Back in the late ’80s, the drum of alternative culture beat loud in Nottingham. Whether you were a goth, a skater, a hardcore punk, or taking your first steps into nascent grunge, there was a place for you and enough record shops, niche clothing stores and live venues to feed whatever your particular obsession was. Indisputably, at the core of that, a thriving record store, Selectadisc, founded in 1966 by local entrepreneur, Brian Selby. In 1988, I connived my way into a job there as a sales assistant when it was not just the coolest record store in Nottingham but arguably, in the whole of the UK.
Situated on the incline of Market Street, branching off the market square, the three Selectadisc shops – divided into new releases, secondhand and singles – were a magnet for vinyl junkies who’d travel miles to rifle through the racks and blow their wages on rare pressings and new arrivals. In the late ’80s, vinyl was still king and so I spent six days a week in the secondhand/collectors store, cleaning, pricing, selling and constantly restocking endlessly shifting racks of it.
Hearing that a friend of a friend was intending to apply for the vacancy, I was encouraged by my mischievous girlfriend to make a pre-emptive strike and shyly collaring Jim Cooke, the general manager, on the street, asked if there was anything going?
“Can you start now?” he asked.
“Er, no….”
“Then there’s no job.”
Sensing the direction of the wind, I quickly corrected myself.
“Erm, ok, I can start now.”
So, I started there and then, thrown in with the lions. Well, the lion. My immediate superior was a greasy haired, paisley-shirted, drainpipe-jeaned, winkle-pickered, West Coast Chocolate Watch Band wannabe called Jeff. I took an instant dislike to him. I quickly came to realise that this saved a lot of time. Everyone hated Jeff. I mean, everyone.
Was it his holier than thou, brusque manner, snideness and ‘the customer is always wrong’ attitude? Probably. Whatever trauma he’d experienced in his youth, Jeff seemed determined to avenge by generally being a c*** at every available opportunity. Jack Black’s Barry Judd character in Stephen Frears’ film, ‘High Fidelity,’ comes close, at least in his sadistic torment of both customers and Todd Luiso’s painfully timid shop assistant, Dick but Barry was at least full of beans. Jeff hadn’t a single bean to his name. He had chips piled up on both shoulders.
I was barely out of my teens, pale, wafer-lite, meek and thus, perfect cannon fodder for Jeff. He had a cruel, sarcastic wit and on occasion, a simmering temper that was always one step away from boiling over. Even so, hell bent on survival, I learned to read the barometer of his moods and on bad days, kept my head down and got on with my mundane work, finding distraction in the racks and the steady stream of customers, 99% of whom Jeff despised.
Despite working under this near-constant thunder cloud, Selectadisc was the cool place to work. My peers were jealous, not least because I had second dibs (after Jeff, of course) on the inexhaustible stream of vinyl being sold in daily. My own record collection fattened, week on week and on the rare occasions when I needed a little extra pocket money, I had plenty of excess to sell off to the infamous Rob’s Records in Hurt’s Yard, just around the corner. Rob would buy anything but Jeff was rather more discerning, often barely looking up from beneath his greasy fringe when something particularly despicable was passed along the counter in front of him. A shake of his head was often all it took for the seller to sheepishly withdraw (and on to Rob’s, of course).
The only other real perk of the job was that I got to play records all day long. “Glen, put something on,” sent me excitedly flicking through the racks for either something I’d never heard before but more likely, a handful of dead certs, loved by both myself and Jeff. Television’s ‘Marquee Moon,’ Fugazi’s ’13 Songs,’ Dinosaur Jr’s ‘You’re Livin’ All Over Me,’ Mudhoney’s ‘Superfuzz Big Muff,’ R.E.M.’s ‘Document’ and The Lemonheads’ ‘Lick’ amongst them. I loved the majority of new alternative rock music coming from the States and not only embraced the music but the look. I still held on to my bird nest hair, somewhere between The Jesus & Mary Chain’s Jim Reid and Pale Saints’ Ian Masters but my clothes became looser, flannel shirts over skate shop t-shirts, my Adidas trainers worn until they were practically falling off.
But the main store next door, was where the real action was at. Every Monday, new releases poured in from independent record labels from Seattle to Salford and I’d be sent to procure a copy of whatever NME was championing that week. The excitement of hearing the band or record of the moment, for the first time, before any of my friends got a look in, gave me a buzz that very almost made being in Jeff’s company bearable.
