There used to be a Virgin record shop in Nottingham before they invented the Megastore. It was the one that defended the Sex Pistol’s Never Mind The Bollocks obscenity case which for some reason completely passed me by at the time, despite never missing an episode of Rumpole of the Bailey and John Mortimer acting on behalf of Virgin. It says something about the teenage me that during this well-publicized palaver I did not buy the offending article as a mark of punk solidarity but opted instead for Johnny Cash At San Quentin.

A pretty cool album nonetheless, with the following track listing:

Side 1

1. Wanted Man (Bob Dylan)
2. Wreck of the Old 97 (arranged by Cash, Bob Johnston, Norman Blake)
3. I Walk the Line
4. Darling Companion (John Sebastian)
5. Starkville City Jail

Side 2

1. San Quentin
2. San Quentin
3. A Boy Named Sue (Shel Silverstein)
4. (There’ll Be) Peace in the Valley (Thomas A. Dorsey)
5. Folsom Prison Blues

Ten tracks, and two of them ‘San Quentin’, repeated by popular demand of those present. Some years later I came to relive my original analogue experience in a digital world and found eighteen tracks in a different order. How could this be?

1. Big River
2. I Still Miss Someone
3. Wreck Of The Ol’ 97
4. I Walk The Line
5. Darlin’ Companion
6. I Don’t Know Where I’m Bound
7. Starkville City Jail
8. San Quentin
9. San Quentin
10. Wanted Man
11. Boy Named Sue
12. There’ll Be Peace In The Valley
13. Folsom Prison Blues14. Ring Of Fire
15. He Turned The Water Into Wine
16. Daddy Sang Bass
17. Old Account Was Settled Long Ago
18. Folsom Prison Blues/I Walk The Line/Ring Of Fire/Rebel Johnny Yuma

Ladies & gentlemen, we are officially rewriting history. Or more importantly, my history. No matter that the reissue is a more accurate representation of the concert, or that I get more tracks for my money, I wanted the album I used to listen to in a more convenient format. I did not want someone’s idea of a ‘better’ version.

I realise that this makes me seem unreasonable, grumpy and old. I don’t care. I also realise that it’s potentially unfair to those of the digital generation who do not have the ten tracks in the non-historically correct order hardwired into their brains and who, for whatever reason, enjoy the later version. I still don’t care.

My biggest realisation though is that all I need to do is build a playlist with the ‘correct’ order and i have lost nothing, gained a few previously undiscovered tracks and also the possibility of preferring the fuller version. This makes this album therefore a lousy candidate to start the great ‘anti-remaster’ rant, which I will now put off till another day.

I feel strangely better for that.

So a callow seventeen year old was sitting in front of the TV in the depths of 1978 waiting for a musical fix from Whistle Test when it was still Old & Grey. A rare event, only happening if the parents had vacated the matching TV chairs because there was nothing worth watching on ITV. Bolstered by a record collection numbering about a hundred this was the one weekly occasion when we could see what was happening in the world of Contemporary Rock Music, and the capitals are no accident. Punk had somehow passed me by & the hundred albums balanced above the Waltham music centre revolved around (the) Pink Floyd, Yes and the occasional Rick Wakeman solo project. There was a smattering of Led Zeppelin and Alex Harvey, with and without his Sensational Band, but prime measures of credibility were the number of keyboards and hair below the arse.

Short term memory filtered the name, I hadn’t heard it before so maybe it was time to make the tea. But there was something about the drum beat which kept me in the chair; basic but urgent, and nothing at all Progressive about the ‘dum dum’ guitars or rattling keyboards that were playing. The piano wasn’t even plugged in. It was undoubtedly a band but nothing like I’d seen before. Fronted by the bastard son of Bob Dylan the lead singer (the only job description I had at my disposal then) wore a blazer and tie but neither fitted properly and both clearly said ‘fuck you’. And he certainly wasn’t singing in any way that I recognized. From the opening ‘Here he comes now’ I was hooked and knew instinctively that I’d never wear flares again. My jaw spent the majority of the next three minutes on the floor while my brain processed the enormity of one single fact; seventy percent of my record collection was now redundant. A new world branched out before me but for now I was content to bask in the glow of what was to come.

