The Vinyl Detective--Flip Back, page 10
This seemed to finally close the door on Wisht and Tinkler’s desire to obtain a copy. And our desire to make a handsome commission on finding him one. We stopped talking about Black Dog and that was that.
May turned into June and our financial position became so precarious—no decent charity shop discoveries to flog, in either clothing or vinyl—that Nevada decided to set up a website about our cats. “Might as well see if we can monetise the little darlings,” she said.
“You’re going to sell your cats?” said Tinkler. “Online?”
“No. We’re going to post about their adventures and—”
“Oh, well, that will be a big hit. Remind me to get in on the ground floor. I missed out on Google shares, but this ought to more than make up for that.”
This raised Nevada’s ire, and the situation wasn’t eased when Tinkler said something about “pimping out your cats in cyberspace” and I thought I might have to intervene to prevent bloodshed.
But just then the phone rang.
It was Tom Pyewell.
“I got your number from Erik. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course,” I said. My voice must have revealed my surprise because in the background Nevada and Tinkler had immediately stopped squabbling.
“I’ve been meaning to get in touch ever since… ever since… well, you know.”
“I do. I do know.”
“It was really nice to meet you and your mate…”
“Tinkler,” I said, and Tinkler stared at me and touched his chest, eyebrows raised. I shook my head.
“And I meant to keep in touch,” said Tom Pyewell. “But you know how it is.”
“I do.”
“I mean, I sort of felt we’d all become friends during the… incident… and when it was over I thought we’d formed a bond and that we’d all be in touch. But I haven’t even been in touch with Erik. And we’re mates. I mean old mates, from way back. What I realised was, although it had formed a bond between us, it also was a bit unpleasant to remember, to think about. So I’ve tried to avoid thinking about it.”
“I understand,” I said. “We feel completely the same way.”
Nevada was leaning towards me and silently mouthing the words, Who is it?
Tom Pyewell, I mouthed back. But Nevada didn’t get it. Tinkler did, though, and he whispered in her ear.
“Anyway,” said Pyewell. “Today I thought, enough is enough. Grasp the nettle. Like I said, I hadn’t even been in touch with Erik since then. So today I rang him up and we had a long chat, and it was great, a real relief. A lovely catch-up. So I was on a roll, and I thought I’d get in touch with you at last. You and Tinkler. Anyway, are you guys still interested in that record?”
“Yes,” I said, trying not to actually yell the word.
“The original version of our album Wisht?”
“Yes.”
“The one with the original version of the songs before Max made us scrap them all?”
“Yes,” I said. I wasn’t sure my blood pressure could take this conversation-by-instalments. “Absolutely.”
“I remember you were asking me about it just when…” Just when the crazed Stanley Strangford started shooting at us, I didn’t say.
“Yes, that’s right,” I said.
“Anyway, I didn’t think about it for quite a while.”
“Entirely understandable,” I said.
“But then I remembered. Just before I got back in touch with Erik, I remembered what you said. And I decided to have a look for it.”
“That was very good of you.”
“Not at all. But I have a lot of records, and they aren’t as organised as they might be.”
“I know that feeling,” I said. And we both laughed politely.
“So I had a good look through my record collection…”
“Yes?”
“And I can’t find it.”
There then ensued a brief silence during which I had the unworthy fantasy of crawling up the telephone cable to wherever Tom Pyewell was and strangling him with it at the other end.
Perhaps he was waiting for me to say something. But I couldn’t think of anything to say. So finally he said, “But I know I’ve got a copy somewhere.”
He sounded very certain, and my hopes began to rise again.
“Or at least I did have one.”
My hopes sank.
“I think someone might have borrowed it.”
“Oh, well,” I began to say.
Tom Pyewell broke in hastily. “But if someone did borrow it, it was only one of the fellows in the band. So if it’s not among my records, it will be among theirs. And even if I don’t have a copy, I know that one of them does. I’m certain of it. I know I saw one not so long ago.” He finished on a triumphant note and I found myself back in the position, despite myself, of believing that we might actually be onto something here.
“So I have a suggestion,” said Tom Pyewell.
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you come to the Green Ceremony?”
10. THE GREEN CEREMONY
The Green Ceremony was a midsummer folk music festival in Ashington, West Sussex. “The most highly regarded event in the annual folk music calendar.” And Jimmy Lynch, one of the surviving members of Black Dog, had a house nearby, in addition to his one on Halig Island. It was Tom Pyewell’s opinion that either Jimmy might have a copy of Wisht or, rather more likely, that I’d find one at the record fair that took place at the festival. “A huge tent full of records,” he told me. “Lots of dealers. It’s the biggest folk music record market in Europe. New stuff but also lots of old stuff. Old and rare records. It’s the number one event for the folk music collector.”
Other than the mention of dealers, I liked the sound of this a lot.
Nevada immediately put the Green Ceremony in our diary.
