Hooleygan

by Terri Hooley

  It was my passion and with the help of many others it became a way of life – I spent all my time working at the shop. In the mornings people would come in and order records, and I would cycle down – on Dave’s butcher’s bike – to Symphola, the record suppliers in the city centre. I would get the orders and cycle back up to the shop.

  I had such knowledge of music back then, I could get people anything – even the most obscure stuff. And although it’s what we became famous for, we didn’t just stock punk records. Good Vibrations had the biggest reggae selection in Ireland, and in 1979 I even formed the Belfast Reggae Society. Each week I would DJ a reggae disco at Queen’s University; and we started running annual Bob Marley appreciation nights on the anniversary of his death, something we started again in 2010 after a long, long break.

  The store also had a great blues section and, even though it might have been hidden away in the corner, we even had a classical section. We did very well in those early days, making up to £2,000 a week, which in those days was a very healthy amount.

  The shop had become a hub for people of all ages and creeds. We even had a window seat so that people could sit, have some coffee and listen to music – but little did we know that it would give kids the chance to mitch off school and try to steal anything they could get their hands on! I reckon every teacher within a ten-mile radius of the shop had a wanted poster up on his classroom wall with my picture on it.

  The shop was full of some real characters – people like DJ Death Darren, a huge soul fan who once told me he had been really worried about coming to the shop because he thought it would be full of punks. Of course, when he eventually did come in he found a Booker T and the MGs album that he had been after, and so became a regular.

  In fact, it was the social element which was the best part of the whole thing. My enduring memory of that time is of lots of parties and lots of good times. Many a time after a night out we would head back to the shop for a few beers and listen to music, and then stumble home at about four in the morning. I often brought people back to our house. Life was a constant party.

  ‘Buying Records’ – David Holmes

  I was always buying records. Ever since I was twelve years old practically every penny I had would go on music, and my idea of heaven was spending the afternoons after school in Terri’s shop, just hanging out and annoying him. I used to hassle him with questions about music, and I rarely had any more than £2 in my pocket – but then ability to pay was never an issue for Terri!

  Good Vibrations was a remarkable place. Long before the dawn of the internet, Terri was able to source rare recordings, or albums that had only been released in America. And these weren’t re-issues – Terri always had the real thing, he always had something you wanted. Any record collector will tell you that they only want an original pressing in its original or imported sleeve, and Terri always delivered.

  One particular day, as a young mod, I went looking for stuff at Good Vibes and struck gold – Terri produced a dusty box of seven-inch singles from under the counter that were all original pressings from Sue, Atlantic, Liberty and London records. There we were, in a dusty record shop in Belfast, looking at original recordings by people like Ray Barretto, The Blendells and The Strangeloves. He even had one by Lee Dorsey, signed by Lee himself. That was twenty-five years ago and in those days I reckon they were worth about £30 or £40 each, but Terri was selling the lot for £30.

  These were incredibly rare pressings and I hadn’t a pot to piss in, but Terri knew how badly I wanted them. By this stage Terri knew music had become the most important thing in my life. He knew exactly what he was doing when he produced those records, and he knew full well that I wouldn’t be able to resist them.

  I was fifteen at the time and I would have sold my soul for them. Instead I told him that, if he let me have the records, I would pay him back over a period of time – I’d just keep giving him money from my paper round until he was paid. And so Terri handed me the box of records, and I went away a very happy and excited young man. As I said, some of those records were worth £30 on their own, so I knew that to get the lot for the same money was a steal.

  I’m sorry to say that it took me twelve whole years to pay for those records. Twelve years of having to avoid Terri! But when I started making myself some money, I did hand over the dough. By all accounts, Terri didn’t have that money for long. Apparently he was chatting to members of a local band called The V-Necks soon after and they mentioned that they needed a new microphone, but that they didn’t have the £28 it took to pay for it. Legend has it that as soon as Terri got the money from me, he proceeded to give it to those lads to pay for their mic!

