who were actually 14 but there was a heart stopping moment at the door. "How old are you?" one massive security gorilla asked. "14." she replied without dropping a beat. "Is that your mum?" he continued nodding at me. "Yes." still utterly deadpan. "Go on then" he smiled. And we were in. No need to state the fake birth date we had rehearsed on the way there.
Eventually, they came onto stage, everyone goes wild, it is hotter than hell, there's beer flying everywhere, a creepy guy starts to talk to her but still she is just standing, staring awe struck at the band. She sings, screams, dances and smiles constantly. It wasn't her first gig by any means but the first gig by a band who she really loved.
Fast forward to the single song encore and here finally is the point of this blog entry. We had slowly been creeping further down to the stage having initially started close to the back as it really was heaving and I didn't want to traumatise my child in a mass of people standing too close to each other with no idea of where their limbs were flailing!
She stands in front of me and turns around as the initial chords of the song 'You' start with a look on her face that, even when I think about it now, I might cry. I could try and describe it but will never capture what it said so instead I will tell you what it felt like to me. It was like the moment where everything I love about music I could see etched on her face. We stared at each other and had it been a cartoon, a line of musical instruments, treble clefs and love hearts would have left my eyes and entered hers. It was like I was passing the baton. Here - take everything I have and use it to fill your life as much as mine has been with songs that you love.
The look was gone in an instant and replaced with me frantically trying to keep an eye on her as she moved further and further forward into the heaving mass whilst simultaneously trying not to slide on errant, one hopes, pints of beer.
We went to see them again this week, an even more swaggering 11 year old daughter whose love affair with the band shows no signs of waning. Indeed, the beginnings of a little indie rock chick are hatching out. Her wardrobe is full of black skinny jeans, hats and DM boots and her playlists are starting to tilt in favour of My Chemical Romance, Bastille and Imagine Dragons.
This gig was no less eventful than the last but for a whole different reason. Details on that to follow but for now, I am going to go and make a brew and bask in the knowledge that even though she may have inherited my freakishly large earlobes she has also inherited my passion for music and that, I feel, is a worthy trade any day.
The 1975 - You
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KsGp64w3XsA
And thanks to some gorgeous person who filmed the entire Ritz gig:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tlYahV2Wdts
My Spotify playlist is testimony to my musical slut fest; Ministry are on top of Matt Goss who happily spoons Macklemore whilst Lawson nestle snuggly between The Lemonheads and Living In A Box. People frown at my speakers when, after having hummed along to Bananarama's 'Cruel Summer', they are aurally assaulted by Pantera's 'Walk'. I just smile and shrug. "I like it" I offer as a form of apology as they waggle their finger in one ear trying to get rid of the shrill shrieking of temporary tinnitus.
That's another thing - having spent years behind a music shop counter, I think that my definition of what constitutes 'normal' volume has been warped. "How do you work with this racket?" I would get asked at least twice a day. I answered honestly "I don't even notice it's on" So, in my defence if I want to really hear it, it must make the wallpaper begin to slightly peel and render all outside noise inaudible. "You'll go bloody deaf!" my dad used to bawl after shouting upstairs for ten minutes. Perhaps I subconsciously decided to learn sign language based on this threat. That's another thing for future pondering.
I make no apology for my lack of music snobbery - there are very few artists whose music renders me running for the mute button. Although it is worth mentioning here that despite his fabulous sense of humour and clear all round niceguyness, Michael Buble's music makes me want to push cocktail sticks in my ears. So does Jessie J's, though I have no idea why.
Before I had children I swore that I would ensure that when I did, they had a passion for reading and for music. So far so good. Indeed, it is a gorgeous moment with my then 10 year old daughter that inspired me to write this about it. She loves music too. Loves it. Also, my 7 year old son can sing the lyrics to pretty much any song we ever have on in the house and that covers a multitude of genres and eras. One child plays the drums, one plays the guitar. Mission Love Music is currently a success.
My now 11 year old daughter is almost as tall as me. Her emotional maturity far outweighs her life experience and she exudes a confidence that I would have paid good money to have when I was 21 let alone 11. She will have a listen to pretty much anything and makes good, rationalised reasoning for why she does or doesn't like something. So, when I came home early last year and tried to find a song called 'Chocolate' that I had heard on the way home and had taken an instant liking to, she sat with me and listened as we played it all the way through on Spotify. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FfBKqaVk2Co
We loved it and now, pretty much a year later we love everything else that The 1975 have since and previously released. She looked them up and learnt everything about them. She searched for clips of them on YouTube and as their popularity grew and they played more and more events, so did her favourites list on said website. The fact that their lead singer has a bit of a swagger and is, ahem, quite handsome was not lost on her. Me? I might be 41 but I love a song that sends the dopamine flooding through your body as soon as you hear the opening chord. Also, can I hear anyone say cougar?
So, tickets went on sale for a gig at The Ritz in Manchester. It would be stupid not to go right? Wrong. Initially, we didn't buy them because sadly it was admission for 14+ only and Erin was only 10 at the time. Eventually though, we knew we had to. I had sweet talked security many times in the past and was sure I could do it again if need be. Doc Marten boots, eyeliner and a beanie hat made her look older than some who were actually 14 but there was a heart stopping moment at the door. "How old are you?" one massive security gorilla asked. "14." she replied without dropping a beat. "Is that your mum?" he continued nodding at me. "Yes." still utterly deadpan. "Go on then" he smiled. And we were in. No need to state the fake birth date we had rehearsed on the way there.
Eventually, they came onto stage, everyone goes wild, it is hotter than hell, there's beer flying everywhere, a creepy guy starts to talk to her but still she is just standing, staring awe struck at the band. She sings, screams, dances and smiles constantly. It wasn't her first gig by any means but the first gig by a band who she really loved.
Fast forward to the single song encore and here finally is the point of this blog entry. We had slowly been creeping further down to the stage having initially started close to the back as it really was heaving and I didn't want to traumatise my child in a mass of people standing too close to each other with no idea of where their limbs were flailing!
She stands in front of me and turns around as the initial chords of the song 'You' start with a look on her face that, even when I think about it now, I might cry. I could try and describe it but will never capture what it said so instead I will tell you what it felt like to me. It was like the moment where everything I love about music I could see etched on her face. We stared at each other and had it been a cartoon, a line of musical instruments, treble clefs and love hearts would have left my eyes and entered hers. It was like I was passing the baton. Here - take everything I have and use it to fill your life as much as mine has been with songs that you love.
The look was gone in an instant and replaced with me frantically trying to keep an eye on her as she moved further and further forward into the heaving mass whilst simultaneously trying not to slide on errant, one hopes, pints of beer.
We went to see them again this week, an even more swaggering 11 year old daughter whose love affair with the band shows no signs of waning. Indeed, the beginnings of a little indie rock chick are hatching out. Her wardrobe is full of black skinny jeans, hats and DM boots and her playlists are starting to tilt in favour of My Chemical Romance, Bastille and Imagine Dragons.
This gig was no less eventful than the last but for a whole different reason. Details on that to follow but for now, I am going to go and make a brew and bask in the knowledge that even though she may have inherited my freakishly large earlobes she has also inherited my passion for music and that, I feel, is a worthy trade any day.
The 1975 - You
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KsGp64w3XsA
And thanks to some gorgeous person who filmed the entire Ritz gig:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tlYahV2Wdts
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