by Nick Hornby
When I start going through them properly, I can see straightaway that it’s the haul I’ve always dreamed of finding, ever since I began collecting records. There are fan-club-only Beatles singles, and the first half-dozen Who singles, and Elvis originals from the early sixties, and loads of rare blues and soul singles, and …there’s a copy of “God Save the Queen” by the Sex Pistols on A&M! I have never even seen one of these! I have never even seen anyone who’s seen one! And oh no oh no oh God—“You Left the Water Running” by Otis Redding, released seven years after his death, withdrawn immediately by his widow because she didn’t…
“What d’you reckon?” She’s leaning against the door frame, arms folded, half smiling at whatever ridiculous face I’m making.
“It’s the best collection I’ve ever seen.” I have no idea what to offer her. This lot must be worth at least six or seven grand, and she knows it. Where am I going to get that kind of money from?
“Give me fifty quid and you can take every one away with you today.”
I look at her. We’re now officially in Joke Fantasy Land, where little old ladies pay good money to persuade you to cart off their Chippendale furniture. Except I am not dealing with a little old lady, and she knows perfectly well that what she has here is worth a lot more than fifty quid. What’s going on?
“Are these stolen?”
She laughs. “Wouldn’t really be worth my while, would it, lugging all this lot through someone’s window for fifty quid? No, they belong to my husband.”
“And you’re not getting on too well with him at the moment?”
“He’s in Spain with a twenty-three-year-old. A friend of my daughter’s. He had the fucking cheek to phone up and ask to borrow some money and I refused, so he asked me to sell his singles collection and send him a check for whatever I got, minus ten percent commission. Which reminds me. Can you make sure you give me a five pound note? I want to frame it and put it on the wall.”
“They must have taken him a long time to get together.”
“Years. This collection is as close as he has ever come to an achievement.”
“Does he work?”
“He calls himself a musician, but…” She scowls her disbelief and contempt. “He just sponges off me and sits around on his fat arse staring at record labels.”
Imagine coming home and finding your Elvis singles and your James Brown singles and your Chuck Berry singles flogged off for nothing out of sheer spite. What would you do? What would you say?
“Look, can’t I pay you properly? You don’t have to tell him what you got. You could send the forty-five quid anyway, and blow the rest. Or give it to charity. Or something.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal. I want to be poisonous but fair.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s just…I don’t want any part of this.”
“Suit yourself. There are plenty of others who will.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m trying to find a compromise. What about fifteen hundred? They’re probably worth four times that.”
“Sixty.”
“Thirteen.”
“Seventy-five.”
“Eleven. That’s my lowest offer.”
“And I won’t take a penny more than ninety.” We’re both smiling now. It’s hard to imagine another set of circumstances that could result in this kind of negotiation.
“He could afford to come home then, you see, and that’s the last thing I want.”
“I’m sorry, but I think you’d better talk to someone else.” When I get back to the shop I’m going to burst into tears and cry like a baby for a month, but I can’t bring myself to do it to this guy.
“Fine.”
I stand up to go, and then get back on my knees: I just want one last, lingering look.
“Can I buy this Otis Redding single off you?”
“Sure. Ten pee.”
“Oh, come on. Let me give you a tenner for this, and you can give the rest away for all I care.”
“OK. Because you took the trouble to come up here. And because you’ve got principles. But that’s it. I’m not selling them to you one by one.”
So I go to Wood Green and I come back with a mint-condition “You Left the Water Running,” which I pick up for a tenner. That’s not a bad morning’s work. Barry and Dick will be impressed. But if they ever find out about Elvis and James Brown and Jerry Lee Lewis and the Pistols and the Beatles and the rest, they will suffer immediate and possibly dangerous traumatic shock, and I will have to counsel them, and…
How come I ended up siding with the bad guy, the man who’s left his wife and taken himself off to Spain with some nymphette? Why can’t I bring myself to feel whatever it is his wife is feeling? Maybe I should go home and flog Laura’s sculpture to someone who wants to smash it to pieces and use it for scrap; maybe that would do me some good. But I know I won’t. All I can see is that guy’s face when he gets his pathetic check through the mail, and I can’t help but feel desperately, painfully sorry for him.
