15 f Ranting & Reeling I


was once, as some of you are now, a record collector. It may be the accepted terminology to describe myself as a recovering record collec-


tor but I don’t believe it was an addic- tion, more an emotional dependency. Owning every UK 12" issued by Miami Sound Machine between 1984 and 1988 gave me a purpose, however arbitrary. To see them assembled, with Gloria Este- fan’s Mona Lisa pout adorning each sleeve, gave me a sense of completeness that normal people must feel when they proudly survey their family at a gather- ing or finish a jigsaw. Then one day I put my Miami Sound Machine singles in the bin. They were gone by morning.


I put my recovery down to two films. The first was Alan Zweig’s low budget documentary Vinyl. His close-up exami- nation of the extremes of record collect- ing acted as Marley’s ghost; a chilling warning of who I could become. The sec- ond was Pixar’s near-perfect animation Toy Story 2, with its central message that objects are to be enjoyed for their intended purpose and not preserved as totems to stave off the inescapability of death. It also has a funny joke about a Mr Potato Head.


But like any dependent I retain some elements of its resultant behaviour. I still own several thousand records, for exam- ple. And I still spend more on physical music formats than I spend on fruit. But the way I manage my compulsion is to limit what I collect, satiating my urges with a controlled dose.


At present I’m attempting to amass every LP on the Leader / Trailer label. Of the 100 albums issued by Bill Leader between 1969 and 1977 I have just twen- ty left to get. I say “just” but some are far harder (and far more expensive) to buy because they were pressed in fewer num- bers or are, for a variety of reasons, more coveted. This is the natural state of record collecting. These albums – some of the finest revival and field recordings of the era – were never intended to become scarce. And they’d no doubt be available on CD and mp3 today if it weren’t for a sad state of affairs that you can learn about by Googling it. They’re accidental gems, unlike the artificially limited vinyl exclusives that have turned Record Store Day’s worthy intentions into a micro-model of capitalism.


In the past I’ve disingenuously claimed I’m only interested in the music.


And that was certainly the motivation for my Trailer hunt: Nic Jones, the Dransfields, Ray Fisher and Walter Pardon – who wouldn’t want to hear more from a label with that pedigree? But


not every album has stood the test of time, with several not making it through a full listen before being shelved. Now the end is in sight, my desire is more to complete than to discover. But the reali- ty, as I watch items on my wants list sail past their book price, is that I may never afford those final pieces. I’ve got Bright Phoebus ambitions on a Vin Garbutt income.


At auctions it’s said that an item is worth whatever two people want to pay for it. But I think it’s whatever two peo- ple are prepared to pay to quash the anx- iety of losing out. It’s not the having, it’s the not not-having that gets you.


Tim Chipping


The Elusive Ethnomusicologist I


t was the summer of 2011, and we were sitting in a bright sunlit square, quietly drinking café-con-leche and engaging in a bit of desultory con-


versation. We were surprised by a sud- den loud bang. A car backfiring? I just nodded when P announced he was off to get a local paper. It was startling, then, to spot him rushing back moments later. “London’s burning,” he said. “Looks worse than ’81” And there were the pictures to bear him out.


When I first glimpsed the poster for the Coen brothers film Burn After Read- ing, I thought it said Burn Reading, which – having been there – I thought was possibly a bit harsh but on the whole fair, and now it seemed that Croydon had copped it instead. It was surreal sit- ting in the square in the sunshine look- ing at images of English cities on fire.


Another loud bang, followed by


another, sounding even closer, then puffs of cloud like large smoke rings rose in the air, white against the deep blue sky. Then more bangs and smoke in quick succession. Not a car. Gunfire. Bloody hell, we know Spain’s just been bailed out, but unrest can’t have spread that quickly, can it? We were in a sleepy town, well off the beaten track. Nowhere near


anywhere anyone’s ever heard of, not even the Spanish. The gunfire kept crack- ing. It was coming from the main square by the church. P who’s Spanish asked a passing waiter, “Do you know what’s happening?”


“Yes,” the waiter smiled, “it’s the Muslims and Catholics in the Church square.” “What! Shooting each other?” The waiter laughed. “No it’s fiesta! It’s the celebration of unity between the Muslims and the Christians in the area. Happens every year.”


The festivities kick off with the chance for anyone with a gun to come and fire it in the town square until they run out of ammo. Though to be fair, if you’re wondering about health and safe- ty, only revellers brandishing rifles are allowed to empty their barrels – though in the interests of my health and safety, I didn’t go and check.


Later, after the shooting stopped, there was a grand parade through the town. Troop after troop of Muslims and Christians dressed in outfits suggesting both history and Hollywood, sort-of- marched gaily past in time to music belt- ed out by the brass band following each of them. Each group was led by a flag bearer, closely followed by children and


women push- ing babies in push-chairs, then lines of men and


women, laugh- ing joking, smoking and waving at peo- ple they knew. Kids borne aloft on their dad’s shoulders were smiling.


Everyone was celebrating the unity of the Muslims and the Christians, revelling in tolerance and peaceful co-existence.


It was uplifting to be there. It was all so positive and inclusive and joyful. And the party goes on for a week, with plays, more processions, music, dancing, and activities for the kids. It struck me how good for it was for them to have those memories and to be brought up in an atmosphere which celebrated tolerance, religious or otherwise.


How brilliant if the sound of gunfire did not signal chaos and distress, but the start of a party where differences are cel- ebrated and everyone’s always welcome.


Elizabeth Kinder


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