As threatened, throughout April - in celebration of Record Store Day - I offer up a daily post related to all things record shop.
And if any of it sounds like a manifesto, consider it good practice for my election campaign next year.
Day five's steaming pile of japery, kinghell boring bullshit and contentious nonsense...
05/04/22
20th Century Steroid Man, and The Scandi Hippy
I've got a forthcoming post about the amazing instores I've taken part in. But for context (and it's Nadir Tuesday) here's two of the worst instores I've taken part in.
1. The Chippendales, HMV Telford 1992.
In thirty years, this abomination remains the only instore I've worked where crowd barriers were used to keep the 'artist' separated from the crowd. Actually, 'safe' would be a better word and 'artist' is stretching reality to the point of increduality.
Sexual politics have come a long way since the gyrating budgie smugglers brought Telford Town Centre to a grinding standstill, and the 'roid heads who turned up at the shop weren't even the 'A-listers' off the calendar. Being only 4'9 tall can have its drawbacks, and one of the worst is realising your eye level is about the same distance from the floor as the Speedo groin of a Chippendale being molested by a woman who bears a striking resemblance to your middle school maths teacher. Obscene.
2. Thomas Dybdahl, Rise Bristol 2010
Norwegian Dybdahl turned up at Rise without any shoes, but at least he kept his trousers on. Back in Norway, Dybdahl was a big hitter, and Universal UK had signed Dybdahl on the strength of a string of number one albums. In football terms he was your club chairman's Big Money foreign signing that bombs in the reserves, goes on loan to Grasshoppers, disappears without trace, and then resurfaces a few seasons later at Real Madrid, banging in 50 goals a season.
No one came to Rise to see Thomas Dybdahl pluck his acoustic six string. Embarrassed colleagues fled the scene and I had to break up a fight over who would clean the staff toilet. Eventually, Dybdahl packed up and took his guitar and CDs down to College Green, where he made an absolute killing serenading the folks out enjoying the sun. Fair play to him, but it's probably the only time I'll ever analogise College Green with Real Madrid.