It would be nice to report that life is full of exotic incidents like this, but it isn’t. Dick tapes me the first Liquorice Comfits album, as promised; Jimmy and Jackie Corkhill stop arguing, temporarily; Laura’s mum doesn’t ring, but my mum does. She thinks Laura might be more interested in me if I did some evening classes. We agree to differ or, at any rate, I hang up on her. And Dick, Barry, and I go by minicab to the White Lion to see Marie, and our names are indeed on the guest list. The ride costs exactly fifteen quid, but that doesn’t include the tip, and bitter is two pounds a pint. The White Lion is smaller than the Harry Lauder, so it’s half full rather than two-thirds empty, and it’s much nicer, too, and there’s even a support act, some terrible local singer-songwriter for whom the world ended just after “Tea for the Tillerman” by Cat Stevens, not with a bang but a wimp.
The good news: (1) I don’t cry during “Baby, I Love Your Way,” although I do feel slightly sick. (2) We get a mention: “Is that Barry and Dick and Rob I see down there? Nice to see you, fellas.” And then she says to the audience, “Have you ever been to their shop? Championship Vinyl in north London? You really should.” And people turn round to look at us, and we look at each other sheepishly, and Barry is on the verge of giggling with excitement, the idiot. (3) I still want to be on an album cover somewhere, despite the fact that I was violently sick when I got to work this morning because I’d been up half the night smoking roll-ups made with dog-ends and drinking banana liqueur and missing Laura. (Is that good news? Maybe it’s bad news, definite, final proof that I’m mad, but it’s good news in that I still have an ambition of sorts, and that Melody Radio is not my only vision of the future.)
The bad news: (1) Marie brings someone out to sing with her for her encore. A bloke. Someone who shares her microphone with her with an intimacy I don’t like, and sings harmony on “Love Hurts,” and looks at her while he’s doing so in a way that suggests that he’s ahead of me in the queue for the album shoot. Marie still looks like Susan Dey, and this guy—she introduces him as “T-Bone Taylor, the best-kept secret in Texas”—looks like a prettier version of Daryl Hall of Hall and Oates, if you can imagine such a creature. He’s got long blond hair, and cheekbones, and he’s well over nine feet tall, but he’s got muscles too (he’s wearing a denim waistcoat and no shirt) and a voice that makes that man who does the Guinness adverts sound soppy, a voice so deep that it seems to land with a thud on the stage and roll toward us like a cannonball.
I know my sexual confidence is not high at the moment, and I know that women are not necessarily interested in long blond hair, cheekbones, and height; that sometimes they are looking for shortish dark hair, no cheekbones and width, but even so! Look at them! Susan Dey and Daryl Hall! Entwining the naked melody lines from “Love Hurts”! Mingling their saliva, almost! Just as well I wore my favorite shirt when she came into the shop the other day, otherwise I wouldn’t have stood a chance.
There is no other bad news. That’s it.
When the gig finishes I pick my jacket up off the floor and start to go.
“It’s only half-ten,” Barry says. “Let’s get another one in.”
“You can if you want. I’m going back.” I don’t want to have a drink with someone called T-Bone, but I get the feeling that this is exactly what Barry would like to do. I get the feeling that having a drink with someone called T-Bone could be the high point of Barry’s decade. “I don’t want to muck your evening up. I just don’t feel like staying.”
“Not even for half an hour?”
“Not really.”
“Hold on a minute, then. I’ve got to take a piss.”
“Me too,” Dick says.
When they’re gone, I get out quickly, and hail a black cab. It’s brilliant, being depressed; you can behave as badly as you like.
Is it so wrong, wanting to be at home with your record collection? It’s not like collecting records is like collecting stamps, or beermats, or antique thimbles. There’s a whole world in here, a nicer, dirtier, more violent, more peaceful, more colorful, sleazier, more dangerous, more loving world than the world I live in; there is history, and geography, and poetry, and countless other things I should have studied at school, including music.