  One day I was getting my hair cut in Belfast when this English guy walked in – we’ll call him Mr Smyth. We got talking, and he started to tell me about being a mod in London during the sixties, and how he was a regular at top London R & B clubs like The Scene and The Flamingo. This guy was the real deal; he had been a bit of a face round London but then had to take a bit of a holiday at ‘her majesty’s pleasure’.

  He told me how, before he went inside, he had entrusted his record collection to Terri, to look after while he was away – a collection which consisted of Ray Barretto, The Blendells, The Strangeloves and Lee Dorsey. I couldn’t believe it! I just shouted, ‘I’ve got those fuckin’ records!’ and all Mr Smyth could do was shake his head and say, ‘That fuckin’ Hooley.’

  Of course, Terri does maintain to this day that he never met Mr Smyth, and that he bought those records from another party, but it doesn’t really matter. If you’re lucky you’ll meet people in life who will pass on their knowledge and enthusiasm and, for Terri, it’s always been about the music. He’s still spreading the love.

  Big Time Punks

  By 1977, things in the shop were going really well and we really seemed to have hit our stride. Finally I was doing something I loved! I made sure I was always well up to date with the ever-changing trends in music, and of course the biggest thing by the late seventies was punk.

  Dave had recently started printing punk fanzine Alternative Ulster from his printers upstairs, so I knew a good bit about the genre, though I hadn’t seen any of it performed live. However, I knew its history, and loved its ideals. The only difference that I could see between the punk movement of the seventies and the hippies of the sixties was that instead of being arrested for handing out flowers, punks were arrested for being loud-mouthed and not being afraid to say you were full of crap. To be a punk was to be a pariah, and nothing highlighted this sentiment better than the now-infamous Clash gig, which was scheduled to take place in Belfast on 20 October 1977.

  It was the first visit to Ireland by one of the major London punk bands, so hundreds of people had travelled from far and wide for the gig. They waited outside the Ulster Hall, knocking back a few bottles of Olde English and growing more and more excited at the prospect of seeing their punk-rock idols in the flesh. At the very last minute, however, the insurance on the gig was cancelled (by order of Belfast City Council) and, since these were pre-mobile phone days, it was too late to let anyone know.

  No one really knew what to do and naturally there were a lot of upset and pissed-off people about. Then rumours began to circulate that the gig might go ahead at Queen’s, but while both The Clash and the promoter were trying to get that sorted, the RUC arrived and, no doubt seeing a crowd of rowdy youngsters, went into automatic Belfast ‘riot control’ mode.

  They got pretty heavy-handed as they tried to disperse the crowd but, later, the local press seemed to be more interested in poking fun at the ‘wacky’ punks than in reporting the police brutality, churning out tediously infantile drivel like, ‘one girl had a kettle for a handbag’.

  What still rankles to this day was the ridiculous attitude of the local establishment to punk: Belfast City Council had the insurance cancelled simply because they didn’t want to let a ‘nasty’ punk band play in their city. I think what makes me most angry however, is th
at when the newly refurbished Ulster Hall re-opened its doors in March 2009 it marked the Clash non-gig as a major event in its history!

  The irony is that the cancelled gig actually became a catalyst for the punk movement in Belfast, drawing more and more people to the music. Where once local bands had played to just a handful of people, there were now hundreds of fans. My own conversion to the scene however would come just a little later thanks to a shop regular, ‘Wee’ Gordy Owens.

  Gordy – or ‘Fangs’ as we used to call him, due to some missing teeth – was generally very likeable, even if he could sometimes be a real pain in the arse. He almost never went to school and he tortured us all day long, but it was he who told me about a gig at a local club called The Pound that would change the direction of Good Vibrations forever.

  The Pound had been an important music venue right through the sixties, a place where you could have seen some of the big showband stars for a ticket price of £1 – hence the name. It was there that you would have seen the likes of Them – though without Van Morrison – and acts like local soul legend Sam Mahood, or the Jim Daly Blues Band playing in residence.

