Hooleygan

by Terri Hooley

  I took over premises on 54 Howard Street in the centre of Belfast, and it turned out to be the best premises I ever had. It had once been a big fabric shop so I had plenty of space to work with, and I sold every genre of music there was to sell. I had a great sixties section and a great country section, I even decided to put in an old maple dance floor. It was just brilliant – Vintage Records was born!

  I chose the name in homage to the Vintage Record Shop in central London, my first big customer in the sixties. I would buy rare singles from the Gramophone Shop in Deptford for a pittance – they hadn’t a clue what they had – and I would knock them on to Vintage for a couple of quid.

  I can’t tell you how pleased I was with that shop. We were in a prime location in the city centre, just round the corner from the Grand Opera House and, of course, The Crown Bar! We had all sorts of famous customers too. Jools Holland once commented that we had a great blues section, and the Mavericks were regular visitors. Any of the stars appearing at the Opera House would also make a point of coming in. The Krankies even came in once, but I don’t brag to many people about that!

  But I’m sorry to say that Vintage had quite a sinister start. We had just opened the store to the public when I was approached by a couple of guys who said they were from the Ulster Defence Association, a loyalist paramilitary organisation, and they wanted £500 in ‘protection money’. Well, they may as well have taken the keys to the shop. I didn’t have that sort of money, but they warned they would be coming back that Thursday night to collect.

  It was, and still is, a fact of life in Northern Ireland that when you open a business here you are susceptible to pressure and extortion from the paramilitaries. You are expected to pay out hundreds of pounds every week in so-called protection money. In return for these ‘donations’ you are supposedly immune from attack from other organisations. Great in theory, but there were quite a few key holders in town who didn’t get much protection for their money!

  Over the years, and in all the stores I had worked in, we would regularly get people coming into the shop looking for money. Sometimes it would be under the guise of collecting for prisoner welfare groups, and if they were carrying a collection box or bucket I would throw in a few coins. Quite often there would be veiled threats if we refused to pay, so I would say we were already paying someone else.

  When we first opened Good Vibrations in 1976, for example, I was approached for protection money, but since I had no money to give it wasn’t really an option. Instead I arranged a meeting with the paramilitaries in question and I said I would give them the pick of my record collection, on the condition they left me alone. It’s amazing the crap I got rid of in that meeting – paramilitaries have very dodgy taste in music.

  In reality I refused to pay protection money to any of those bastards, so that first Thursday in Vintage was a pretty tense day. Around teatime this fella came in and said, ‘You’re Hooley aren’t you?’ I nodded and he put a down a box of beer, making several return journeys until the place looked more like an off-licence than a record shop. Before leaving he said that the boys would be down later.

  It turned out he was from the Ulster Volunteer Force, another loyalist paramilitary organisation – so no doubt the beer was stolen! – and they weren’t about to let the UDA muscle in front of them. I guess they wanted to mark their territory. So later that evening they all arrived down and started a party! It was bizarre, there were people walking up and down outside the shop, terrified to come in because the place was now full of paramilitaries! In the end, I called up some friends who came down and we all partied together into the small hours. The UDA didn’t turn up that night at all and the Thursday Club was born – we decided to make Thursday our weekly party night.

  After a while though, the club inevitably began to attract a bit of attention from the Drug Squad. One night we were raided while I had a stash of drugs upstairs in the office, but I managed to flush it all down the loo as a policewoman was banging on the toilet door. I told her I was taking medication for my heart – feasible enough as I was meant to be taking four tablets a day!

  But it wasn’t all just parties, a lot of hard work and effort went into trying to get Vintage Records off the ground. I was spending all my time at the shop, often working till two in the morning and I had some great customers. I would also regularly get tourists in looking for very specific stuff – you know bodhráns, turf and penny whistles – but I’m not an expert in traditional Irish music, so when a friend of mine who worked for Gael Linn, one of Ireland’s biggest distribution companies, told me they had pressed two CDs of traditional Irish music for record shop HMV, my ears pricked up. HMV had been selling them at £7.99 and they weren’t shifting terribly well so I managed to get a load of them for a pound each. I then decided to sell them two for £5 and was still making a profit.

  But the arrival of US President Bill Clinton in Belfast in 1995 gave me the chance to make a real killing. I heard ­from Michael Macy –the Assistant Cultural Attaché at the US Embassy in London, and also a friend of mine – that the Americans didn’t know what music to play when Hillary and Bill Clinton walked into the Europa Hotel so I gave him one of my Gael Linn CDs. Incredibly, that’s what they used and it seemed that the whole Clinton entourage wanted a copy as a result. I ended up selling hundreds of them, though I’m not sure how pleased HMV were!

  Things were also busy in the studio, as it was around that time that we were approached by Oliver’s Army, a great wee band from Bangor who were obviously named after the Elvis Costello hit of the same name. They wanted to release their EP, Too Much, with Good Vibrations. I really liked these guys but my abiding memory is of lead singer Keith Lloyd, who was a right mouthy wee bastard! He really thought they were the best thing since sliced bread, and often told me they were the best band ever to record on Good Vibrations. He later got a top job at HMV, but fuck he was a lippy one!