When I get home (twenty quid, Putney to Crouch End, and no tip) I make myself a cup of tea, plug in the headphones, and plow through every angry song about women by Bob Dylan and Elvis Costello I own, and when I’ve got through those, I stick on a Neil Young live album until I have a head ringing with feedback, and when I’ve finished with Neil Young I go to bed and stare at the ceiling, which is no longer the dreamy, neutral activity it once was. It was a joke, wasn’t it, all that Marie stuff? I was kidding myself that there was something I could go on to, an easy, seamless transition to be made. I can see that now. I can see everything once it’s already happened—I’m very good at the past. It’s the present I can’t understand.
I get to work late, and Dick has already taken a message from Liz. I’m to ring her at work, urgently. I have no intention of ringing her at work. She wants to cancel our drink this evening, and I know why, and I’m not going to let her. She’ll have to cancel to my face.
I get Dick to ring her back and tell her that he’d forgotten I wouldn’t be in all day—I’ve gone to a record fair in Colchester and I’m coming back specially for a date this evening. No, Dick doesn’t have a number. No, Dick doesn’t think I’ll be ringing the shop. I don’t answer the phone for the rest of the day, just in case she tries to catch me out.
We’ve arranged to meet in Camden, in a quiet Youngs pub on Parkway. I’m early, but I’ve got a Time Out with me, so I sit in a corner with my pint and some cashews and work out which films I’d see if I had anyone to go with.
The date with Liz doesn’t take long. I see her stomping toward my table—she’s nice, Liz, but she’s huge, and when she’s angry, like she is now, she’s pretty scary—and I try a smile, but I can see it’s not going to work, because she’s too far gone to be brought back like that.
“You’re a fucking arsehole, Rob,” she says, and then she turns around and walks out, and the people at the next table stare at me. I blush, stare at the Time Out and take a big pull on my pint in the hope that the glass will obscure my reddening face.
She’s right, of course. I am a fucking arsehole.
SEVEN
FOR a couple of years, at the end of the eighties, I was a DJ at a club in Kentish Town, and it was there I met Laura. It wasn’t much of a club, just a room above a pub, really, but for a six-month period it was popular with a certain London crowd—the almost fashionable, right-on, black 501s-and-DMs-crowd that used to move in herds from the market to the Town and Country to Dingwalls to the Electric Ballroom to the Camden Plaza. I was a good DJ, I think. At any rate, people seemed happy; they danced, stayed late, asked me where they could buy some of the records I played, and came back week after week. We called it the Groucho Club, because of Groucho Marx’s thing about not wanting to join any club that would have him as a member; later on we found out that there was another Groucho Club somewhere in the West End, but nobody seemed to get confused about which was which. (Top five floor-fillers at the Groucho, incidentally: “It’s a Good Feeling” by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles; “No Blow No Show” by Bobby Bland; “Mr. Big Stuff’” by Jean Knight; “The Love You Save” by the Jackson Five; “The Ghetto” by Donny Hathaway.)
And I loved, loved doing it. To look down on a roomful of heads all bobbing away to the music you have chosen is an uplifting thing, and for that six-month period when the club was popular, I was as happy as I have ever been. It was the only time I have ever really had a sense of momentum, although later I could see that it was a false momentum, because it didn’t belong to me at all, but to the music: anyone playing his favorite dance records very loud in a crowded place, to people who had paid to hear them, would have felt exactly the same thing. Dance music, after all, is supposed to have momentum—I just got confused.
Anyway, I met Laura right in the middle of that period, in the summer of ’87. She reckons she had been to the club three or four times before I noticed her, and that could well be right—she’s small, and skinny, and pretty, in a sort of Sheena Easton pre-Hollywood makeover way (although she looked tougher than Sheena Easton with her radical lawyer spiky hair and her boots and her scary pale blue eyes), but there were prettier women there, and when you’re looking on in that idle kind of way, it’s the prettiest ones you look at. So, on this third or fourth time, she came up to my little rostrum thing and spoke to me, and I liked her straightaway: she asked me to play a record that I really loved (“Got to Get You off My Mind” by Solomon Burke, if anyone cares), but which had cleared the floor whenever I’d tried it.
