Like that film Empire Records, except cheesier

Ha! So it turns out that theft + insurance = free laptop upgrade. Anyway, here's a preachy feature about how the HMV franchise is now reaching scary proportions - but also about the fact that Edinburgh still has a couple of excellent indie record shops run by some very smart and enthusiastic people.

Printed in The Student, January 27th 2009 (notice the reintroduction of the incredibly authoritative definitive article in the paper's title):

Waking up last Friday, Britain was faced with what was possibly the most predictable piece of news to hit headlines and screens in years: the country is officially in a recession. While relatively few of us are able to pin down its exact causes, we’re all familiar with the symptoms – shares plummet, unemployment figures skyrocket and the high street descends into a chaotic scramble for scarce profit. With livelihoods in the balance, the personal cost is great but there’s something else at stake here.

As one business falls, another, larger business almost invariably swoops in to fill the gap; opportunistic expansion strategies may prove a smart choice in today’s climate but when they’re employed in the music retail industry, the element of diversity, essential in a market so tied up in endlessly varying tastes, comes under threat. To remedy this is the challenge faced by every independent record shop in the country today.

Over the past 18 months, what appear to be the beginnings of a music retail monopoly have taken shape. In 2007, long before the term ‘credit crunch’ had so tediously saturated the public vocabulary, it emerged that all 81 branches of Fopp would be closing their doors due financial difficulties. What was unusual for a company of its size was that, whether it was down to a genuine concern for indie credentials or nothing more than clever marketing, the chain that took root in a former Virgin Megastores employee’s Glasgow market stall had retained an air of personality; as such, when Fopp went under, the public reacted with the kind of loyal lamentation usually reserved for a one-off local retailer.

In stepped entertainment goliath HMV Group, reopening a core of eight branches with a takeover bid that was heralded as the crucial factor in preserving Fopp’s celebrated ‘identity and 25-year-history’.

Kevin Buckle, owner of what is probably Edinburgh’s most recognisable independent shop, Avalanche Records, has a slightly less sentimental view of the takeover. ‘HMV are just buying up the opposition where it suits them’, he says, and looking at the company’s recent record, it certainly seems that way. In the past decade, HMV Group has swallowed Waterstones, Fopp, and the bookseller Ottakar’s - and it’s showing no signs of slowing down.

Earlier this month, Zavvi, having gone into administration on Christmas Eve, sold 14 branches to HMV. In this case, nobody would bemoan the loss of indie integrity. The 269 jobs saved are not to be sniffed at, but with yet another rival so irreparably weakened, the path looks clear for HMV to expand further still. Aside from running almost 700 stores across the world, the HMV Group empire extends into online shopping, MP3 downloads, an entertainment-based social networking site and, as of this month, ticket sales and live venues (London’s iconic Hammersmith Apollo will soon be known as the HMV Apollo, while joint ownership of Edinburgh’s Picture House has also been secured).

So when the market looks set to become so completely dominated by a franchise that not only dedicates a meagre two shelving units to ‘specialist music’ but then fills that section with such cutting-edge artists as Katie Melua, Cliff Richard and Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown, an alternative is much needed. In Edinburgh at least, that alternative is alive and well.

At the centre of it all, bookending Cockburn Street and facing off across the rail tracks from two HMVs, a Fopp and a desolate Princes Street unit formerly occupied by Zavvi, are the celebrated Avalanche and vinyl experts Underground Solush’n. According to the latter, they’re the last two independents in the city primarily selling new music, currently existing as something of a double act; as far as contemporary music goes, what one doesn’t stock, the other usually will.

While Avalanche has built its reputation on an eclectic yet discerning range of largely guitar-driven music, Underground Solush’n specialises in hiphop, jazz, funk and virtually anything electronic – but there’s a common sentiment on which the two appear to be built.

I ask Underground Solush’n’s Gavin Sutherland what the independent record shop stands for today. He replies with vehemence, speaking of a duty “To promote music outside of the mainstream - music which is produced and distributed by people with an all consuming passion for the music over and above profit; to be enjoyed by people who prefer not to be told who they should be listening to this week, or which format they should be listening to it on.”

A few minutes’ walk up the hill, it’s a similar story. Avalanche’s Kevin Buckle tells me about his shop’s ethos, a sort of code of honour:

“We try to treat people right. We assume the best in people until we are proved wrong. We won’t take any shit if we are mucked about. We try and give customers what they want rather than con them into buying something just because we can buy it cheaply. We know our customers have a choice and aren’t stupid so we always try to offer good value.”