  The Pound was part of Roddy’s Bar on Townsend Street, just round the corner from the Law Courts, and a shabbier place I have yet to see. Comfort was not high on the list of priorities at The Pound – it had the look and feel of a stable, but in the centre of the city. It had the worst toilets for miles around – which is quite a claim to fame considering some of the dumps I drank in back then – and was even closed down on more than one occasion because of the bogs.

  Most pubs and clubs were closed at night during the Troubles as nobody felt safe going into the city centre – East Berlin was probably livelier than Belfast in the late seventies! – but The Pound was one of the few exceptions. With the likes of Light and Sk’Boo playing on a Saturday afternoon it was pulling in big crowds. Although, like most city centre buildings, it hadn’t escaped The Troubles unscarred. It was used as a makeshift morgue on ‘Bloody Friday’ when, on 21 July 1972, the IRA detonated a series of bombs across Belfast killing nine people and injuring dozens more; and it was badly damaged by a bomb at the nearby Oxford Street bus station in 1983, forcing it to close. But for three heady years between 1978 and 1981 it was home to some great punk gigs and for me it will always be the starting place for Good Vibrations’ biggest adventure.

  So anyway, it was 12 January 1978 and on Fangs’ recommendation we went down to The Pound. I can’t remember who else was with me, apart from my mate Paul Campbell, and by the time we arrived the place was already packed – there was a real feeling of expectation in the air.

  The first band on was The Outcasts and I absolutely hated them! But then a band called RUDI took to the stage and they blew my mind. From the moment the first chords were played I was completely in love with them – hook, line and sinker. They sounded like one of those American garage rock bands from the sixties, like The Standells, Electric Prunes or The Seeds, but what sealed it for me was that, halfway through their set, the RUC came in and tried to break up the gig …

  In reaction to the cancelled Clash gig three months earlier, RUDI’s lead singer, Brian Young, had written ‘Cops’, the lyrics of which went, ‘Go to see the show, just wanna hear some rock ’n’ roll. City Council says no, Ulster Hall says no.’ Even better was the chorus of ‘We hate the cops’, and the well known ‘SS RUC’ chant which served as both intro and outro. It became the Northern Ireland punk anthem and always went down a storm live.

  When they saw the police enter The Pound, everyone immediately started singing the chant from the song: ‘SS RUC’ and I thought to myself, ‘This is fuckin’ great!’ I loved the energy and I loved the fact that these kids didn’t seem to give a shit about the cops and were prepared to take them on. Punk was anarchy, and I had been waiting for it all my life.

  RUDI themselves were no newcomers to punk, however. The band had formed in 1975, though in those early days their influences were glam rock greats such as Marc Bolan, and David Bowie. They were only about fifteen or sixteen years of age at the time and their act was a bit rough and ready – they coloured their hair, wore customised boilersuits, and had a cheap but effective lightshow. But the explosion of punk onto the scene in 1976 meant a complete change in direction for them. At that time RUDI were really the only local punk band doing any gigs in Northern Ireland. The band themselves reckon they played about twenty different gigs throughout 1977, which doesn’t sound like much by today’s standards, but was quite a significant amount at the time, especially when you consider that venues were so limited. There were absolutely no places to play in the centre of Belfast, so venues like the The Trident in Bangor, the Windsor Hotel in Holywood, or the Glenmachan Hotel and Girton Lodge in east Belfast were about the only ones available.

  But RUDI were so good that they were even offered the chance to support The Buzzcocks at their gig at the McMordie Hall at Queen’s on 26 January 1978. On the night RUDI arrived early to set up and waited for The Buzzcocks, but they never showed. Eamonn McCann, who ran Queen’s entertainments, asked RUDI if they’d play a free gig for everyone and it turned out to be the biggest gig (up to then anyway!) to be headlined by a local band. Everybody thought that The Buzzcocks had chickened out, and even when it was announced that their van had broken down somewhere in Wales on their way to the ferry, no one believed it – at least not until about four years later when RUDI got chatting to a DJ who had actually been in the van heading to Belfast with The Buzzcocks when it broke down, and he was able to confirm that it was all true!

