I WORKED the counter of Record Village in sunny Scunthorpe for a while, and as well as hoovering up, making brews and surreptitiously pressuring kids into buying my fanzine, I also ordered indie records from Red Rhino distribution in York. I was only hired in the first place because I was buying all that stuff anyway, as a punter, and geeky enough to fit the bill.
Naturally enough, I blew a hefty chunk of my meagre wage on records. I was a kid in a sweet shop. Daft as a brush. More money than sense – and I never seemed to have any money. But I had a fantastic record collection.
No one else seemed to buy reggae, ever, and I gradually worked my way through the shop’s two racks, filling the gaps in my Bob Marley and Black Uhuru collections, as well as Burning Spear, Mad Professor, Scientist, Misty in Roots, all sorts. The guy who owned the shop (and still does) knew his stuff – even if his favourite band was Jethro Tull.
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