When I was a kid,
getting hold of interesting new music was hard. Not least because I
lived in what I believed to be the middle of nowhere (I have since
moved to the actual middle of nowhere through choice, and have
reappraised my youthful moaning as innate twattiness) and had no
access to proper gigs. We went to see Wishbone Ash in Barnstaple in
1990, it was the first band that anyone had heard of to play there
since Dumpys Rusty Nuts some time in the 80s. Admittedly, I had never
heard of Wishbone Ash either, but my friend Ian had, so they must be
good, right? (Spoiler, they were, but the support band who's name I
have forgotten were much better).
Getting hold of any
music was hard in fact, I read about bands in magazines like Raw,
Kerrang and Metal Hammer (because I was cool, not like those weirdos
reading the NME and Melody Maker) but did not have the funds to go
and buy records by them. I read about the bands that influenced
awesome bands like Skid Row, Motley Crue and Poison, exotic, ancient
bands like Led Zeppelin, Kiss, Black Sabbath and the Jimi Hendrix
Experience, and wondered what they sounded like, there was no radio
station playing them, and the old grey whistle test had long gone.
You now read about how people are influenced by their parents record
collections, but the only worthwhile things in amongst all my parents
Gilbert and Sullivan cast recordings were two Beatles records (not
even the good later stuff) and a best of the Rolling Stones, and by
the time I was thirteen I was sick of them.
None cooler than
this - ever
Which brings me back
to my friend Ian, the first in a long line of friends who had better
record collections than I did (honorable later mentions go to Jim
(lofty), Kev, and Top Hat Matt). He knew about Free and Lynyrd
Skynyrd and Fleetwood Mac (the early good Peter Green stuff, not
Tango in the bloody night) and I kept badgering him to sing their
stuff to me on the school bus so I could decide whether or not to
part with some of my hard earned pocket money to buy their tapes (or
more often than not, to buy some TDK C-90 blank tapes and copy them
from Ian). He wisely brought his walkman in and played them to me
with one earphone each, rather then singing them, and so I spent all
my pocket money on blank tapes.
I have not been good
at supporting artists (though this argument didn't used to come up
quite so much about taping as it does now about downloading, probably
because somebody had to pay for it at least once before anyone could
copy it back then) over the years. If I wasn't taping stuff (many a
happy hour was spent wearing headphones and sitting in front of my
Dad's record player, which even now is more of a plant stand than a
device for listening to music, praying that the needle wouldn't skip
and make me have to start again) then I was at Bideford Pannier
market in the 50p boxes buying records that had pretty covers. This
meant that I could get ten albums for the price of one new one, and
also that I spent my teenage years listening to Roy Harper,
Lindisfarne and Procul Harum rather than New Kids on the Block and
Two Unlimited like the cool kids did. It also meant that not one
penny of it went to the artist or the record company.
I have not changed
one bit, most of my music collection still comes from second hand
shops and car boot sales. And the same goes for books, which I buy in
massive stacks from charity shops on my rare excursions into places
that have actual shops, and then take them back the next time.
Authors, song writers and creative types receive not one penny from
me usually (unlike the charities which appease my occasionally guilty
conscience). As somebody who still strives to try and make money from
these kind of pursuits, irony is my constant mocking companion,
laughing over my shoulder as I painstakingly craft amusing folk songs
and agonise over plot twists that nobody will ever read. If I won't
pay for it, why the hell should anybody else right?
All this came to a
head recently when I decided I wanted to read some books by Tom
Cox (the man behind @mysadcat
on twitter) and saw the heady price of six pounds for his first
cat-related tome and balked at it, hoping to find it at a boot sale.
This is a man verging on middle age, who lives on the edge of
dartmoor, has a fondness for eccentric clothes and 70s prog rock and
owns more cats than is good for him. We are essentially the same
person, and I am begrudging him his means of making a living
(possibly out of jealousy, or a strange manifestation of a
sub-conscious self loathing I was unaware of) for the sake of less
money than I spent on cider yesterday lunchtime when I took Rizla to
the pub.
I am sad to say that
when he announced it was on special offer at amazon for 1.99 on a
kindle edition, I bought it. Despite amazon being the devil, and this
meaning I only saved the price of a posh pint of cider on it. I began
to re-evaluate my priorities as a consumer of culture and notorious
skinflint. While I have always tried to save money by not buying
thousands of records (unless they are Grateful Dead albums I do not
yet own) or books, I have never not had the price of a pint in my
pocket (excuse the double negative, it just sounds nicer). I have
walked away from mint condition copies of Eskimo by the Residents for
only ten pounds because I wouldn't have had enough money for a drink
afterwards (I do still regret that one) which implies that I am some
kind of alcoholic. I'm not, true I do enjoy a drink, possibly more
than most, but
I proved last year that it is not a problem. I just prioritise
things badly.
Since I gave up
smoking two years ago, technically I have about thirty quid a month
going begging. It seems to have been taken up by my Cider/Strange
Food/Awesome hat budget, but theoretically it exists. I may be
spending it on posh cat food for my elderly and notoriously fussy cat
Duchamp, but he will learn to like the cheap stuff. I resolved this
week to start buying books properly to support authors, and buy music
from bandcamp and other artist
owned places. I will then make myself slightly happier by spending a
couple of afternoons a month reading and listening to my new-found
spoils in my summerhouse, which is probably my favourite thing in the
world to do (there I admitted it, I feel better now).
I have begun well,
this month I ordered another Tom Cox book from the utterly brilliant
Hive (perfect if you like local
bookshops, but not going into towns) and something else by somebody
I've never heard of that looked good, but then rather than support
new artists and emerging talent I bought a wildly over-priced copy of
Penguin Eggs by Nic Jones which I've been meaning to buy for years. I
regret nothing, it is a great album, and Nic Jones deserves all the
help he can get, I am a bit sad that I have been able to listen to it
as many times as I like online now, rather than it being a hazy
memory from a smoke filled room in the 90s, so it is unlikely to
surprise me, but these are the times we live in. It did blow the
budget somewhat though, so next month I will hit bandcamp, and
probably buy some Gaz
Brookfield stuff as I have been enjoying his work since he was on
the same bill as Maz
Totterdell a few years ago when I was still playing bass in her
backing group.
With the amazing
availability of music, books, art and whatever your heart desires on
the internet these days, it is all too easy to overlook the fact that
somebody had to pay for it in the first place. Not to mention the
fact that the sheer amount of choice often leaves me just not
bothering to buy anything and going back to things I already own (I
wrote a thing about modern record collecting here on my old blog).
I know from first hand experience that trying to write books and
songs and be in bands while holding down a job that pays enough to
fund all of this for free is exhausting, and takes its toll on my
mental and physical health. While I say, along with many others, that
I would continue to do it no matter what, I suspect that at the back
of my mind, if I truly felt that there would never be any income
derived from it I would give up and just sit in my summerhouse
listening to other people's music and reading their books.
Today we are on the
verge of going back to throwing some money in the hat of the
wandering story-tellers and minstrels. And this is actually no bad
thing, as the digital hat provided now is infinitely big, while the
group gathered round the metaphorical fire to listen can access any
minstrel they like, and throw as much money in as they want without
looking like showoffs. Now if I can only get some of them to throw a
bit my way.
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