“Were you here when I played it before?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you saw what happened. They were all about to go home.”
It’s a three-minute single, and I’d had to take it off after about a minute and a half. I played “Holiday” by Madonna instead; I used modern stuff every now and again, at times of crisis, just like people who believe in homeopathy have to use conventional medicine sometimes, even though they disapprove of it.
“They won’t this time.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I brought half of this lot here, and I’ll make sure they dance.”
So I played it, and sure enough Laura and her mates flooded the dance floor, but one by one they all drifted off again, shaking their heads and laughing. It is a hard song to dance to; it’s a mid-tempo R&B thing, and the intro sort of stops and starts. Laura stuck with it, and though I wanted to see whether she’d struggle gamely through to the end, I got nervous when people weren’t dancing, so I put “The Love You Save” on quick.
She wouldn’t dance to the Jackson Five, and she marched over to me, but she was grinning and said she wouldn’t ask again. She just wanted to know where she could buy the record. I said if she came next week I’d have a tape for her, and she looked really pleased.
I spent hours putting that cassette together. To me, making a tape is like writing a letter—there’s a lot of erasing and rethinking and starting again, and I wanted it to be a good one, because…to be honest, because I hadn’t met anyone as promising as Laura since I’d started the DJ-ing, and meeting promising women was partly what the DJ-ing was supposed to be about. A good compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do. You’ve got to kick off with a corker, to hold the attention (I started with “Got to Get You off My Mind,” but then realized that she might not get any further than track one, side one if I delivered what she wanted straightaway, so I buried it in the middle of side two), and then you’ve got to up it a notch, or cool it a notch, and you can’t have white music and black music together, unless the white music sounds like black music, and you can’t have two tracks by the same artist side by side, unless you’ve done the whole thing in pairs, and…oh, there are loads of rules.
Anyway, I worked and worked at this one, and I’ve still got a couple of early demons knocking around the flat, prototype tapes I changed my mind about when I was checking them through. And on Friday night, club night, I produced it from my jacket pocket when she came over to me, and we went on from there. It was a good beginning.
Laura was, is, a lawyer, although when I met her she was a different kind of lawyer from the one she is now: then, she worked for a legal aid firm (hence, I guess, the clubbing and the black leather motorcycle jacket). Now, she works for a City law firm (hence, I guess, the restaurants and the expensive suits and the disappearance of the spiky haircut and a previously unrevealed taste for weary sarcasm) not because she underwent any kind of political conversion, but because she was made redundant and couldn’t find any legal aid work. She had to take a job that paid about forty-five grand a year because she couldn’t find one that paid under twenty; she said that this was all you need to know about Thatcherism, and I suppose she had a point. She changed when she got the new job. She was always intense, but, before, the intensity had somewhere to go: she could worry about tenants’ rights, and slum landlords, and kids living in places without running water. Now she’s just intense about work— how much she has, the pressure she’s under, how she’s doing, what the partners think of her, that kind of stuff. And when she’s not being intense about work, she’s being intense about why she shouldn’t be intense about work, or this kind of work, anyway.
Sometimes—not so often recently—I could do something or say something that allowed her to escape from herself, and that’s when we worked best; she complains frequently about my “relentless triviality,” but it has its uses.
I never had any wild crush on her, and that used to worry me about the long-term future: I used to think—and given the way we ended up, maybe I still do—that all relationships need the kind of violent shove that a crush brings, just to get you started and to push you over the humps. And then, when the energy from that shove has gone and you come to something approaching a halt, you have a look around and see what you’ve got. It could be something completely different, it could be something roughly the same, but gentler and calmer, or it could be nothing at all.