Friday, 21 September 2007

pogo pogo

In the seventies my mum worked in a record shop in middlesex called capital records(no connection to the dreadful emmissions of captal radio)and somewhere along the line her and my dad got wind of the punk murmerings. I don’t think they had green mohawks or anything, although my mum did once wear an esso boiler suit to see Eddie and the hot rods in maidenhead. Now they live in the countryside in France, and when I visit them I often sample the local cider, and go through the boxes of punk 45’s, and I’m afraid to say, escorting the occasional one back to my own dwellings in the british isles. They don’t always sound as good when I get them home, in that sense it’s a bit like that affair with the burly foreign waitress that you always regret. Because of their seemingly erratic music buying policy there is a certain amount of wading to be done, but each time I go to visit I’m bound to find something else that I know will be played over and over again. When I first started getting into good music I was pretty pleased to find they had a lot of vinyl to wade through that id heard or read good things about,but the real thrill was putting on something i'd never heard of and blindly waiting for the song to start up.who would call a band 'fish called human' for pitys sake,and furthermore have a melodic b-side called here come the nuns? or what was the singers from the mekons singing about on 32 Weeks("it takes one week of your life to buy a mattress!") ?. … Some of my favourite ever times of listening to music are in Normandy, waving around a bottle of cloudy cider, the old walls reverberating to the something like Outside View by Eater bursts into gear and the hills roll into the distance outside.....still no bondage trousers in the village though,and long may that continue.

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