I bought some new (old) records today. From the big Oxfam. At the weekend I finally got around to rigging up my turntable. I have the space for it since raising both desks up to standing height; part of a long-overdue studio makeover. Just a little part, but it’s a start.
Someone (and I always do wonder what’s behind the clear-out – positive life-cleaning or something less… chosen) had provided an extraordinary range of Marc Almond vinyl; there must’ve been going on for a dozen solo titles; albums and 12inch singles. I like Marc Almond. From the youth club days of Tainted Love (oh, the pride of Leeds) and the rambling drama of Say Hello…; the voluptuous production on The Art of Falling Apart – well, to Marc and the Mambas and his tremendous homage to Jacques Brel.. I FOUND THE CASSETTE ALBUM IN A BOX I’D FORGOTTEN ABOUT! – oh, and in concert at Reading in the 1850s, how he lost his rag with some students chatting while he sang – well, yes – he has a lovely singing voice. I plumped for this crazy-ass picture disc which at home I put on at the wrong speed.
Great. The Pretenders (see what I did in that link from Marc? Huh?) She is still the reason why I wear black eyeliner – that’s what my sister just wrote when I mentioned this find. Sales of kohl as the 70s ended.. whoah.
Being more into Gary Numan, we – me and my mate – kinda passed over owning other stuff. I think our mutual friend Paul Waites had this album, and I probably borrowed it at some point. But, hey, now I own it. And, yes, of course I skipped straight to Souvenir.
They have a 99p range just by the front door, so I thought, what the hell. Let’s at least try something… different. Puccini’s La Boheme. So. Anyway. I can’t help noticing that the cat up the lane – the one we don’t like and call Bully Cat on account of him harassing the cats who used to be free to walk over this way, before he arrived – has a really tiny head and a huge backside. Another thing with a tiny head is our garden’s resident blackbird, who is doing that mad moulting. Usually he just goes a kind of Clooney grey, but this year he’s lost his feathers and his good looks. But it’s the cat I’m really noticing for the first time in any detail, as he’s currently parked his phenomenal rear on a bench just outside here. Really. For such a fat arse, he’s got a seriously wee bonce.
They have a genuinely nutso range of singles. And they’re practically lined up on the floor, so you have to get right on down whilst browsers of chick-lit trip over your heels. Here’s two I bought: Hello, This is Joannie (The Telephone Answering Machine Song), and, really, Y.M.C.A. The man at the cash till commented nostalgically on the latter, and I said ‘well, it’s the rest of my day sorted’ – which was meant to be like a joke about dancing to it, but it didn’t make enough sense, and I think we were both just embarrassed. I haven’t played it, as it goes. But I did play the Joannie song, which I really remember – although had forgotten the whole icky death-twist at the end. It reminded me of when Jesse in Breaking Bad kept calling Jane’s phone to hear her message. Which was sad. Not as sad as the ending of Show Me a Hero, mind – which I just saw. Bloody hell, I was in bits. And that’s all a true story.
The recent past, replayed.