With the high street currently witnessing one of the most competitive battles for survival in recent memory, both of these attitudes display a refreshing sense of steadfast integrity that some might expect to be the inevitable first casualty of a recession. Such sacrifices are already in full swing elsewhere. Anyone scouring Fopp’s shelves during last month's frenetic Christmas shopping season may have noticed a few departures from the chain’s indie image of old; an entire display dedicated to TV-advertised compilations in one shop, the sudden appearance of Xbox games in another, while newly released music received little more shop space than did accessories for that supposed antithesis of its independent record shop roots, the MP3 player.

It all points to an increasing pressure to maximise profit that has seen the typical philosophy of the discerning specialist retailer (i.e. defining itself by what it doesn’t stock every bit as much as what it does choose to sell) confined exclusively to shops like the Cockburn Street duo. Meanwhile each of the two has retained its own unique speciality: at Underground Solush’n, it’s an unapologetic loyalty to vinyl that, although it’s balanced out with the obligatory selection of CDs and their associated DJ equipment, Sutherland says is fuelled by the fact that “many people, both young and old, still prefer the feel, the look, and above all the warmth of sound which can only be got from good old fashioned wax”; over in Avalanche, it’s the promotion of Scottish, local and upcoming bands that Buckle says will be reflected in a forthcoming stage area, to be fitted next month in order to make in-store performances possible.

While neither appears to be the most obviously profitable choice, this commitment to the niches neglected by high street chains ensures a level of choice and variety that is vital to any city that prides itself on culture. “Artistic culture”, says Sutherland, “is a hugely important aspect of society, and shops like ours - whether they sell music, books, clothes, art - represent a part of the city’s heart and soul.”

However, considering the potentially smothering presence of such an enormous franchise as HMV Group, no one independent will be able to guarantee this diversity alone. While it would be unrealistic to expect independent businesses not to compete among themselves, both Buckle and Sutherland agree that some degree of cooperation is essential.

“We frequently refer our customers to other outlets nearby who might cover areas of music we don’t - we might even shop there ourselves”, says Sutherland. “This goes for all types of independent shops which encourage the creative output of free thinking individuals, not greed driven corporations.”

Buckle, meanwhile, tells me that “There was a time when the ‘big’ indies acted at the expense of the small indies. As Avalanche got bigger we tried not to do that and now I would say that is true of most of the shops most of the time.”

It’s this sort of collaborative sentiment that last summer prompted Buckle to form The Coalition, a UK-wide collective of 26 likeminded independent record shops (including London’s legendary Rough Trade) set up in order to keep them not only afloat but reinforced with a strength in numbers that will hopefully allow them to provide a truly attractive alternative to online and national-level giants. With a mission statement introduced by a quote from High Fidelity, Nick Hornby’s tale of the archetypal indie record shop, The Coalition promises exclusive bonus releases, featured independent labels and a healthy support for the preservation of vinyl.

It’s early days yet but if Buckle’s efforts pay off, The Coalition could play an important part in supporting these shops through some of the most challenging times they’re likely to face. He remains confident that Avalanche and its contemporaries will prevail, insisting that “People are spending less money but some will always need their fix of music and be prepared to pay for it”. Underground Solush’n is putting on a similarly brave face: “We are fairly confident in the future of the record shop, despite what naysayers may say, but ultimately nobody can predict what’s going to happen.”


Photo credit: Bill McIntyre

Interview with Simon Frith

Famous musicians get mashed at these tables, Nationwide picks up the bill. I think we have our next victim of the recession.

Back in September, there was a fair bit of buzz about the Mercury Prize. No, there was. I talked to a guy in Fopp about it and everything. Anyway, I thought I'd have a chat with head judge Simon Frith, the man responsible for picking the champions of British music and, inevitably, snubbing countless token avant-garde jazz acts, leaving them to cry in the corner and stub out Café Crèmes into their thighs. My dictaphone recording includes him pausing to give out his entire home address over the phone, so Burial, if you're reading this, I'll sell you the details for three grand. Non-negotiable.

It's the first time I've done an interview; gies a break.

Published in Student, 30th September 2008:

When it comes to music, everyone’s a critic. Think of that friend, that one obsessive musical zealot who will only remove their headphones to eulogise or condemn your favourite band with a fervour that, applied to a more sensitive subject, would border on bigotry. As passionate as their opinions may be, they’re never going to spark soaring album sales, national acclaim and a £20,000 prize.

