Another day, another collage - no, I don't make them every day - some days I work in the bookshop, which doesn't feel like 'work', it's true. In fact, every time I unlock and open the door, taking the first steps inside, I still feel a...tingle? A rush? A...sense of wonder that the domain of books is under my control for the day...a sacred space, almost...where I sit surrounded by spines, some of which are over 100 years old...some well-creased, others new from the warehouse...the pre-loved (by whom?) having been touched, held, dropped, folded back, read, half-read, even hated in their time...
Talking of time, it's the 50 anniversary of The Cisco Kid by War, not something many will be celebrating or claiming as a musical milestone, I know, but scanning the 'net as I was this afternoon in search of clips from the Midnight Special show I came across the band performing this classic single and the film quality is exceptional (most clips from the show aren't, but a lot of the acts are great). Was it really 50 years ago when I was a Disco Kid? Yes. Time...get over it.
Aside from every other genre (Glam, Rock, Reggae etc) we were Funk fiends and dancers before the Disco Craze of '77 tried to give the impression that, hey, white males dancing (alone!) to black music was a groovy new..um...thing. Anyway, if you don't know them, give War a chance...
'Psychology' sign found in the back of the shop. It's appropriate, considering the...er...psychological approach (?) of a few customers this last week.
We had a sale in January, 50% off all hardbacks. The signs that were all over the place, including three large ones in the window, were taken down on Feb 1st. This week a man approaches the counter with an armful of hardbacks. I tell him the total. He says 'Oh, isn't the sale on anymore?' I bite my tongue and say 'No, that ended last month' (as it also said on the frigging signs!). He's not happy, turns away and puts the books back. A minute later he returns, saying 'Those would have come to fifty-one pounds in the sale. I'm offering you fifty-one pounds.' My gun hand moves towards the holster but I refrain from blowing a hole in his head and say 'Sorry, I can't do that.' He trundles off, leaving a cloud of disgust in his wake.
Four days ago a man, another 'man of a certain age', the same age as the one above, both of whom I'm tempted to call Awkward Old Gits, spends some time choosing from the very old book section. He also puts a large book on Indian folklore on his pile on the desk. Having done so, he ums and ahs about it, asking (cheekily, he admits) if I'd look up the price online. I do so, finding the cheapest to be around £150 whilst ours is £80. Finally he's ready. The total comes to £124. I don't charge him for one paperback (value £4), then quickly calculate the others and discount him a tenner. He seems satisfied with that. But then, as he packs the books in his bag, he starts moaning, half to himself but loud enough for me to hear. Moaning about the total!
I draw the pistol, but lay it on the table and get up, walking around the desk to go and tidy the shelves. It was the best thing to do. I still can't get the blood out of the carpet from the last time I filled a customer with lead. I hadn't escaped his ire, though, because he insisted, whilst walking towards the door, on moaning again, saying 'I must be more careful next time' as if I'd cheated him! I simply replied that he had got a good deal on the Indian book and gave him my 'Now FUCK OFF' face.
On Friday another AOG puts four paperbacks on the counter. They average £4 each. 'Can you do me a deal on those?' He asks. My trigger finger twitches. 'No, sorry.' At least he paid the full price without saying another word and 'the look', intended to kill, bounced off of my invisible Protection From Customers shield, which took a good few months to build but is now in full working order.
Customers often say how precious the bookshop is to the area. Yes, it is, not only to the area but London. They are not the ones who try it on, of course. The ones who do might be the first to praise independent secondhand bookshops, whilst doing their best to undermine our existence by wanting price reductions! It's almost as if they can't calculate a simple economic truth; namely that we run on very small profit margins, unlike online sellers. Every penny does count. That said, I'm happy to give reductions when I think they're warranted.
I'm in the shop tomorrow (Sunday). Should you be in London and wish to visit, do come up and say 'Hello'. Just be careful when asking for a 'deal'. I may not show such restraint next time!
I was playing Reformation Post TLC in the shop yesterday whilst tidying up the books and a punter (40-something man) turned to me and said "Which Fall album's this? Reformation, isn't it?" So we engaged in a Fall Conversation. He'd been a fan for years, saw them several times. I admitted being very late to 'the party'. Of course it was good to chat to someone else with smart ears. You can't spot a Fall fan, can you? Unlike ye olde times of the tribes, when you knew someone's taste by their clobber. Fall fans don't have a uniform, the only uniformity being an appreciation of Mark E. Smith.
You must get all books about The Fall? No, not really, but this is highly recommended. Published by Route, but unless you snapped up the special ed, signed and numbered, you'll have to wait until October. Steve Pringle discusses every track on every album, with final evaluations and info about reviews and reissues along with how many times each track was played 'live'. There's also a Who's Who of band members.
Paul Hanley's intro makes some good points, one being the online availability of The Fall's music. It's refreshing to read a non-puritanical opinion regarding vinyl collecting vs online listening. The 'new puritans' can, after all, be a little...trying? But hey, each to their own obsession. They don't heed Smith when he says, in New Puritan, 'I curse your preoccupation/With your record collection', obviously. Or perhaps he was echoing someone else's comments about him? As with so many of MES' lyrics, there's ambiguity and a double edge.
