standing in the centre of the room with its power cord taped to the floor to prevent excited record lovers tripping over it as they rushed blindly to seek out treasures.
I noted with approval that the device, bars glowing a cheery orange, had been placed as far as humanly possible from any of the records. Vinyl and heat: not a good combination.
“Then why are we bothering at all?” said Nevada.
I looked around. It was a long narrow room with dusty wooden floors. There were folding tables set up along three of the walls, in a U-shape around the heater. The dealers, all men except for one formidable-looking middle-aged lady with a hooded orange sweatshirt and Brillo pad hair, were still setting up. On the tables were boxes and crates of records, some yet to be opened.
Despite myself, I felt the familiar pang of excitement. Who knew what I might find? I said, “Because not all of these guys are on the ball, because most of them aren’t jazz specialists, and because miracles happen.”
I started going through the crates and Nevada became bored almost immediately. It didn’t help that the heater was kicking in and the smell of large and largely unwashed men hauling in heavy crates of records to beat a deadline pervaded the place. “Listen,” she said, “why don’t I go out and get us some coffee? I suspect they have coffee in Surbiton.”
“That’s a good idea. And see if you can—”
“Yes, yes, I’ll search out some gourmet connoisseur blend of the kind that you won’t turn your nose up at.” She waved her hand, more in a gesture of dismissal than farewell, and headed for the door.
I didn’t blame her for fleeing a place that smelled at worst of sweaty trainspotter and at best of budget deodorant. Plus, to be honest, it was a relief not to have her constantly tapping her toe impatiently while I gave all of the boxes of records a thorough inspection, including the ones lurking under the tables. It was the usual overpriced junk with the occasional item apparently price-stickered by somebody on a grandiose and florid LSD trip. Ten pounds for a Culture Club album of no discernible scarcity, anyone? But there was also the occasional nice, or at least intriguing, record.
I found a Prince bootleg I’d been searching for for years. It was the one where he jammed with Miles Davis. Unfortunately it was in poor condition, crazily expensive and turned out to only feature Miles on a single track. Three strikes and you’re out. I put it back in the box, to my regret and obviously also that of the avaricious clown behind the table who had optimistically saddled it with its stratospheric price tag.
“Found something?” It was an all-too-familiar voice. I turned to see Stinky Stanmer standing there. I suppose it wasn’t so surprising. I had introduced him to this place, years ago. He bent down and checked the box I’d just been searching through. He found the Prince/Miles Davis record right away and glanced at me. “You aren’t buying this?”
“Too expensive.”
He chortled and took out his wallet. It was bulging with banknotes. He paid the dealer, who had perked up considerably. He put the record in a bag and Stinky tucked it under his arm.
“So,” he said, looking around. “Found anything else?” For a moment it was the good old sincere, ingratiating Stinky whom I remembered from university. “Found anything really choice?”
I shook my head. I said, “It’s hardly likely, is it?” I looked around at the dealers, their overwhelming shared attributes being obsession, a poor sense of personal hygiene, passion and greed. I said, “It would be like finding a virgin at a pimp convention.”
He gave a loud bark of laughter and people stared at us. I was appalled to notice that some of the dealers and customers had recognised him, and doubly appalled to realise that in their eyes my status had been elevated through being in his company.
It was at this moment that Nevada returned with two cardboard
I noted with approval that the device, bars glowing a cheery orange, had been placed as far as humanly possible from any of the records. Vinyl and heat: not a good combination.
“Then why are we bothering at all?” said Nevada.
I looked around. It was a long narrow room with dusty wooden floors. There were folding tables set up along three of the walls, in a U-shape around the heater. The dealers, all men except for one formidable-looking middle-aged lady with a hooded orange sweatshirt and Brillo pad hair, were still setting up. On the tables were boxes and crates of records, some yet to be opened.
Despite myself, I felt the familiar pang of excitement. Who knew what I might find? I said, “Because not all of these guys are on the ball, because most of them aren’t jazz specialists, and because miracles happen.”
I started going through the crates and Nevada became bored almost immediately. It didn’t help that the heater was kicking in and the smell of large and largely unwashed men hauling in heavy crates of records to beat a deadline pervaded the place. “Listen,” she said, “why don’t I go out and get us some coffee? I suspect they have coffee in Surbiton.”
“That’s a good idea. And see if you can—”
“Yes, yes, I’ll search out some gourmet connoisseur blend of the kind that you won’t turn your nose up at.” She waved her hand, more in a gesture of dismissal than farewell, and headed for the door.
I didn’t blame her for fleeing a place that smelled at worst of sweaty trainspotter and at best of budget deodorant. Plus, to be honest, it was a relief not to have her constantly tapping her toe impatiently while I gave all of the boxes of records a thorough inspection, including the ones lurking under the tables. It was the usual overpriced junk with the occasional item apparently price-stickered by somebody on a grandiose and florid LSD trip. Ten pounds for a Culture Club album of no discernible scarcity, anyone? But there was also the occasional nice, or at least intriguing, record.
I found a Prince bootleg I’d been searching for for years. It was the one where he jammed with Miles Davis. Unfortunately it was in poor condition, crazily expensive and turned out to only feature Miles on a single track. Three strikes and you’re out. I put it back in the box, to my regret and obviously also that of the avaricious clown behind the table who had optimistically saddled it with its stratospheric price tag.
“Found something?” It was an all-too-familiar voice. I turned to see Stinky Stanmer standing there. I suppose it wasn’t so surprising. I had introduced him to this place, years ago. He bent down and checked the box I’d just been searching through. He found the Prince/Miles Davis record right away and glanced at me. “You aren’t buying this?”
“Too expensive.”
He chortled and took out his wallet. It was bulging with banknotes. He paid the dealer, who had perked up considerably. He put the record in a bag and Stinky tucked it under his arm.
“So,” he said, looking around. “Found anything else?” For a moment it was the good old sincere, ingratiating Stinky whom I remembered from university. “Found anything really choice?”
I shook my head. I said, “It’s hardly likely, is it?” I looked around at the dealers, their overwhelming shared attributes being obsession, a poor sense of personal hygiene, passion and greed. I said, “It would be like finding a virgin at a pimp convention.”
He gave a loud bark of laughter and people stared at us. I was appalled to notice that some of the dealers and customers had recognised him, and doubly appalled to realise that in their eyes my status had been elevated through being in his company.
It was at this moment that Nevada returned with two cardboard
Similar Books