For Simon Frith, however, opinions are of a little more consequence. Having this month chaired the panel of judges for the Nationwide Mercury Prize (his duty since its inception in 1992), he recently returned to his professorship at Edinburgh University, where he draws on his experiences as a rock critic and influential musicology writer to lecture on the social forces behind music.

Since the Mercury shortlist was released in July, the decisions he has overseen have been the subject of endless speculation and scrutiny. Despite recent grumblings of dubstep conspiracists, he reveals the criteria for the strictly British/Irish prize to be disarmingly simple: “One, that the album should be good enough to recommend and two, that it should be somehow representative of music in the year in which it was nominated.”

Simple on paper, yes, but the whittling down of nominees to an eventual winner takes an astonishing amount of work. With twelve judges and around 240 submitted CDs in the mix this year, a quick and shamefully innumerate bash at the calculator in theory shows Elbow’s victory to be the outcome of around 2,800 opinions.

When Frith gets a box of new records, first impressions are what count: “If by the end of the first three tracks I can’t remember anything about them, I think ‘this record hasn’t moved me in any way’, and put them back… it’s got to grab you immediately.”

However, with the influence of the other judges and a whole summer to ruminate, Frith says, “your judgments can always be changed by context from other people. There are always at least three records nominated that when I hear them I’d never have believed they’d be on the shortlist and some of those I really grow to love.” So, future Mercury hopefuls take note – don’t immediately go blowing your load on the first three tunes.

With a panel consisting mainly of critics and journalists (music industry affiliates are not eligible), every year presents a swamp of egos and opinions to be filtered down to one result. According to Frith, this combination only acts to reinforce the final verdict.

“There are a lot of arguments,” he admits, “we don’t pretend that all twelve judges think all the short-listed records are great or that whoever wins should have won; our belief has always been that it’s always better to have a record that people passionately hate or love rather than one that people don’t care about.”

So how then, when concessions and compromises must be made within the panel, can a fair judgment be made?

“I don’t think judgments can be fair. I don’t think that would make any sense.”

Instead, it is the judges with the keenest ears and the sharpest tongues whose opinions hold the most sway. Frith says of his fellow judges, “They’ve got to persuade a lot of people to agree with them, so their skill isn’t knowing a lot about music; it’s being able to articulate a passionate belief in a record.”

As an Oxford PPE graduate with a PhD in Sociology and a wealth of influential writings on popular music culture to his name, it’s understandable that Frith should be able to articulate such a belief. Alongside stints as a rock critic for The Sunday Times and The Observer, his academic career has included, perhaps most controversially, an attempt to define ‘bad music’.

“In order to have a concept of good music, you have to have a concept of bad music. It’s not something we can all agree on. I once gave a lecture on that James Blunt song, ‘You’re Beautiful’, as an example of bad music. But then I read a very moving account of somebody who lost their child in a canoeing accident, and at the funeral that was one of the tracks played because it was her favourite. I think it’s kind of arrogant to say that’s crap music when it’s an emotional part of somebody’s life.”

A hugely simplified summary of this ‘bad music’, he says, is “Music that makes you ashamed to listen to it.” Surely, though, with an office stacked with vinyl, he indulges in the odd musical guilty pleasure.

“I’ve never had guilty pleasures. If you like something, you don’t need to feel guilty about it. I’ve always been a pop fan, even at the height of rock criticism.”

A copy of Blunt’s Back to Bedlam may well be lurking in that collection, then.

Before this treatise on bad music came Frith’s first book, The Sociology of Rock. Published in 1978, it explored the sociological intricacies of a burgeoning punk movement that, he says, has now well and truly withered.

“Thirty years later, people who were punks are now parents and grandparents, so now it’s very difficult to equate rock music with youth music. Today, it’s corporate, it makes lots of money.”

This begs the question of which contemporary record, artist or movement holds the potential to define this era in the way punk did for the late 70s and early 80s. In the early years of the Mercury Prize, Frith says, “I definitely would have said that (1995 winners) Portishead defined that decade, that they captured something about it, whereas this decade if you take something like the Burial album, which I don’t think is an interesting record, it’s clearly rooted in a very long history of dance music. It doesn’t seem to be strikingly 2008 in a way that it’s not 2001.”