On Friday afternoons, I found myself with the unenviable job of transporting the week’s takings to the bank in the market square. In order to look as inconspicuous as possible, I was given an escort of a beautiful, though somewhat clueless sales assistant. I suspect the idea was that we’d pass as a normal indie couple out shopping, whilst beneath my shirt, thousands of pounds in a bank sack.
Selectadisc’s big mistake was to pay us, in cash, at the end of the play on Friday. This would undoubtedly guarantee that every single employee would be painfully hungover the next morning and throughout the day. It didn’t help that Nottingham’s biggest, wildest alternative nightclub, Rock City, was just around the corner and Friday night was party night. It was not unknown of me to dance and drink until the wee hours, eventually falling onto my New Basford bed around 3am, only to be miraculously back in work by 9am on Saturday.
Saturdays were insanely popular. As soon as the doors opened, customers started to trickle in and by 3 or 4 in the afternoon, the shop was packed to the rafters. On these days, it wasn’t uncommon to make between £1500 and £2000 and when the till was full, it was my job to filter the overflow of cash to the safe next door. These were the days before chip and pin; cash was the order of the day.
Busy as it was and Nottingham being the crime capital of the UK, we required extra staff, not least someone to look out for shoplifters. Enter, Steve, a tall, amiable greaser-type who oozed the charisma Jeff lacked but who could, when required, conjure up enough menace to deter would-be thieves. Anyone caught shoplifting by Steve was given a boot up the backside outside the shop and barred for life.
Saturday’s highlight arrived, without fail, at around 4pm, when long-haired students came in and asked to see “the Zappa.” At that time, Frank’s albums were where the big money was at and I’d make a big show of lifting the twenty or more gatefold sleeved vinyl, onto the counter, to be pawed over like sacred texts. Sales were guaranteed; they just couldn’t help themselves. £50 was the bottom end for ‘Hot Rats’ but £100 for one album was not unheard of.
One day, I watched three heavy metal guys confer for 20 minutes over their own particular holy grail – a near mint, ultra-rare copy of Mötley Crüe’s first 7″ single. Eventually, one of them put the cash down on the counter, a jaw-dropping £500. When they left, Jeff coolly turned around and pulled another copy out from the archive behind him. Like I said, a c***.
On another occasion, a tiny old woman came into the shop, looking lost. Pulling a piece of paper from her purse, she said, “My grandson has sent me in to see if you have this.” On the note, ‘Big Black – Headache EP.’ “He said I have to check it.” Checking it, in this case, meant viewing the inside cover, a gruesome photograph of a shotgun suicide victim whose head was split in half. “Oh dear,” she said, pulling the requisite sixty pound notes of her purse.
I spent three years standing up. Although there was a stool behind the counter, it was frowned upon to use it, particularly when the shop was busy. One was expected to be fully engaged with the room, ready to serve customers and be a visible deterrent to shoplifters. Sunday, my only day off, was useless in that, in the late ’80s/early ’90s, most shops didn’t open, so aside from a new age emporium close to my home, I had nowhere to spend my money. I quickly tired of incense, candles and singing bowls.
In 1991, Jeff got what was coming when, not for the first time, having insulted a customer, said customer reached over the counter and punched him in the face. He deserved it, of course. Much like the punch, what he didn’t anticipate was that, on rushing to the main office to complain about, er, being punched again, Selby fired him on the spot. Goodbye Jeff. I never saw him again.
I was left to hold the fort and for a brief, foolish moment, I thought the shop might be mine to command. I knew the ropes. Surely I’d be promoted? But a few weeks later, I was handed a choice : less money or no job. I chose the door. And just like that, I was out. Goodbye Glen.
In the subsequent months, not for the first time, finding myself unable to pay my rent, I sold off almost my entire vinyl collection – records I’d accumulated through those Selectadisc years.
Driven out by market forces and a much cheaper, zippier FOPP just around the corner, Selectadisc finally closed in 2009 but for people of a certain age, there’s still an understandable nostalgia for it in the city, where one can buy t-shirts and tote bags emblazoned with its logo.
Whilst visiting family, I walk down Market Street from time to time, not least to pop into Oxfam Books, the site of my old job. Time moves on. We can only exist in the present. Even so, after 30 years of living in London, I still encounter the odd soul who’ll say, “Did you use to work in Selectadisc?”
Arcane Delights 