We set off on the appointed Friday in the teeth of a midsummer heatwave, driving south with the windows cracked open in Tinkler’s eccentric little Volvo, known affectionately as Kind of Blue, both in tribute to Miles Davis’s great album and to the vehicle’s slightly odd paint job. I did the driving, since Tinkler never knowingly missed an opportunity to be a passenger in his own car. Nevada was beside me in the front, peeling oranges and fretting about the cats. “I wonder if Clean Head would mind me just sending her one more text about looking after them?” she mused.
“Won’t that spoil the fun of reading all the notes you left for her on the fridge?”
“Yes, I suppose it would,” she sighed.
The A24 took us all the way to Ashington where we took the London Road—it was reassuring to know that the way home was so clearly signposted—and then turned onto Rectory Lane. Along here signs began to appear announcing THE GREEN CEREMONY in large green letters on a white background with arrows pointing straight ahead and then, finally, towards our left.
“Why the Green Ceremony?” said Nevada.
“Well,” said Tinkler, “Black Dog’s first album was called White Ceremony. And the second album was called Scarlet Ceremony.”
“So,” I said, “was Green Ceremony their third one?”
“Nope. The third album was called The Hill of Dreams. The Green Ceremony was just the name of a live music show they did here in 1970, with a load of other bands for support. And it was such a hit that it became an annual festival and has been running ever since.”
We joined a long line of cars crawling forward to turn right into a field dedicated to parking. Now that we’d slowed down, the car became oppressively hot even with all the windows wide open.
After we finally parked we walked across the road and joined the long line of people on foot waiting to enter the festival gate. There was a sweet fairground cotton-candy smell of vaping on the air, plus a pungent aroma of weed. Looking around at the crowd, I said, “We’re on the guest list. Shall we just jump the queue?”
“I’m not sure I have the temerity,” said Nevada. She was looking at her phone with an expression of approval. She showed me what she was watching. It was a video of Fanny crouching in our kitchen sink, lapping at a thin, glinting stream of water running from the tap. This was very much her preferred way of quenching her thirst, though standing in the empty bathtub and drinking from the bath tap was also deemed acceptable.
“Clean Head just sent this,” said Nevada. “She is discharging her duties with distinction.”
“So I see.”
As the line crawled slowly towards the entry point a young woman ambled past us. She wore heavy-duty green rubber boots, a puffy chiffon skirt in a green and brown camouflage pattern and a tie-dyed white and khaki tank top. The tank top revealed that she had a tattoo of a snake rising up the pale skin of her back, circling around her neck and ending in a fork-tongued, beady-eyed and, it has to be said, rather beautifully executed serpent head. The serpent appeared to be whispering in her left ear.
Blonde and green-eyed, she was very pretty. But even a passing glance at her showed a sense of entitlement—I suppose a more polite word would be ‘composure’—which was rather repellent. She sailed through the crowd, walked to the head of the line and simply sauntered past the security people, utterly ignoring them.
“Who the hell is that?” said Nevada.
I don’t think she expected an answer. But Tinkler said, “The Shearwater daughter.”
Ah. Max Shearwater’s offspring. That began to explain things. Daddy’s little girl was indeed entitled—to nothing but the best, it looked like. “What’s her name?” I said.
“Max.”
“That’s confusing.”
“It’s actually Maxine.”
“What kind of demented egotist gives his daughter virtually his own name?” said Nevada.
“The kind that leads a band,” said Tinkler. “It’s actually a combination of his name and his wife’s name.”
“What’s his wife’s name?” said Nevada.
“Ottoline.”
“Jesus.”
“I know, I know.”
“All right,” said Nevada, watching Maxine Shearwater disappear into the festival. “Now I have the temerity to jump the queue. Come on.”
We strode to the front of the line where the gateway opened into an area flanked by two tents. Outside the bigger tent, on our right, there was a poster with the words The Goblin Market on it in rather spidery letters. Underneath was a painting that I recognised as being by Arthur Rackham, the celebrated illustrator of Victorian children’s books. It featured a pretty blonde young woman—not entirely unlike Maxine Shearwater—in a white dress. She was leaning against a gnarled tree with some quite creepy little gremlins fondling her face and offering her pieces of fruit.
The smaller tent on the other side had a placard stuck in the ground outside it which read Festival Team—Support and Info. This was our immediate destination.
Standing directly in front of the gate and regulating access were some big and thuggish-looking men. Or at least, they were as thuggish-looking as their bright green and slightly camp high-visibility vests would permit.
The biggest and most thuggish-looking of these approached us. “Tickets, please.”
“We’re on the guest list,” I said.
He looked at us without blinking.
“We were told to go to the organisers’ tent and they’d have our names down.”
Without saying anything he just lifted his arm in the general direction of the smaller tent. We went inside into the coolness and shade and smell of hot canvas and found that, despite there being a long trestle table with half a dozen chairs behind it, and half a dozen tablet computers on the table, there was only one harassed-looking woman in the tent. She was apparently running the place, simultaneously using one of the tablets and her phone. When eventually we managed to get her attention, or at least a small percentage of it, she denied that we were on any kind of a list.
I was firm, Nevada charming, Tinkler sycophantic, but none of it did any good. Finally she showed us the list—indeed all the various lists: press, guests, hangers-on… And she was right. We weren’t on any of them.
