'Ants Invasion' - Adam And The Ants (1980)

"10.35 and I hope I’ve made the right decision.

Heart is beating;

I’m alive,

But I don’t call this living."

"Don’t go in the bamboo!" These were the chilling words of warning I’d hear endless times as a kid. From my parents. From my teachers. Everyone seemed spooked by bamboo. These days it’s all pubescent vampires and post-apocalyptic zombies. Back in the Seventies it was giant grass.

There were tales. Told by flickering candlelight on cruel October nights. Well, some of them. Others were told under the flickering school hall strip lights in morning assembly. Of children being shredded alive by running through the bamboo patch on the school playing field. "Hold it there! What?!" Yes, exactly. I’m not sure who the school thought they were fooling with this. How come these grisly deaths by menacing perennial evergreens never appeared in the local paper? And why didn’t they just chop the bamboo patch down? I’m pretty sure our Head Master was cribbing his assembly notes from a Stephen King book.

And then there was the Bamboo Man. Who lived in the woods near our house. Apparently. "Stay away from the Bamboo Man!" "Is he made of bamboo then?" "Er, no. He lives in the bamboo." "Well, the name needs some work." Of course, the tales of a Bamboo Man just made you want to play in the woods even more. Would we see him? What did he eat? Did he steal those Micronauts I hid in the silver birch last week?

It would seem Bamboo Man was only visible to adults though, as none of us kids ever spotted him. Despite continually throwing rocks and assorted masonry in to the bamboo to flush him out. Kids, eh?

Three decades later though, I hear he’s still dwelling there. Well, that’s what my eleven-year-old nephew has been told. Surely this must be Son Of Bamboo Man by now though? And why is all this bamboo still around? Is someone panda farming in the area? Don’t people own scythes anymore?

  

Spotify linky:

Adam & The Ants – Ants Invasion

P.S. It's always a delight when I open an album sleeve and some forgotten treasure spills out. Today it was this 12-page catalogue...

'This Ole House' - Shakin' Stevens (1980)

"This ole house once knew his children,

This ole house once knew his wife.

This ole house was home and comfort,

As they fought the storms of life."

Deciding to write today’s post was a very difficult decision for me. But it’s something I felt I had to do. For two years now, I‘ve been sharing my record recollections with you. Hiding behind rare indie imports and obscure gothic gatefolds. While all the while recoiling in shame from a shadowy figure from my past. A figure that holds an unearthly dominance over The Smiths and Sisters of Mercy in the ‘S’ section of my archive. Yes, today I must face you all and reveal that I was once a Shakin’ Stevens fan, and own everything he released between 1978 and 1983.      

I have no excuses. But if I did have some, they would be things like… It was a long time ago. I was hanging out with a bad crowd. And I never really thought about the consequences.

I’m not going to blame anyone else for giving that first Shaky record to me, or even say who it was. I take full responsibility for my own actions. But I know now it was dangerous and can destroy lives. I just hope this hasn’t caused you too much upset.    

      

'Echo Beach' - Martha & The Muffins (1980)

"It’s a habit of mine,

To watch the sun go down."

INT. POP BOUTIQUE, COVENT GARDEN.

YESTERDAY AFTERNOON.

YOUNG LADY APPROACHES COUNTER.

POINTS TO AN IRON MAIDEN 7-INCH.

PUZZLED EXPRESSION ON HER FACE.

"What’s this?"

MAN BEHIND COUNTER.

"A 7-inch single.

Have you ever seen an album?

It’s like that. But with just one song on each side."

LADY.

"Is it a one-off?"

MAN.

"No, they made lots of them."

PUZZLED EXPRESSION TURNS TO ONE OF DISBELIEF.

LADY TURNS AND EXITS.

Cue Rod Serling. Surely we’ve entered the Twilight Zone. But no. The woman isn’t suffering from amnesia. And she’s not an alien being or some form of Artificial Intelligence learning our Earth ways. And we haven’t traveled to a post-apocalyptic future where our subterranean grandchildren have only heard legends of a giant ball of fire in the sky, mighty oceans, and mid-80s Heavy Metal chart toppers.         

On overhearing this conversation, I realised this blog has greater historical significance than I first imagined. It began as a way to simply share the many trivial recollections triggered by my record collection. But now it seems the average young person on the street can’t even identify what I’m writing about. The true value of these scribblings is now clear. I’m curating a national archive. Something the great institutions of the world will one day display as a public record of our natural evolution. I should probably look in to getting a grant or something.      

Back in the store, I couldn‘t resist flicking through the second-hand single boxes that had so bemused the young lady. I rarely buy second-hand vinyl. Or second-hand anything. (I can’t even read a magazine if someone has already looked through it. Just another of my quirky charms.) But here was an original pressing of ‘Echo Beach’. For a pound. I’ve loved this single since I first heard it on Annie Nightingale’s Sunday evening show back in the mid-80s. I’ve bought it since on many New Wave CD compilations. But I just had to own the original vinyl. Which is what really defines my generation. And this blog. And obsessive compulsives.     

‘Crocodiles’ – Echo And The Bunnymen (1980)

"Listen to the ups and downs,

Listen to the sound they make.

Don’t be scared when it gets loud,

When your skin begins to shake."

Every town should have an indie record store. Why isn’t this a law already? In my teens/early twenties, mine was the glorious Rock Box in Camberley. Every Saturday morning was spent there. And very many Mondays (record release day), if I could hitch a lift in my friend Chris’ Mini during school lunch-time.

At a guess, I’d say about a quarter of the records I write about here were bought in that vinyl treasure trove. You can always tell which ones, as the owner would pencil the price on the inside of the sleeves. You could usually pick up an album for £3.49, a 12-inch for £1.99 and singles for 99p – a little bit of historical context for you there.  

As with all the best indie record stores, it was situated on a street where none of the big shops wanted to be. The Top 40 atrocities of Our Price sat gleaming away in the pedestrianised shopping arcade, while the Rock Box needed to be sought out on a back road, between the rundown carpet store and the boarded-up dry cleaners. To me, it seemed as magical as the TARDIS in the way such a plain and small shopfront could house so many wonders inside and take you on so many musical journeys.    

I’d head down there for a Bunnymen album, and come out with a Fall white vinyl german import, a Mission box set, a Primitives T-shirt, a Cure In Orange billboard-sized poster, some Siouxsie Sioux postcards, and a Smiths badge set. Bliss.

For a few days in 1989, it even inspired me to open my own record store when I left school. That never happened. But I did use the Rock Box as a case study for my A-level Industrial Studies project that year – must dig that out some time. A quick Google search tells me the Rock Box is still there, and long may it run. I’d like to think I'll pop back in some time and find the vinyl version of The Fall’s ’Grotesque’ that’s always eluded me.  

£3.49. See?

Spotify linky:

Echo And The Bunnymen – Crocodiles