  RUDI had been through a few line-up changes since their formation, but by the time I saw them at The Pound the group comprised Brian Young, Ronnie Matthews, Graham ‘Grimmy’ Marshall and Gordy Blair and they were being managed by Kyle Leitch who worked in Belfast’s biggest record shop Caroline Music. RUDI was the first of the local bands to start writing their own material, and I was just so impressed by them.

  It was for this reason, and carried away by excitement and enthusiasm, that I found myself battling through the throng of punks pogoing in front of the stage that night and asking RUDI if they fancied putting out a flexi-disc single.

  The band knew who I was thankfully. They were regular customers in the shop and while I do think they thought I was just some old hippy from the sixties, lead singer, Brian Young shared my love of sixties girl groups and old rockabilly. After seeing them in action that night, I knew that I wanted to bring this band to the public’s attention and to help them in any way I could. I did some investigating and discovered that to make a flexi-disc would cost around 11p per unit, while it was only a few pence extra to press a vinyl 45. I suggested that we do that instead, they agreed, and the Good Vibrations record label was born.

  It was perfect – everything I had done in my life seemed to be leading to this moment. I had thought about starting a record label in the sixties and calling it Orbit – because we were all out of our heads! – but with one thing and another, I never did. I always felt that I had missed a great opportunity then, as so many great local acts like The Aztecs or the late great Sam Mahood and The Big Soul Band had failed to get a recording deal. I knew that I couldn’t let that happen again – I had to let the world know that there was something vibrant happening here.

  We managed to raise the money to make the record from a series of gigs, and there were many late nights in the shop and at my house in Jerusalem Street sorting out the details. Naturally there was always a lot of drink taken. In the end we decided we would produce two tracks, ‘Big Time’ and ‘Number One’, so Kyle organised for RUDI to record at Hydepark Studios in Templepatrick on 7 February 1978.

  The band borrowed a van, we all piled in, and headed for Templepatrick. George Doherty was the house producer and he really knew what he was doing, even though he spent most of the time talking up Pretty Boy Floyd & the Gems, a local band he was managing. The lads had never set foot in a recording studio before but they simply set up and played the e
ntire backing track as they would play it live. The vocals were recorded separately, and it was all done and dusted in three hours.

  Three thousand copies of the record were then pressed by EMI in Dublin. Two friends of mine – Gerry Devlin and John Carson – and I drove down in John’s Mini to hear it. It rained most of the way there, and unfortunately the windscreen wipers weren’t working properly, so Gerry and I each had to pull wee bits of string attached to the wipers all the way there! I don’t know how we made it to the factory in one piece.

  When we arrived, they played the record to see if we were happy with it. Happy? We were absolutely knocked out! It was one of the best days of my life. And it wasn’t just us that the record made an instant impression on. I remember a girl who worked in the factory approached me after we had played it. ‘Would there be any chance I could get a copy of that?’ she said. It was a beautiful moment.

  We released ‘Big Time’ in April 1978 and to this day it remains my favourite song on the Good Vibrations label. I had such faith in the band that I sent a copy off to every record label in England but nobody replied, not even to acknowledge that they had received it. We managed to sell every copy of it anyway though!

  I believed so much that something really exciting was happening in Belfast that I didn’t give a shit what the record companies thought. More and more kids were coming into my shop, more and more people were forming bands and the general atmosphere was just incredible. It was as if all the shit going on outside didn’t matter anymore. These may have been the darkest days of the Troubles, but I honestly believe punk bands saved countless lives then, keeping impressionable young people away from the paramilitaries and giving us all something exciting to focus on.