I may not be a vinyl collector of The Fall (a bunch of CDs is all), which is not to say I wouldn't like them on vinyl, but I am a 'printhead' and as Hanley says in relation to this book, 'everyone prefers to get love letters on paper rather than by text'. I'll push books all day long over Kindle or reading online. Much of this content stems from Pringle's online site, which did a similar thing. Naturally, that content has been removed and besides, You Must Get Them All greatly expands on what was on the site. It also acknowledges the online Fall fan sites, homes of total obsession over small details.
You may not need to get every album by The Fall but when it comes to books about them, you could do a lot worse than buy this. It serves as a great primer and is guaranteed to have you either returning to, or discovering anew, albums by our longest-running, weird and wonderful band(s).
Culture Is Our Business by Marshall McLuhan - came into the shop a few weeks back, then sat there behind the counter with a note from me to The Boss saying I was interested in it - finally he let me have it. Perks of the job. Not that I understand everything McLuhan says (who does? Cultural critics - OK) but it's the way he says what he does in a partly-prophetic reading of the culture...I s'pose...and maybe if you understood everything he said, you'd be him (or much smarter than me, which isn't difficult). Scanned a few pages for you...
Well, I would choose one featuring the typewriter.
We're all inside the 'new media' today...like so many odd socks tumbling around whilst the spin dry cycle of non-stop news shrinks our brains. But isn't it supposed to expand our knowledge? I dunno, but the more I think about the internet and it's effects on us the more I think it's harmful - yes, you - all-dayers and nighters trapped in the online world - I tell you - it ain't no good.
But, yes, yes, I know about and have benefited greatly from the good side of online life - contacts established, work gained - yes, but I'm from the bridging generation, who knew life before the internet therefore can exercise restraint, not being born into it. Talk about 'soft' brain...talk about 'rewiring'...I tell you, my concentration is damaged (but not quite broken) from all this scrolling, so I know the addicted must only be able to see info as a flickering succession of the briefest snippets. Never mind what goes on, what they ingest, from dangerous extremism to the pernicious influencers, the preening narcissists.
Meanwhile, I sit at the typewriter and do things like this...
RTomens, 2022
...you could say...I might think...that my Vispo is a result of so much...online word sewage, spat back out in the form of Visual Poetry - mebbe - but more likely I...just got into both Vispo and typewriters a few years ago...and here we are...
Oscar Wilde quipped that the only thing he couldn't resist was temptation but I do resist quite a few books in the shop unless something exceptional comes in and Max Ernst by Edward Quinn (pub 1984) was one such exception. It had been sitting there, an art mono-lith atop several other books, for a few weeks. Perhaps the £40 price tag proved especially resistible to potential buyers. With energy bills set to soar now is not the time to indulge in such luxuries! That said, it's not uncommon for someone to spend around £40 on various books, such as a man who bought some the other day, my vispo book included! Turned out it was for his son, who was standing with him and whose face lit up when I said I was the creator. Now that's the correct way to respond (ha-ha!). Don't give me a shrug of indifference because my ego is that fragile. Then, not satisfied with the signature inside, he wanted it dedicated to him, so I obliged, feeling, for a few seconds, like a Proper Artist/Author.
Back to the Ernst book. It was only when I decided to flick through it that I realised it was something special, more than just another artist monograph. The reproductions are exceptional and large (the book's massive) but more than that Quinn adopted a 'collage' style in the way the texts from various sources are included...and it features texts by Ernst himself. He also personally oversaw the content selection. Yes, finally, it's the Max Ernst book to end cravings for Max Ernst books.
RTomens, 2022
Something I made in the shop a few days ago. Such activity keeps me occupied when it's quiet. Yesterday and man bought a Sickert monograph, asking me if I'd hold it for him whilst he walked around town. He came back and pulled a bottle of whisky out of his bag, saying he was going to enjoy it and the book in his back garden. Then he offered me a sip. I refused. He insisted. I gave in to temptation and poured a glug in my flask full of coffee. That's the kind of customer I like!
Picked up The Wicked Ways of Malcolm McLaren by Craig Bomberg in the Oxfam shop this morning. At £2.95, it was another thing I couldn't resist.
Inside it was a little card flyer for RAW. It clinched the deal when I found it whilst flicking through the book in the shop. Not that I know anything about RAW. Having done a bit of research it looks like the same club that got big during the, er, New Rave. Good job the date was written on by someone, later presumably. I was never raving, I was too busy Rare Groovin' and even Hip-Hoppin' about as well as Jazz Jivin' around in my own basement club, Giant Steps on Frith Street, Soho. As the new Summer of Love got under way a bit earlier a friend who did 'rave' would turn up at our club, out of his bonce of chemicals. Luckily he actually was training to be a chemist (or something) so he knew what he was 'doing'.
