Something vintage. I blame Bobby Gillespie for this one. The scene: an independent record shop very much like the one in High Fidelity, and I was a 14 year-old in training to be Jack Black’s character. This was the time when working in a record store was my Number Three Grand Ambition, behind being a music writer and a rock star. It seemed to me about as glamorous.
Even though his Glaswegian accent was so impenetrable it took Bobby a full five minutes to explain that he was listening to Lou Reed on his walkman, he managed to communicate to me, his eager student, that I should be listening to the MC5. I still remember him pulling dusty 12″s off the racks – records I should own, but never found the money for. There was only so far my pocket money could stretch.
The Stooges were the other big recommendation, and indeed they were fine, but I squandered my paper round money on insipid indie instead. I remember taking my Drop Nineteens album back to HMV after hearing it once. Reason for return: “It’s crap”.
They gave me a refund.