Ahh, remember buying the latest singles from Woolies on a Saturday afternoon?
Nope, this isn’t going to be another “wasn’t Woolworths great once” article following it’s sad but long overdue demise earlier this year, though that article will probably come in due course. No, instead I’m looking back to the days when you could buy a record - a single, on vinyl, on the high street, like, in a shop. I’m writing about the great British record buying experience!
No, really, it’s going to be good. Honest.
Young readers may be excused for thinking this is foolish talk and your writer has gone mad. But no, once upon a time, you could buy the latest top 40 singles on your average high street record or department store. Back in the day when I was a nipper, it was all vinyl. Seven inch singles mostly, with the odd twelve incher (ooh err, missus). It didn’t use to be record emporiums you’d go to for these shiny black discs – I bought my first single ever, the glorious “Knowing Me Knowing You” by Abba, from a box on the counter of our local television rental shop (“Focus” if I remember rightly).
In the 1970’s, even a small town like Fleetwood had many outlets for records – the aforementioned TV shop, high street colossus Woolworths who had the Top 50 (imagine that!) and another small shop which I think was owned by a bloke called Steve Price, which always sold loads of New Wave coloured vinyl stuff and second hand discs around about 1979. Even the bloody Co-Op had a selection of discs, granted most of them were on the dreaded "Music For Pleasure" label but a record's a record. But the shop that most punters went to was the Record Centre, tucked away on Poulton Road, an always shabby shop which sold loads of albums, the top 40 singles (which were always positioned directly above the counter and it would be pot luck if the proprietor gave you a single with a picture sleeve or not) and the necessary diamond stylus and dust bug for your deck. They also sold hi-fi’s but these never seemed to shift. Many a Saturday afternoon would be spent rummaging through their ex-chart singles looking for that elusive “Hungry Like The Wolf” picture sleeve, though mostly it'd be Shakatak or the Barron Knights you'd find instead.
If you ventured further afield into Cleveleys, there was the ever-reliable Cobweb record shop, part of an empire stretching over Poulton, Cleveleys and St Annes, which was worth a look for the punk badges and Adam and the Ants seven inches. And what's more you could stare in wonder at these new fangled things called videos… wow, movies in your own home… but that’s another blog. Big town Blackpool had yer actual Woolies & WH Smith, the basement in Binns, Boots department store and mysterious places like Ray's Melody Inn which were frequented by serious older punters who intimidated you at the age of 10. No HMV, Our Price or Virgin back then.
In the early 80's there was a decent shop above the Hounds Hill branch of Milletts, which was a weird concept – wandering round tents and camping gear in order to get to buy “New Years Day” by U2, now that's high concept. That’s when I could afford to buy a new record – usually it was back to scouring through the cheap ex-chart racks or the local newsagents for their selection of ex-juke box records.
The floodgates burst around about 1983 when Ames Records opened on Bank Hey Street, swiftly changing to Virgin in 1985 before transforming into Our Price for the rest of the late 80's to 90's. Then a little branch of HMV opened – I could never afford the records but it was just wonderful to browse, and see & hear the records I could only read about in Smash Hits.
However going back in time to Fleetwood 1980, the new kid on the block arrived in the form of “Soundtrack” records, a small modern store which had loadsa new singles, up to date and always with freebies like poster sleeves and badges. More to the point some new releases were cheap! On my meagre budget this was great. In years to come, long after the shop’s demise I would come to understand how they managed to make the shop such an Aladdin’s Cave of vinyl delights, when I came to understand the concept of the chart-return shop…
These were the shops to hunt down. In 1988, once I’d finished sixth form, even before getting a job, I’d take my cash down to any of the Cobweb stores or the bizarrely named Sandy Mountain’s Sinfonia record shop on Cookson Street in Blackpool on a Friday afternoon and take advantage of the cheap new releases. These CD singles and 12 inches were cheap because the record company reps would target these shops, giving them the latest singles at cut down prices in order to get them into the charts for Sunday. So I’d get the latest Mondays single for £1.99 whereas poor old Record Centre or even HMV couldn’t compete, having to charge full whack. Now the downside in buying records so cheap was that you’d also end up buying some right shit along the way for 99p – Climie Fisher anyone?