Yes, it would have been apt to have posted this in 2020 but I bought it this morning from the highly recommended Walden Books which, like the shop I work in, Black Gull, is one of the few surviving independent bookshops in London that's been around for over 40 years. Ironically, that which helped kill off many indies, online shopping, is now what keeps them afloat - adapt and survive. There's nothing like the browsing experience, though, because you come across titles that weren't in your head! Whilst bookshops, like the U.S.A in this novel, are 'disintegrating', we'll really miss the experience when they've all gone. Be warned...
O the irony! I'd chosen some text from EM Forster's The Machine Stops to use in a Vispo piece, carried The Beast outside to the table I work at, started typing and the spacer bar malfunctioned - the machine had stopped! 'O Machine! O Machine!' indeed.
Get the Brother Deluxe 220. Unlike The Beast it offers little room for manipulating A4-sized paper, so I folded it, I made it have it. I typed, folded, typed, folded it into another shape and so on, seeing the mess emerge, the visible creases from folding - so what? I'm not adverse to some mess. I carried on and you can see the result.
'She murmured and caressed her Book'. Appropriate, since yesterday was World Book Day, which I knew nothing about until someone mentioned it. I'm now working in the other Black Gull bookshop in East Finchley. On Tues a young man came in and asked if we were doing that half-price book deal for 'World Book Week'. Eh? No we're not! Half-price indeed. And World Book Week? What a chancer. Here I am in my new workplace...
...pretending (huh!) to read William Burroughs' Junkie...for a larf. This shop has a far greater selection than the Camden Market one, which now has new owners. Many good Art books, for instance. I have to show great restraint regarding bringing books home. You know, if I don't, The Cave will look like the bookshop, piles of books everywhere! On Wednesday and new batch came in and amongst them was Collage by Herta Wescher (pub: Harry N Abrams, 1968).
Tipped in plates? Irresistible! It had to be bagged. Tragically, the author, who put a lot of work into this, writing extensively about the history of collage, died before the planned second volume could be created. She and the publisher left the world a damned fine book though.
Having worked in the bookshop for seven months I haven't exactly become blasé about books but...there's a pile on the chair, just dropped off and needing to be shelved...I leave them there for a while...I look at them and instead of seeing books begin to see no more than a pile of neatly-bound paper...but aren't books supposed to be...magical? Spiritual? Alluring? Yes, yes, I know, but only having worked in a bookshop would you understand an encroaching...ennui...a...listless (?) attitude of the Just Books Mind which renders thinking close to 'familiarity breeds contempt' but not quite since I have not turned from book-lover to hater...only...yes, I do kick them around sometimes (ha-ha!) but only those I consider unworthy of careful treatment.
I would never, for instance, kick a classic Penguin, of course. I throw books into a place on the floor (on top of others) relating to the category above when someone is standing in the way of me slotting them in - and I laugh to myself at the reaction of customers who may be startled by a book landing near them or disgusted, perhaps, at my treatment of precious books.
This being a quiet time of year in all shops, presumably, especially mid-week, which is when I'm working, I draw to keep myself occupied. I have behind the counter pens, paper, Pritt Stick, a ruler and stencil with circles. People insist on interrupting the creation of artistic masterpieces! But I always get to finish. Here's one I made on Monday...
RTomens, 2022
Whilst locking up the bike at the market this morning I'm passed by joggers, of course. They're always about around the market. The early ones have no human obstacles to get around. Later, when the place is busy, the joggers must navigate their course like downhill skiers swerving around poles. Sometimes they have to stop and one can almost see the steam coming out of their ears as they do so.
I thought more about joggers as I locked up. Why do they annoy me? Is it simply because I'm not one of the lycra-clad breed of fitness fanatics? A middle-management pastime - bah! But I suppose middle-management types are as necessary as company directors and the minions. I think of David Byrne 'running' in the Road To Nowhere video because joggers, whilst going 'somewhere' are at the same time going 'nowhere' because the primary goal is just to run, not to reach a point.
So we come to the treadmill-of-life theory. But David, we can't all be creatively successful to the point of considerable financial gain! Most of us just have to Work. To pay the bills. Once upon a time I would have sneered at those 'going nowhere' as if I was going somewhere by being on the dole. Yes, I've lived the Drop Out life but since then I've realised that the benefits of Working outweigh being wilfully unemployed. Only, mind you, if you have the balance right. Yes, that old Work/Life balance...the kind of thing my former employers used to bang on about whilst middle-management types would definitely not be happy with you should you opt for Life over Work when Work needed doing to meet a deadline! Some people are better cut out for Work than others. Some people are ambitious. They manage a successful career...and still make time to go jogging...
No, don't get mired in Politics, for god's sake. But...
I wouldn't say Politics and Art don't mix - they obviously do in the hands of some, usually 'street artists' for whom the realities of life amount to a bundle of off-the-shelf protest slogans - huh!
Communism caused great rifts in early 20th century Art movements, what with those so inclined nailing their colour (red) to the mast and declaring those who didn't bourgeois scum, no doubt. Communism lured many writers too...it was the go-to cause because who wasn't for the rights of 'the masses' and justice for all? Later, what Stalin did became more commonly known. It still didn't deter the faithful from defending the Soviet Union.