Apart from dispelling rumours about the consequences of Burial’s absence at this year’s Mercury ceremony, it’s an almost disappointing evaluation of the new millennium’s offerings, although he speculates over what 2009 holds.

“Who knows, maybe next year we’ll have a record about which we’ll say ‘yep, that’s it, that sums it all up’.”

There seems to be no sign of it coming any time soon, since even the apparently unstoppable Glasvegas – a favourite of Frith’s and a likely candidate for next year’s Mercury Prize – he describes as ‘incredibly retrospective’.

“You can hear all the sounds from the past, which is one of them reasons I like them, but to say that’s the sound of now or of the future would be slightly odd.”

That’s not to say, though, that Frith believes that for music to look backward is a bad thing.

“I sometimes argue that the very notion of nostalgia is defined by musical experience - even The Beatles were nostalgic from the beginning. I think it may be something to do with how, when we settle down, we like reminiscing about how we once thought about the future.

“My musical interests – and it might sound odd coming from somebody who’s very much a populist – have always been in the avant-garde, in things that sound strange or different. I can be as nostalgic as everybody else but at the end of the day, I’d rather listen to something where I think ‘I’ve never heard anything like this before’.”

This musical nostalgia might be understood as a backlash against a music industry that is evolving, if not transforming, through the influence of technology. Frith, however, remains sceptical about the true level of impact this has.

“Technology does change things but central music experiences tend to stay the same. We’re being told that, with downloads and everything, it’s the end of the album. But talk to any musician, they want to make an album – that’s what music is. And despite everything, the most valuable section of the industry at the moment is live music.

“I often say to students ‘write down the most important musical experience you’ve ever had’, and 99 per cent will put down either playing or listening live. It’s not just about hearing it, it’s about hearing it in the circumstances, that is, while others are hearing it too. It’s an event, an experience, not just a noise – it’s everything that surrounds it.”

With judgments made purely on recordings, though, the growing importance of live music is yet to be demonstrated in the Mercury Prize. It’s an issue that will have to wait for now - Frith’s off to stock up on a rare treat for a Mercury judge: American music.

Photo credit Andy Wilkes

How To Be Annoyingly Wacky, Even After Death

This is an old feature I wrote about weird burial procedures across the world. Not exactly groundbreaking but if you give me an excuse to combine morbid subject matter with insensitive corpse jokes, I'll pounce on it like a hungry pigeon on tepid vomit.

Actually, looking back on it, some of it's pish. Read it anyway.

Published in Student, 4th November 2008 (I think):

It’s late August 2005 and 153ft above Aspen, Colorado, there’s a giant two-thumbed fist perched atop an enormous chrome cannon. Dylan’s ‘Mr. Tambourine Man’ plays as, chased by a flourish of multicoloured fireworks, a small canister is launched skywards from the fist before exploding above the heads of Hollywood’s finest. Inside that canister are the earthly remains of Hunter S. Thompson, pioneer of gonzo journalism and mastermind of ‘the grandest celebration on the planet’.

Really puts the old church hall and ‘Candle in the Wind’ approach to shame, doesn’t it? A reluctance to break from tradition and a common ‘just in case’ perspective on the afterlife have meant that burial ceremonies are for the most part still steeped in superstition, ceremony and – let’s face it – banality. But with religion gradually losing its monopoly on death and opportunistic businesses cashing in on bereavement, things are becoming a little more interesting.

It’s easy to see how this came about. You spend your life establishing and developing something resembling an identity, a personality, and then it’s all snuffed out in an instant. All that’s left is one opportunity to sum it all up and for many, black ties, dour ministers and oak coffins just won’t cut it. A fitting farewell requires a little more imagination and fortunately there’s plenty in the way of inspiration out there.

Thompson may have had nearly thirty years of planning and Johnny Depp’s millions at his disposal but even those of us burying on a budget can afford a little explosive grandeur. For around £250, Heavenly Stars Fireworks in Essex will pack a sample of the departed’s ashes into a small arsenal of rockets and Roman candles, leaving you to launch them from the comfort of your back garden. Perhaps not the most sensitive send-off for a ham-fisted bomb disposal technician, but nonetheless a strangely poetic alternative to dumping your loved ones in a muddy hole.

Providing there’s enough ash and money left over, you can then have what remains of your nearest and dearest turned into a fashion accessory. Sussex-based company LifeGem offers to convert the carbon found in human ashes into a synthetic diamond, allowing you to transform your granny into bling for a little over two grand. Through a complex process of compressing and heating the ash, LifeGem forms a stone of your chosen size and colour, giving you the option to have it mounted onto jewellery. Rumours started in this article state that 50 Cent once had a rival gang incinerated and turned into a diamond-studded ‘pimp goblet’.