We emerged back into the daylight and immediately fell under the mocking gaze of the large thug. He could clearly see that we’d been knocked back.
“Not on the list, then?”
“No. But listen,” I gestured towards the big tent. “The Goblin Market. Is that the record fair in there?”
“Yes.”
“Is it all right if we just go and have a look?”
“Of course you can.” He lifted his arm again in a generous gesture and off we went.
Up close the digital printing of the Rackham image on the poster revealed its myriad deficiencies. But the original artwork was still lovely. “The Goblin Market,” I said.
“It’s a poem by Christina Rossetti,” said Nevada. “It’s the ultimate example of volcanic, repressed sexuality.”
“No,” said Tinkler. “That would be me.”
We went into the tent. This was considerably less cool and quiet than the last one. When Tom Pyewell had said there would be dealers here, he hadn’t been exaggerating. A quick look around was enough to give me a sinking feeling. The tent was roughly square in shape with an opening in one side. Three walls were lined with tables, as was the fourth wall on either side of the opening. The tables were stacked with LPs in crates, with the sellers sitting and standing behind them. There were plenty of records, all right, but even at a glance I could see that the vast majority of it was new stuff. Recent reissues, still sealed in plastic, with barcoded stickers on them. And as far as I could tell, all of the sellers were professional dealers, including some of the big firms. This was bad news because it precluded the possibility of finding any hidden gems or unexpected treasures. These vultures wouldn’t be likely to let anything like the original pressing of Wisht slip through their fingers.
How right I was in this assessment became clear as we walked further into the tent, our eyes adjusting again after the glare of daylight outside. At the far end, with the biggest section of table, was a dealer that I recognised. A banner hanging on the wall of the tent behind them announced Mindy Indie Vinyl—Your Independent Record Seller.
I knew these clowns all too well, as did Tinkler. We called them Mendacious Mindy, because they were, not to put too fine a point on it, lying bastards. Their stated policy was that they only sold the finest quality, play-graded rare and second-hand vinyl. ‘Play-graded’ meant that they actually played the records, listened to them carefully, and noted any faults. If so, they were either using the world’s lowest fidelity vinyl system or the world’s deafest listener. They also claimed that their records were guaranteed and backed by a one hundred per cent no-quibble refund. Tinkler and I had both discovered that there were quibbles aplenty and neither of us had managed to get the entirety of our money back.
That was all on the one hand.
On the other, hanging high above us, attached to the Mindy banner, was an image of the Wisht album cover and a sign that read: Original pressing flip back version! One copy only! Super rare!
“Well, that was easy,” said Tinkler.
* * *
I went up to the guys manning the Mindy stall. They all combined the trick of being simultaneously heavily bearded and very young. The one in charge seemed to be, perhaps naturally enough, the youngest and most heavily bearded. His hair was long and blond, as was his beard. Both hair and beard were knotted with ribbons. The ribbons were green, of course.
I asked the green-ribbon guy if I could see the copy of Wisht.
“We’re only showing it to serious buyers,” he said.
“I am a serious buyer,” I said. I didn’t bother trying to explain that it was Tinkler, hovering anxiously behind me with a rather excited Nevada beside him, who was the actual buyer. I was the one doing the negotiating. Indeed, that was what I was getting paid for.
Green Ribbon Guy narrowed his eyes. “How serious?”
“I will buy the record here and now, if it’s in decent condition.”
“All of our records are in ‘decent condition’,” he said. The sarcastic quotation was heavily implied. “They are all flawless and scrupulously play-graded, otherwise we wouldn’t be selling them. And they are fully, one hundred per cent guaranteed.” I didn’t bother trying to parse these comments for all the plentiful untruths in them.
I just stood there and said, “Show me the record. If it’s as good as you say it is, we can close the deal immediately.”
I must have sounded on the level, because Green Ribbon turned to one of his colleagues and snapped, “Fenton, where’s the van at?” He didn’t actually click his fingers at Fenton, but you could tell he wanted to.
Fenton immediately got on his phone, walked a small distance away from us behind the table on a quick and nervous semi-circular course, speaking into his phone, and returned. “They’re about ten minutes away. Stuck in traffic.”
Green Ribbon turned to me and said, “The record will be here in about ten minutes.”
“So you haven’t actually got this record,” I said.
“The record is in the van. The van is on its way here. It will be here in about ten minutes.”
“They’re stuck in traffic,” added Fenton helpfully. Green Ribbon gave him a nasty look and Fenton fell silent and made himself busy applying—no doubt outrageously inflated—price stickers to the plastic sleeves of LPs which had yet to be put on display.
Speaking of which… “How much are you asking for the record?”
“Two thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds and ninety-five pence,” said Green Ribbon.
I looked at him. “Three thousand pounds?”
“Two thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds and ninety-five pence.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh in his face or simply punch him. I turned to Tinkler and Nevada and we formed a little huddle. “They’re out of their fucking minds,” I said.
“Now, now,” said Tinkler. “Let’s not be hasty.”
“Yes, let’s not be hasty,” said Nevada. Because if Tinkler was willing to accept this outrageous cost, we were on commission.