I rarely make Political Statements in my Art. Part of me does think Art should be above and beyond Politics. Which is not to say there aren't 'political' observations in what I do, sometimes.
Meanwhile, in the shop, I try to avoid Political Conversations, knowing full well that nine-times-out-of-ten they would end in tears - ha-ha! Not mine, I hasten to add.
The other day someone asked me who my favourite philosopher was as he looked at the Philosophy section. I told him I don't have one. I don't read philosophy. He seemed surprised. I also told him I was illiterate, which a Punk (red, spiky Mohican and leather jacket) who was also there found most amusing. Meanwhile, the other guy looked non-plussed. OK, he didn't get my sense of humour, perhaps because he was Italian. He told me he was setting up a club for Art and Music in Camden. Great. He wanted me to come up with a name for it. No idea. That would take a while. It would have been a great idea if the music was guaranteed to be good but I suspected not. He told me he had been a House DJ. Oh. Visions of a space filled with House music and Street Art on the walls sprang to mind. Banksy has a lot to answer for. I wished him luck, of course.
A quick tour around Black Gull Books, Camden Market.
A woman from New York was in the shop the other day - bought a book on Patrick Heron. I said I liked the look of what was inside and we got into an Art chat. Turned out she was an academic studying in London. Stupidly, knowing the answer even before I'd finished the question, I asked if she made Art. Of course not. There are studiers and doers, right?
I knew I wasn't cut out for studying anything, right from an early age and despite being Pupil of the Year at junior school. After that it was all uphill into the land of clothes, music and discos where, if I was lucky, I got to snog a girl outside the hall. Oh the good ol' days, when girls tasted of crisps, chewing gum and Pernod...well, one did anyway...and I didn't mind!).
Even though I liked Art classes I still couldn't be arsed with studying anything...like...techniques, you know, skills. I suppose that shows, 45 years later. I'm not saying that's a good thing. Well, painting or drawing a bowl of fruit or country scene just wasn't for me, you know? I was ahead of my time. 45 years later you don't need old-fashioned skills to get into Art school, do you? No, just turn up for the interview with a head full of ideas - no bloody portfolio! And for your degree show, present those ideas written out (or printed, if you insist). It's conceptual, see? Take that!
We chatted (well she did) about MOMA, its collections and how they hung them. I haven't been to a gallery since they started insisting on wearing masks. I didn't tell her that for fear she would mark me as an anti-vaxxer. She said she preferred London to New York, partly because it was greener. I told her New York would probably overwhelm me. It's only ever appealed if I could travel back in time to...1950? Yes, when all men wore suits and hats and the Jazz scene was hot - Be-Bop!
Finally, some ephemera, found in a book this week. Love the name of this salon...a Hairitorium no less!
Odd as it sounds, working in a bookshop I rarely feel inclined to read whilst I'm there. I suppose it's a result of being surrounded by words! Read books, I mean. I do read stuff online (although that's minimal because I can't handle the small screen, or rather, my eyes can't) and go on Facebook.
Recently trade has been very slow. It's a regular lull before people go consumer-crazy (on books, hopefully) in the name of Christmas. So what do I do? I take a ruler, pens, paper and torn pages from photo books with me to make small collages/drawings. People do occasionally insist on interrupting me to buy something (the nerve!) but I've managed to get a few done.
RTomens, 2021
RTomens, 2021
I sometimes prop them on the counter to prove what a genius I am (ha-ha). A woman was interested in one but didn't seem to want to pay for it. I would have said 'Make me an offer' but the chance didn't arise. One day a girl bought two of my books and a print. When I said they were mine she smiled. Just smiled. I don't think she understood English. She didn't realise she was buying from the multi-talented creative genius standing before her...ha-ha-ha!
One girl came in with a couple of friends. I'd guess she was in her late teens. She asked me if I knew anything about riots in Camden. ??? What? Actual riots? Yes. Er. When? Recently? She didn't seem to know what she was talking about. I scanned my brain to recall any riots in Camden...nope. Did she means books about riots in Camden? I looked for any books we might have about riots in the UK but couldn't find one. Did she think there had been riots in Camden? Was she mad? Or just...stupid? Where did she get the idea that there have ever been riots in Camden? Turns out she was going to write about something that didn't exist. Namely, riots in Camden. I said we don't riot in England (smile). We make a cup of tea instead. I know there have been riots. I was at the Poll Tax demo that turned into a riot. I wondered what the hell she knew about riots, such as those that took place in America recently. I made a half-hearted attempt to broaden the subject but all she could muster was a smile and a 'Hmm'. I asked her if she knew what false flags were. She didn't. I briefly explained before deciding to shut up otherwise I would have started to describe the media's desire to lie about certain 'rioters' etc and probably bored her to death. Despite her chosen subject, she seemed clueless, politically.
Yesterday afternoon, whilst I ate cake, drank coffee, listened to the Art Ensemble of Chicago and sold some books in the shop, I thought: 'A job doesn't get any better than this.'