  It was through Oliver’s Army that I paired up with Jimmy Symington, a fantastic guitar player who I met in The Crown Bar when I first signed the band, and he became a great friend of mine. Together, along with Jonny Quinn and Nick Hamilton, we formed a band called Hearts of Steel. We gigged around Belfast and had a strong environmental message, which was pretty radical in 1995.

  We wanted people to think about the bigger issues, and we didn’t care if they liked us or not, we just wanted to play. But my bandmates were too good, and soon people began to rave about us. We landed a gig supporting a great Northern Ireland band called Watercress, who were headed for greatness but who sadly broke up before that could happen. Anyway, as we performed people started waving their lighters in the air – an action which is more at home at an Elton John concert! – and I remember thinking, ‘That’s the end of it, they like us.’ Hearts of Steel never played again, though the lads and I remain very close friends.

  When I turned fifty I took stock of my life – I’d been partying for over thirty years and I needed something to calm me down. Eithne and I had been talking for a while about having a kid, we wanted to have a family before it was too late and, once we’d decided, it happened very quickly. The birth of my son Michael on 13 November 1999 was one of the most joyous occasions in my life. I hadn’t been allowed to be at Anna’s birth twenty years earlier, but this time I was involved from the start. I even went to parenting classes, which I loved, even if I was a pest, constantly asking questions. When the penultimate week of the classes arrived I sat talking to a nurse over a cup of coffee, and I lamented the fact that once the classes were finished my life was going to be completely messed up – what was I going to do on a Wednesday night?

  Of course, the night Michael arrived everything I had learned at the parenting classes went out the window. I had been told the first thing to do when a baby is born is to put them on their mother’s stomach, but I grabbed Michael and wouldn’t let go of him for about ten minutes. They had to practically force me to hand him over. I knew he was going to change my life, I was finally going to calm
down. I decided to take two or three days off from the shop each week in order to spend time with him, and I stayed at home with him every Friday night watching the TV, while Eithne was off partying!

  Things were looking bright, not only in my personal life, but in the world outside my front door – Northern Ireland was experiencing a period of hope and of peace. Though sadly, there are always some people who want to drag us all back to the dark ages. A man called Johnny Adair was one of those people, and somehow I found myself in the dangerous position of being in his bad books.

  Adair was notorious, a real evil bastard. He was commander of an outfit called ‘C’ Company which was part of the Ulster Freedom Fighters – who in turn were aligned with the UDA – and his followers were responsible for countless murders of innocent Catholics. They killed people simply because of their religious affiliation. He was a gangster, a bigot and, as it turned out, a racist.

  He had formed a skinhead band called Offensive Weapon which openly endorsed the National Front – in fact, it was believed that the National Front was funding the band and buying them instruments – and a rumour had spread around town that I had been planning to give them a record deal, but that when I found out about their less than savoury connections, I had pulled the plug. To be honest I have no clear recollection of making such a decision. I can say that I have always refused to stock music from race hate bands such as Screwdriver and No Remorse and I would never have put on a gig that included such bands. Maybe that was why Adair got it into his head that I was preventing Offensive Weapon from getting any gigs in town. It may have been true, however indirect my involvement may have been, but I didn’t really think much of it and I didn’t see the warning signs.

  Every week for several weeks, four guys from the Lower Shankill – Adair’s patch – had been coming in at night and demanding money, and every week I would tell them to fuck off. It got to the stage where, when somebody came in, I would just show them a piece of cardboard I kept under the counter upon which I had written, ‘We only give to reputable charities, please don’t ask for donations.’

  One night in 2000, I was there late because I had been at home during the day spending time with Michael and I took a tenner out of the till to nip round the corner for a packet of fags. They were on top of me before I knew it. I don’t know how many there were of them, or what they looked like, but I remember going down, putting my hand over my good eye and then just curling into a ball trying to protect myself as best I could. They were hitting me in places I had never been hit before – this time I really thought it was the end. My next memory is of being put in an ambulance and a policeman asking me my name.

  I had been given a real good kicking and I’m convinced it was Adair’s mob that did it. They didn’t break any bones, but I suffered severe internal bruising and the doctors wanted to keep me in hospital. I was having none of it, and clambered out of bed, made my way to a phone and ordered a taxi to collect me from the Royal Victoria Hospital. Trouble was, I was in the City Hospital.

  But I needn’t have worried about getting a lift home. Word had got out that I had been beaten up, and when I came out of the building there was a row of cars waiting to take me home. I lay on the sofa for ten days, and was in so much pain that I couldn’t walk. If I needed to get anywhere I just crawled on the floor on all fours. I remember when Johnny from punk band OOOPS – whose album Social Scum had been released on the Good Vibrations label that year – came to see me, he took one look at me and said, ‘Christ! They were out to kill you’, and I think he was right.

  A few weeks later I was back on my feet, and back in the shop when a man I had never seen before came in and told me I wouldn’t have any bother again. To this day I have no idea who he was. Maybe he was a UFF or UDA representative; maybe he was from a rival paramilitary group; or maybe he was just somebody delivering a message. What I do know is that, for the next few weeks, every time the door of the shop opened I shit myself!

