Gah, had me hands in Hermann’s innards, yet again. Bloody jukebox is playing flipsides intermittently, as part of his bag o’trix, which also includes stopping at the end of rekkids fer no reason (actually, an internal wiring block needs ‘wiggling’), only showing part of the selection number and not the letter on the display (gawd knows), and the top neon tube not lighting (another ‘wiggle’ job). But we love him so! Well, who could blame Hermann (cos he’s German, and I love Bernard Hermann), as he’s got a rite auld mix o’gems and nanker to get through!
We like a grab bag of ancient and moderne elecktrickery in our house. I’m fully conversant o’the fact that our H could be replaced by an iPod Nano that’s as big as one of his selector buttons, and I allus get a sinking feeling when he conks aht at the end of “Please Don’t Go Topless, Mother” by seven-year-old Troy Hess or Nadia’s much-loved copy of Louis & Ella’s “Stone Cold Dead In The Market Place”, but at least I can use my limited knowledge o’electricals (switch it off, apply contact cleaner, wiggle it, switch back on ) and it seems to bear fruit. When the Mac I’m currently bashin’ at goes wrong, I’m sunk, really. And there’s the nub…
Had a very old pal from Australia visiting this weekend (hey, Becky! ) and Nadia drove us all out to the town of Frome yesterday, which is about 13 miles outta Bath, cos it was threatening to rain, as it always does when friends visit. Far from being notable solely for my cousin Henry’s long-running band of musical n’er do wells, The Bad Detectives (est. 1975), related post-punk cult icons Animals And Men, and my uncle Pete’s secret biscuit tin, in many ways, it’s a now a sorta catch-all town of yer dreams. There’s a little pub that brews its own really quite astonishingly great beer, The Griffin, where the always-excellent ‘Detectives and other great local bands play fer nowt – try and catch Shindig! magazine co-prexy Andy Morten’s psych duo, Leonardo’s Bicycle, or his ’66 freakbeat trio, Magic Tractor, again with his fellow former Nerve/Bronco Bullfrog pard, Mike Poulson… anyhoo, yesh, apart from the excellent drinkery and musik, Frome’s blossomed into some kinda retail land of dreams, with an excellent selection of independent shops up the picture-skew Catherine St, including several vintage clothing places, a great hat shop, Bea and Evie (Bailey Panamas fer £32!) and the sooper-hip Deadly Is The Female (for ladies’ bodies and gentlemenses’ eyeses!). Round the corner is a genuwine, honest-to-gosh, old skool records shop – two, actually – namely Rave From The Grave‘s CD and vinyl shopses. The latter’s just great fer diggers, as its half-timbered frontage gives no indication of the simple mass of wax that inhabits its twisty, three-storey innards. Like, packed aht, bub!
Some great stuff in there, and pretty good prices, to boot. First time I went in was a coupla years back, and snagged a set of gay and lesbian 1920s jazz on the Stash label, Television’s Ork 7″ fer a fiver, and other similarly ‘wha’ t’fuck?’ kind of items. A great, equally oddball haul yesterday, for Becky and meself both. My £15 7″ haul wuz Sam Cooke’s “Saturday Night” (jukebox-bound, by Nadia’s demand), AC/DC’s “High Voltage” and Ramones’ “Rock’n'Roll High School” fer the DJ box, Carla Thomas’s “B-A-B-Y Baby” (also set fer Hermann, as it’s an all-time Memphis fave) and, last but not leastly, Die Electric Eels’ glorious “So Agitated” – used to have it, but must’ve given away to someone while drunk. I described it to Becky as being like Eric Cartman fronting The Stooges, if they were playing with oven mitts on. Seriously, folks, it’s the bee’s knees, ankles and toeses! Ahem…