I worked in the Finchley shop on Saturday for the first time. Nothing much of interest happened. The woman who'd bought a huge book on Italian art came in to pick it up and looked at me as if I was handing her a lump of shit when I suggested a recycled bag to carry it in - eccentric? Crazy coloured hair, very old and frail of body, if not mind. A man came in, saying there's a lot of discussion about Darwin at the moment. Mad man radar went to work. No, I couldn't find any books about him. Then he told me there was a 'lot of talk' about atomic energy, or something. I thought 'there'll be a lot of talk about a murder in a bookshop if you keep this up'. He finally buggered off. Later I found a section containing quite a few books on Darwin but I don't think Crazy Man's thinking had evolved as far as actually buying books. Here's a shot of the shop window...
Life magazine ad, 1942
As mentioned before, my book of visual poetry, Yes I No, is actually selling in the bookshop. All remaining copies have now gone so I've ordered another print run. Yes, I'm still amazed that anyone who hasn't come across it via Vispo or Concrete Poetry circles walks in, looks and buys. No, I didn't think it's chances of selling were very good at all!
A quiet week at Black Gull Books - (no, not as quiet as the photo suggests) - no mad requests and not much in the way of sales either, which might have made me thought I was doing something wrong if not for the fact that the shops either side were quiet sales-wise too - but what could I do wrong that would affect sales so much? Adorn the shopfront with pro-Trump stickers and play YMCA all day? Probably. Perhaps the table outside could be covered in the 'wrong' kind of books, thus giving a terrible impression and deterring anyone from venturing inside. But that's a subjective matter, eh? As is what I and the other two employees decide to display outside and in.
To some extent what's put on display must represent our individual tastes - I think - but then, sometimes some very dubious books are on shelves or ledges (there isn't much space available to stand books) - no, I mean, books which I would never display, that's all. I wonder what the policy is in a place like Waterstones...do they have rules? Does the manager decide or do employees get a say? Must be tricky with three or four staff. Are there books which must never be displayed? Politically contentious? "That pro-Trump book must never be in the window! Nor that one challenging the climate disaster scenario!"
When I choose books to display inside the shop they're a mixture of ones that have been known to sell well and ones that look good; fiction with striking covers or Art books. The table is a tougher challenge, since, yes, I really do think about it rather than chuck anything on there. Mind you, there's an argument to be made for putting cheap tat on the table when the chances are it will either be shat on by The Birds or caught in an unexpected shower or, as was the case on Thursday, all covers will begin to curl up because the atmosphere is so damp. Yet I could never just put virtually worthless books out for those reasons. By worthless, I mean the kind of thing that very rarely sells, or is a very cheap and nasty edition, or beaten up already. One must give a good impression, surely - you can judge a bookshop by the covers on its table!
Last week a box of vintage horror magazines turned up. The Owner didn't realise their worth but I did, on a hunch proved right by some quick online checks - so they became my pet project, price them up and get covers for them. They really are great and I was tempted to grab some for myself but thought better of it.
I'm pleased to say that they began to sell this week. Any fan of vintage horror mags will stumble into a treasure trove when they come across this lot. Some great ads too, of course...
Post-production scanological trickery applied to the original. Chance is such an interesting tool. Chance, that is, with the appliance of some experience. In Toothless, paper plays a part, adding tonal variations and the effects of being folded.
*
The day after a copy of The Penguin Guide To Jazz On CD (Third Edition) arrived in the post, I dipped into The Anatomy of Bibliomania by Holbrook Jackson, which is essential reading for every bookworm. On page 121 Adam Smith is quoted as saying that 'of all the amusements of old age, the most grateful and soothing is a renewed acquaintance with the favourite studies of youth'. How appropriate, then, that I should have been reading the Penguin Guide that very morning!
I was not only reacquainting myself with a book, the first edition of which I wore out in the 90s (it was first published in 1992) but it's subject matter too. Not that I have ever left Jazz behind since embarking on 'the voyage' in the 80s, but reading, as I was, the Count Basie section, my interest in that band was also renewed. That's what great guides do, isn't it? Cook and Morton were harsh (or honest) in their judgements, which meant that four-star evaluations were taken more seriously. I don't agree with all of their recommendations, naturally, but in the age of Spotify, where band members are not listed, it's great to have them to hand and more to the point be able to find the music at the click of a mouse.
*
Monday 27th in the bookshop: a woman asks if we sell tarot cards. We don't.
Tuesday 28th: another woman comes in and asks if we have any tarot cards! What's going on? An hour later, a woman asks if we have any books on astrology.
My psychic powers are probably...weak-to-non-existent (how are yours?), so when, also on Tuesday, a girl wanted me to recommend a novel that would make her cry, I was unable to comply. Stupid bloody request! How do I know what will set her blubbering?! A book has never made me cry. I'm a man! (ha-ha).
I glanced up to the top shelf behind her, thinking that if that three-volumeHelena Blavatsky box was to fall on her head, she'd certainly cry. She would be moved to tears by the weight of some serious theosophical thinking! Having read a bit about Blavatsky I'm curious as to what she wrote and will get on the footstool, dust off the set and have a look next week. Better handle it carefully, though, because it's worth a lot of money. For a laugh, I may even put it on prominent display somewhere and if that gets it sold I'll want a cut! What are the chances? You never know.