Stretch the budget further and you don’t even have to be buried on this planet. Such was the destiny of Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry and acid-guzzling space cadet Timothy Leary, both of whom had a sample of their ashes released into orbit in 1997. The ingenious designs of Space Services Inc. allow for a tiny capsule of ashes to float in the earth’s gravitational field, potentially for hundreds of years, before eventually burning up in the atmosphere like a shooting star. Except of course when they don’t make it that far, as was the case this August, when the failure of a Falcon 1 rocket led to the remains of 208 people (including Star Trek’s James ‘Scotty’ Doohan) dropping off the radar.

If all this talk of smoky explosives, pollutant incineration and inefficient space travel has left the more ecologically preoccupied among you gnashing your teeth, there’s hope yet. In Sweden, Promessa Organic has found a novel alternative to carbon-emitting cremations and environmentally harmful embalming fluids – freeze-dry the corpse like the raspberries in your cereal and then shatter it into an eco-friendly fine powder. After being dunked in liquid nitrogen, the brittle body is broken down by sound waves, conveniently becoming an effective fertiliser along the way. Mourners are then able to grow a tree from the remains, providing a nice neat metaphor for the cycle of death and rebirth. It’s not known whether anyone has opted for a vegetable patch instead, although the idea of a cycle of death, rebirth and organic cabbages holds a certain pseudo-cannibalistic appeal.

Of course, that’s not the only Scandinavian innovation when it comes to burials. Endel Opik, brother of misfit Liberal Democrat MP Lembit, was a 6ft 8in blonde goth known to his friends as Tal Stoneheart. After succumbing to pneumonia aged 37, his wish for a traditional Viking funeral was granted… in Whitby, North Yorkshire. Hundreds looked on as a replica longboat, soaked in accelerant and holding Opik’s ashes, artwork and synthesizer, was cast seaward and set ablaze by flaming arrows.

If the Viking connotations of rape, pillage and bearskin are bit much, there are plenty of other foreign cultures whose influence could help to give your send-off a unique flavour. Take the jazz band processions of New Orleans or the Ghanaian tradition of themed coffins that could see you buried in a giant pineapple or beer bottle; for the truly unconventional, you could always try the Zoroastrian approach found in some parts of India, in which the body is left as carrion for scavenging birds. Whether or not the City of Edinburgh Council or the local pigeons will go for it is another matter.

But what of the consequences of such overblown, exotic gestures of remembrance? Speak to some of your more ‘eccentric’ friends, those who live life with tongue in cheek and/or head up arse – you’re bound to find at least one who, when speculating about their own funeral, will say something along the lines of, “I just want it to be a big party, with everyone dressed in crazy costumes. Celebrating life, not mourning death, y’know?”

False shows of flippancy in the face of death aside, there’s a definite selfishness there. It’s all very well that you want a Star Wars themed funeral but spare a thought for that unfortunate bereaved relative, too loyal not to play along but all the while sobbing uncontrollably into his Chewbacca mask. After all, who benefits more from a funeral - the friends and family seeking comfort and closure or the 170-odd pounds of dead meat in the wooden box?

That said, delegating all control to relatives can be a risky business. Yes, you may be young and carefree but there’s no harm in dropping a few hints so that, if that bacon roll does go down the wrong way, there’s no chance of yours being just another nondescript service.

Some of us, sadly, just don’t get a say in the matter. One of this summer’s most depressing Internet findings was the funeral of Annabelle Lotus Krawczyk, who died just minutes after birth. A tragedy in itself but when you consider that both of her parents were ‘juggalos’ (die-hard fans of Detroit ‘horrorcore’ duo, Insane Clown Posse), things go from bad to truly repugnant. Cue photos of mother, ‘Juggalo Julz’ and father, ‘Druggalo JK47’ standing over a tiny casket emblazoned with garish band logos. Then there are the numerous MySpace tributes, such as the bewildering ‘Death dont want no Juggalo Evil orbs and spirits leave my daughter alone’. Google if you dare.

So let that be a warning to you. Make it personal, have some input and be adventurous -but do try to keep it vaguely tasteful. At the end of the day, it’s your funeral.

Photo credit Walt Jabsco