If memory serves we were then treated to Kung Fu International with no backing but that was icing on the cake. I was sold, and I didn’t want to be nice any more.

I have long been of the opinion that Elton John was a proper muso before he was a pantomime dame. I arbitrarily place the turning point, the last ‘proper’ album, as Blue Moves, which is worrying for me since it was released in 1976 and I remember it well. I couldn’t afford it when it came out, but my best friend Chunky could – he was the class Rich Kid. And being an unforgiving sort I’ve never quiet got over the fact that he bought it on cassette. Why deprive yourself of this? A double album with a modern art cover by Patrick Procktor (don’t worry, I had to look it up) it seemed a very desiracle object to my pretentious album-only-buying 15 year old self. And learning that the original hung in Elton John’s garage only added to the mystique.

For want of something better to do I’ve decided to revisit the Elton John back catalogue from Empty Sky to Blue Moves (1969 – 1976) and disdainfullty ignore the rest.

Why? Because it’s still there.

Apologies if I’ve brought you to this post under false pretenses, but the ‘P’ word is appropriate. I’m talking about buying albums, proper ones made out of vinyl, in the seventies & eighties.

There was a build-up to the event, with an unconscious mulling of what the purchase might be when the necessary funds had been collected. The trip to Selectadisc or Virgin on the selected day was not to be undertaken lightly, there was a certain preparation to go through. Even if the venue was to be the record stall on Arnold market you had to look the part. Then came the flicking through the possibilities, it was no good going straight to the probable choice. There might be a surprise lurking somewhere, a new release or a deletion appearing to cloud the possibilities. The ‘S’-es were especially rewarding for some reason. Then came choosing the one-from-many and tentatively handing over the money, preparing for the shock when it might not be enough. This is how I discovered that Quadrophenia was a double album and therefore £5.25 rather than £3.99 which I could fund from the £4 in my pocket. Bugger. Do I wait for a week & collect the extra £1.26, or substitute some random Elton John album rather than look indecisive? These are difficult decisions for a 15 year old.

So to the journey home. Either a leisurely one mile walk from Arnold – rushing would be decidedly uncool – or a three mile journey on the top deck of a bus home from Nottingham city centre, with the delightful possibility of poring over the new acquisition on the way. Just staring at the sleeve obviously, there was no need to preempt the final unveiling. That would be premature.

Then out of the carrier bag, some of which I collected for a while & still miss. On a good day the album would be shrink-wrapped, & the static would dissipate while the ‘new book’ smell appeared. On a bad one I’d be presented with a display sleeve with the price label still attached – this always left a mark on removal, either by removing the gloss or (oh, horror!) taking the top layer of sleeve with it.

What I hoped for next would be a matte sleeve rather than a gloss one, requiring a very tentative touch to avoid greasy finger marks (I was a fifteen year old boy, remember?) to remind me of my slovenliness in years to come. Oh joy, a gatefold sleeve, with artwork to caress and investigate to confirm that I was dealing with something more than a mere record. There was hidden meaning here, if only I wasn’t too crass to see it. An expectant check to see if there was a lyric insert (more adolescent musings and stroking of chin) and possibly the final glory of a picture inner sleeve. Apply pressure to allow ingress and finally the middle finger could be inserted, the thumb applied to the outer edge to reveal the holy of holies. (I’m so, so sorry). A waft of chemical smell that would all too soon disappear. Picture the scene in Pulp Fiction where Marsellus opens the brief case and all we’re allowed to see is the resultant golden glow. That was the highlight of my teenage weekends.

Then came the laying of the album on the deck. Always side one first, no jumping to the singles for me, then dusting with the anti-static cloth. Followed by the shooting of the anti-static gun and at long last the application of the stylus and the expectant crackle. Which implies that the prior anti-static activity was of little benefit, and that there may be a business opportunity for anyone that can come up with software to insert white noise at the beginning of mp3s. Go figure.

The music itself was more often that not an anti-climax. I could name several LPs that never made it to the end of side one following the above performance, but they still hold a place in the pantheon that is Dave’s Record Collection. I suspect that no more that a dozen albums visited the deck regularly, and I can still sing along with Tubular Bells. The one album that encapsulates all of the above is Pink Floyd’s ‘Animals’, which hides another tale, one that still holds shame for me.

But that, as they say, is another story.