Meanwhile, wanna-cry girl is smiling at me, expecting a result (because, hey, I work in a bookshop, don't I?). Idiotically (when I should have just shrugged and claimed ignorance) I wander over to the Fiction, thinking all the time that it really was a lost cause. Then I recalled crying during the film version of The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje and, lo and behold, we had a copy. I scanned the back. Hmm...sounds too...intelligent(?) for her, but what the hell. I told her the film had me in tears. She takes it. I take my leave. Half an hour later she buys a contemporary novel by a woman I'd never heard of and can't remember. It looked far more like the kind of story that would have her inn tears than anything I could recommend.
JP Donleavy's A Fairy Tale of New York had me in tears of laughter, as did Tragically I was an Only Twin: The Complete Peter Cook, but those weren't the kind of salty droplets this girl craved, obviously.
Do you know where the expression 'Bird brain' comes from? It's because they shit on books. OK, so I'm tarring them all with the same brush. I only have evidence of starlings shitting on books, but it's likely that any bird would do the same, given the chance, except, perhaps, crows, which are supposed to be smart. Unfortunately, they're not smart enough to realise that there's an endless supply of food scraps to be had from humans stuffing their faces at Camden Market whilst starlings are. They sit in the rafters of the overhanging balcony outside Black Gull Books, passing judgement on humanity's efforts to impart information and entertainment by shitting on our cultural achievement! That's what they think of us and our so-called civilisation! They mock us - I hear them chattering away to each other: "Pathetic humans! There, that's what I think of books! Now let's get some food from them."
I don't know what starling shit is comprised of but it's resistant to merely being cleaned off with, say, a baby wipe - they laugh at ingredients such as sodium benzoate! I know, having tried twice on different jackets, one of which is dark blue. No use. So I could only pose all day as a filthy bohemian book seller - they are a breed, you know, the last of their kind, sadly; a generation of dealers with a devil-may-care attitude towards any kind of sartorial pride (like most people these days). They are kin to the old Soho boho set of Francis Bacon and Jeffrey Bernard - louche, literary, unkempt and a bit crazy. Chris, the Black Gull owner, once suggested that I must be 'crazy', otherwise I wouldn't be working in the shop - ha-ha! I laughed, but after a few months there I'm starting to think he might be right.
Perhaps it's something to do with being surrounded by a lot of Wisdom in book-form yet confronted by stupid people on a daily basis. Every day someone wanders in, looks around and walks out as if completely nonplussed by what they're looking at. Oh well, a life of reading is not for everyone, eh? Just yesterday a woman who must have been at least 70 handed me two Kids books and asked me what age group they were suitable for. How the hell should I know?! Can't you work that out? I mean, you've lived long enough and presumably either met or actually had children!
The funniest request also happened yesterday when a man leaned into the counter and asked for anything related to nuns.
"My wife is mad about anything to do with nuns," he smiled.
"No, sorry," I replied.
"None?" He joked.
"None."
Ironically, I'd sold a copy of Aldous Huxley's The Devils of Loudun just half an hour earlier. What are the chances of that happening?
One way I keep myself entertained is playing music from Spotify on the phone linked to a small portable speaker. Yesterday I treated the public to The John Coltrane Quartet Plays, but as Coltrane got stuck into his solo on Brazilia I wondered if it wasn't...too much...for Them (those for whom His Majesty's sonic explorations in the name of improvisational self-expression are just a bloody racket). I mean, he's too much for me sometimes. Was he scrambling their brains, which needed to focus on reading and not be disrupted by sonic interference? Probably. Normally I play it safe, present favourites being the likes of Jelly Roll Morton and Sidney Bechet. No-one can object to early Jazz, except those that hate it. Coltrane's rampant progressive approach is, however, another matter, isn't it? Part of me was ready to stop the album after that track, whilst another part felt the urge to force Greatness upon the public and make 'em 'ave it! There! Take this! Cautious me won out, though. I moved on to Velvet Underground's third album and when the track Jesus played I thought of Sister Rosetta Tharpe's Gospel Train album, jumping in at the third track, Jesus Is Here Today. As LJ joked the other week when I said I played the best music of any book shop, I still can't help being a DJ, despite having been retired for several years. Three tracks later comes Up Above My Head I Hear Music In The Air, in which Sister sings 'Up above my head I see trouble in the air'. I couldn't help wondering if she too had a problem with starlings.
Avoid Chaos Now! was made this morning. I had a piece of paper with a strip from an old newspaper stuck to it. It's been sitting around for weeks so I thought I should do something with it. First I cut out the text from an advert in another old 'paper, then stuck it down. I started typing over it, first the straight random text lines, then the crosses. The figure was an afterthought. I don't know that it needed it but I printed it on anyway. The whole finished work is print rather than print on the original. That would have required a resizing of the figure, which wouldn't have been unsurmountable but I didn't feel like gambling on getting either the size or the placement right. So I scanned the original, printed that then printed the figure over it.