I was getting a bit savvy and realised that new record deliveries were on Monday, so it would be best to get down there on a Monday lunch for the latest releases, and more important, the limited editions. Yep, I’m a mug for a special edition. Fine Young Cannibals in a tin? Yes please. Chris Rea Car shaped CD box? Why not. Voice Of The Beehive honey filled PVC sleeve? Oh go on. Any old bollocks I’d probably buy if I had enough money left. It was amusing buying from Sinfonia as owner Sandy was a full on Christian and would take offence at certain records and try not to sell them you. He nearly didn't stock Happy Monday's "Hallelujah" for some reason.
If you wanted your actual proper bosh bosh dance stuff, then a trip down to murky South Shore on the number 11 bus was in order, with a visit to Melody House on Bond Street. This was at one time predominantly a video & record shop, but when acid house arrived in 1988, underwent a bit of transformation into the place to come for dance vinyl. You’d get there and there would be about eight punters around the counter, getting the guy behind the counter to “put this one on mate” whilst you tried valiantly to get served (and usually ignored). Customer service wasn’t the watchword there. Meanwhile the rest of the shop gathered dust.
It was during the mid nineties when the Britpop era began in earnest that I frequented the independent shops less and less. Woolies had finally got it’s act together, and HMV, Our Price were competing price wise (and you could rely on them having the stock on the shelves). Little did I know that this would be a watershed point in the record buying experience...
To be continued...
The floodgates burst around about 1983 when Ames Records opened on Bank Hey Street, swiftly changing to Virgin in 1985 before transforming into Our Price for the rest of the late 80's to 90's. Then a little branch of HMV opened – I could never afford the records but it was just wonderful to browse, and see & hear the records I could only read about in Smash Hits.
However going back in time to Fleetwood 1980, the new kid on the block arrived in the form of “Soundtrack” records, a small modern store which had loadsa new singles, up to date and always with freebies like poster sleeves and badges. More to the point some new releases were cheap! On my meagre budget this was great. In years to come, long after the shop’s demise I would come to understand how they managed to make the shop such an Aladdin’s Cave of vinyl delights, when I came to understand the concept of the chart-return shop…
These were the shops to hunt down. In 1988, once I’d finished sixth form, even before getting a job, I’d take my cash down to any of the Cobweb stores or the bizarrely named Sandy Mountain’s Sinfonia record shop on Cookson Street in Blackpool on a Friday afternoon and take advantage of the cheap new releases. These CD singles and 12 inches were cheap because the record company reps would target these shops, giving them the latest singles at cut down prices in order to get them into the charts for Sunday. So I’d get the latest Mondays single for £1.99 whereas poor old Record Centre or even HMV couldn’t compete, having to charge full whack. Now the downside in buying records so cheap was that you’d also end up buying some right shit along the way for 99p – Climie Fisher anyone?
I was getting a bit savvy and realised that new record deliveries were on Monday, so it would be best to get down there on a Monday lunch for the latest releases, and more important, the limited editions. Yep, I’m a mug for a special edition. Fine Young Cannibals in a tin? Yes please. Chris Rea Car shaped CD box? Why not. Voice Of The Beehive honey filled PVC sleeve? Oh go on. Any old bollocks I’d probably buy if I had enough money left. It was amusing buying from Sinfonia as owner Sandy was a full on Christian and would take offence at certain records and try not to sell them you. He nearly didn't stock Happy Monday's "Hallelujah" for some reason.
If you wanted your actual proper bosh bosh dance stuff, then a trip down to murky South Shore on the number 11 bus was in order, with a visit to Melody House on Bond Street. This was at one time predominantly a video & record shop, but when acid house arrived in 1988, underwent a bit of transformation into the place to come for dance vinyl. You’d get there and there would be about eight punters around the counter, getting the guy behind the counter to “put this one on mate” whilst you tried valiantly to get served (and usually ignored). Customer service wasn’t the watchword there. Meanwhile the rest of the shop gathered dust.
It was during the mid nineties when the Britpop era began in earnest that I frequented the independent shops less and less. Woolies had finally got it’s act together, and HMV, Our Price were competing price wise (and you could rely on them having the stock on the shelves). Little did I know that this would be a watershed point in the record buying experience...
To be continued...
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