  In the meantime, my own music career was still going strong. Jimmy and I were still playing the odd show here and there – me reciting my poetry, and Jimmy playing his heart out – and in August 2002 we managed to secure a gig playing at the most ‘happening’ club in East Berlin, Kaffee Burger, thanks to my old friend Bert Papenfuss, the punk poet. Bert came from east Berlin and used to listen, illegally, to John Peel’s show, resulting in a love for The Outcasts. When the Wall came down he came to stay in Belfast and lived for a while in Ireton Street, just off Botanic Avenue, before returning to Germany. I was looking forward to meeting him in his home city.

  On the flight over I got talking to a girl, a punkette with bright pink hair who, believe it or not, worked as a film editor in the porn industry. She seemed really nice so, as we were getting off the plane, I invited her to the gig. We arrived in Berlin late that night, but as Jimmy had been celebrating his birthday – drinking for probably two days straight, and wanting to continue – we decided to carry on the party. After dropping off our bags in our hotel we came across an African restaurant in the basement of a local building. We went in to get some food, and were served by a beautiful woman who was around six-feet tall. We had some chicken, some drinks and, before long, we had scored some drugs. The party was definitely on!

  We stayed until around 6 a.m. that night, and while Jimmy headed back to the hotel to crawl into bed, I hauled myself off to a meeting with film-maker Roy Wallace who had joined us on the trip in order to film Big Time, a documentary on the Belfast punk scene. Roy had had this idea of taking me away from the streets of Belfast to another divided city and, exhausted though I was, we spent all day shooting scenes in various locations in Berlin. In the end though, he didn’t use any of the footage – so thanks for that Roy!

  When filming had finished, I met up with Jimmy and we went back to our African bar for a little pick-me-up, despite having a gig that evening. We stayed so long that we wound up being late for our own show!

  When we eventually showed up, I set out the pile of ‘Laugh at Me’ records I had brought with me, and got ready to hit the stage. I asked the man who had organised the gig, Jürgen Schneider, to play ‘Belfast’ by Joby Fox – one of my favourite songs – and ‘Babylon’s Burning’ by The Ruts to help me warm up. By the time the songs were over I was off my rocker, but ready to perform.

  I remember that during the break Jimmy and I headed to the loo, unfortunately not realising that our microphones were still on. So as we discussed the exceptional quality of the coke we had been snorting the previous evening, our every word was being broadcast to a very appreciative and amused audience!

  After the gig I agreed to do a signing and so people began to line up. I was taking my time signing a record for Jürgen’s girlfriend, when these two girls in the queue shouted, ‘Would you hurry up? There’s a fuckin’ taxi waitin’ outside.’ They had clearly spent some time in Belfast, as they spoke with a really weird German-Belfast accent – quite frightening!

  The next person in the queue was the gorgeous punkette I had met on the plane. She invited me back to her place for ‘a party’, but when I told her I wasn’t fit for a party she told me, ‘Well, there’s only two going to this party.’ I was gobsmacked. It was very flattering of course, but way beyond my capabilities, so I turned to Jimmy for help!

  I’ve been a regular visitor to Berlin ever since, it’s a second home to me. The experiences I have had there will stay with me for the rest of my life. The friends I have made there are some of the best people I’ve ever known. It’s a truly special place.

  As 2002 wore on it became apparent that Vintage – or ‘Good Vibrations: The Greatest Little Record Shop in the World’ as I’d renamed it – was heading for the wall. I was spending so many days away from the place to be with Michael that it had gone to the dogs. I was shocked that the shop was losing as much money as it was, so Eamonn McWilliams advised me to put in security cameras, including one hidden over the till, and I was stunned at what I discovered – there I was, borrowing money
to keep the shop open because I couldn’t pay the bills, but as soon as my back was turned, members of staff were emptying the tills. Unbelievable.

  What with all pilfering the staff were doing, and the increase in shop rates which came as a result of Northern Ireland’s peace time, Vintage went under in Oct 2002 and, for a second time, I was bankrupt. The official receiver took pity on me and bought a couple of CDs and gave me £20 to buy a drink in The Crown Bar. He knew it was a labour of love.

  ‘A Few Days in Berlin’ – Jimmy Symington

  First Rehearsals with Terri

  My good mate Keith Lloyd from the band Oliver’s Army phoned me up one night in 1995 to tell me they had just been signed to the legendary Good Vibrations label. He asked me if I wanted to come down for a few beers in The Crown Bar and meet their new record label boss, Terri Hooley. We hit it off straight away! It even turned out that we had both grown up in the same street in Clarawood estate, albeit thirty years apart.

  After too many drinks to remember, Keith was telling Terri how important his band were, how they were gonna take over the world and blow everything that has ever come out of Northern Ireland away. I think that I must have been pissing myself laughing at this a bit too much as Terri turned round and asked me what I did. When I told him I played a bit of guitar he stood up, chucked his glass eye into my pint and declared to everyone that he and I were, ‘gonna be more punk than The Kinks’. After that he scooped his glass eye out of my pint, stuck it back in its socket and asked if I was up for it. Not to make a pun, but my answer was ‘Aye’!