*
"Do you realise how talented you are?"
What, me?
I'm bagging a print of my art which the girl asking the question has just bought in Black Gull Books. She's from Nashville. I try to tell her how...romantic that sounds, the very word conjuring up...something...a notion of Country music...legendary figures in Stetsons...America...real America as I imagine from mythological imagery, part fantasy concocted from ignorance and cultural idealism. The reality, she informs me as we discuss the relative merits of London and Nashville, is that the architecture there is mostly boring, whereas London's is anything but. The grass is always greener. And she may not even like Country music.
I suppose it's what's known as a rhetorical question; one that I've never been asked regarding my art. Any sale is a compliment, but this one, spoken to my face, is something else. How can it be answered? "Yes!" Of course not. I just thanked her. She was with an American friend, who also bought some of my Art. They both looked stunned when asking who the artist was. I don't suppose they expected The Bookseller to also be The Artist. That, or they couldn't believe they were in the presence of such a Talent (ha-ha!).
You can judge a book by its cover, sometimes. A young lad and his girlfriend appear in front of the booth in the bookshop. He wants help with which is the first in a series so I follow them...outside, thinking 'There is no series out here'. He leads me to the table and points to the old Penguins which I've placed together. Along with the two Huxleys there's Sartre's The Reprieve and this:
The layout pictured above is from the day before I slightly altered it to include the book about Lane.
"Um. These aren't a series," I say. Although style-wise, the Huxleys are. Do they mean the Huxley books? I don't think so.
"My dad says I should read..." her sentence tapers off with a smile. I look into eyes under long, false lashes.
"Well - ". I'm counting Sartre out for starters, then looking at the Huxleys, neither of which I'd read. "You could try one of these." This is absurd. Huxley? For her? Really? I can't go with a hard sell so I leave them to it, saying "Have a look, see what you think."
Five minutes later they come back in and she puts the Huxleys on the counter. Meanwhile, as I log them, I'm having mixed thoughts, even conflicting emotions...I felt a bit guilty...then ashamed that I was categorising a working class girl from up North with her false eyelashes and thick make-up as someone who wouldn't 'get' Huxley in a million years...then thinking it could be the start of a wonderful literary trip during which she'll discover a whole new world!
Was I judging her? Not really, as in condemning her or passing sentence...because I'm working class and didn't read anything substantial until I was about 17, starting with Kerouac, as I recall, just because he was...fashionable? Amongst a certain crowd, anyway, of which I was only a member in my fantasies. I'd probably read about him in the NME? Who knows. Anyway, I'd never claim to be widely-read, particularly. No serious bookworm, although that is a relative term, of course. If we'd had a copy of On The Road in the shop perhaps it would have been a good recommendation...apart from the fact that the prose style isn't ideal for absolute literary beginners, although I like the thought of her, six months later, wearing no make-up, a black jumper and beret, insisting that her boyfriend listens to Charlie Parker - ha-ha!
Huxley cropped up again the following day. It started when a young Canadian man pointed to the Nineteen Eighty-Four displayed on the counter, saying how much he hated Orwell. His reason was a little vague; something to do with the book's popularity over Brave New World, as far as I could tell. I told him I thought BNW wasn't great writing by any stretch, just a great idea, like so much sci-fi. And Orwell was so much more relevant, unfortunately, what with online censorship by big tech and the drive, by some, to either rewrite or erase the past. By this time he was looking at me quizzically. "Hmm," he said. "I'm trying to work out where you're coming from, politically."
I laughed.
"I'm a socialist," he said, proudly.
I owed him £6.50 change. Instead of giving him the money, I swiped his tenner off the counter and said. "Well, I'm a capitalist and I'm keeping your change!"
My how we laughed. Well, I did. He tried to, but was struggling with an encounter with a bookseller like me, who didn't raise a clenched fist in response to his political declaration. I gave him the change. He departed, smiling as he gave me his middle finger.
Here are things I found in books this week. The call to prayer was in a dusty box on the floor containing various 'spiritual' books. The Miami bar/restaurant card is my favourite, only because of the graphic content and it sparks me to imagine being in the Miami circa 1950 sipping cocktails with Rita Hayworth to the sound of a band playing Mambo tunes...well, I can dream, can't I?
I coulda, shoulda been a drummer, maybe. But despite playing 'drums' for hours with mum's knitting needles on the sofa (those deep cushions created a great sound!) when I was a kid, having seen Buddy Rich on Sunday Night at the Palladium, it wasn't to be.
Malcolm (professor in the Guildhall Jazz faculty and Artistic Director of Jazz for the National Youth Orchestras of Scotland) popped in the shop again last Saturday and we talked drummers, both agreeing that it was a thoroughly unnatural thing to want to be doing, although I'm sure he can't say that to actual drummers that he works with. Then we pondered what makes a young person want to drum. I didn't tell him my Buddy Rich story because we got onto Joe Morello of Dave Brubeck fame and specifically his playing on Take Five since I'd played it recently and, once again, marvelled at Morello.
It's always good to chat music with Malcolm when he comes in. We've just had a large batch of Music books in but he already had most that he wanted. Music sells fairly well in the shop - not as well as I expect, mind, because I'm still looking at all those books and names through my old fanatical eyes from when I bought a lot of Music books whereas nowadays, not so much and yet I expect everyone else to be as keen on the subject as me - still! What's wrong with you?! Buying bloody Wittgenstein when words on Tom Waits are round the corner! Pah!
Bless the Philosophy consumers, though, because that huge batch we got in recently needs thinning out, what with some Hegel still buried in boxes on the floor. Shame we can't get more copies of Nietzsche's Beyond Good And Evil - what a star he is! He's the bloody Elton John of philosophy! No, no, I mean...the...never mind. Just the other day someone asked for a copy but I'd sold the last one earlier in the week. I wonder, briefly, in a moment of madness, whether The Pop Group have anything to do with the popularity of that book. Then I remind myself that most buying it are too young for The Pop Group to be influential, surely. One key factor must be the title, I mean, what a title! Philosophical Investigations doesn't come close (too literal, man!). An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding? Very droll. Older philosophers could have sold a lot more books had they been as savvy as contemporary would-be philosophy popularisers, with titles like The World's Fucked and So Are You, and Kill Your Brain With Ideas. Not forgetting The Yummy Mummy Book of Philosophy.
Before I go I have to mention another classic price quibble from Thursday. A guy is interested in a copy of the Koran (Penguin, 1983). He wants to know the price...thinks the four pound written inside could be the price but can't believe it because...wait for it...he turns the book over and points to the original £1.95, reminding me of what it says - yes! Another one! I laugh, saying "Prices have gone up a bit since then." Duh.
If I sold hamburgers I suppose I'd have to play hip-hop, just like the guy on the stall opposite the shop. Hip-hop and burgers might be made for each other, but since burgers are as American as apple pie, why couldn't they go with Rock 'n' Roll or Swing, as well as onions? The actual truth is that he, like most selling food, is a good deal younger than me, so why the hell would he present Count Basie with his burgers? As it is, to varying degrees of annoyance, depending on the volume, most of the food stalls have virtual sound systems blasting out 'street' sounds...you know...to create that...er...street 'vibe' and entice youths to cram more calories into their gobs, pile on the pounds, then make Tik Tok videos about how great it is to be...um...big. Something like that. Good luck to 'em!
One soundtrack that's become a favourite of mine in the shop is Tarantino's Once Upon A Time In Hollywood. Not only are there some great tunes, but those adverts! The intro to Hector by The Village Callers still hits the spot, years after it was a regular in my DJ box. Tanya Tanning Butter sounds a bit dodgy, though. It gives you a mild burn?
As I dream and drift from Camden market back in time to Los Angeles circa 1969, I see two sides, dark and light; impressions from an idealised, sun-drenched fantasy and reading Manson: The Life and Times of Charles Manson by Jeff Guinn. Guinn pulls no punches in knocking idealist Hippy utopian dreams right out of your head, not that I had any to begin with. The tragic fact was that in San Francisco, lost girls looking for salvation on 'the scene' proved ripe for the picking as far as Manson was concerned. There were plenty of them, tasting the bitter reality of 'freedom' (to starve and be exploited). No, if I'm 'there' I am at least with Gary Lockwood in his 1952 MG TD Midget in Jacques Demy's Model Shop. Not that his situation was great. He'd got his draft papers and his car was about to be repossessed, but to me it looks better than being a stoned hippy. Anyway, Demy can even make living in a shack on an oil field look romantic. By coincidence, I've just learnt that Tarantino was inspired by Model Shop regarding OUATIH.
Isn't it romantic? Working in a bookshop...maybe, if you're in a Woody Allen film. I can't remember but there must be one of his characters who does...Well here's my second favourite film-related soundtrack for browsers in Black Gull Books. Music from Woody Allen films...and it's 'about 9hr 30 min' long! In theory then, I could play it for the whole day, but I prefer variation. As it is, I'm torn between wanting to create an old-world romantic atmosphere wherein one browser might fall head-over-heels for another as they both peruse the Classics section and not wanting to appear to be a creaky old fart stuck in the past!
What a dilemma. But who am I kidding? I am stuck in the past. It just happens to be a past in which Kraftwerk might feature along with Sidney Bechet. I doubt that Woody Allen has much time for Kraftwerk. After all, aren't they the epitome of cold, soulless art? Maybe, then again, you could argue that there's a lot of 'soul' in those beautiful melodies and their connection to Classical romanticism, albeit directed towards robots.
Allen's got to be the most literary of filmmakers, hasn't he? So bookish. So I play the selection, fully aware that virtually nobody will get that I'm trying to conjure the atmosphere of an imaginary Parisian bookshop in which love affairs begin to the sound of Artie Shaw's Moonglow.
Black Gull Books, 70 Camden Lock Pl, London NW1 8AF (I'm there Tues, Weds & Thurs)
