Tag Archives: Bristol

Kemptation radio programme #7

Don’t call it a comeback!

Rich was excited to return to the airwaves, but he checked the news just beforehand and was then bummed out about Taylor Hawkins’ untimely death. Hawkins was a masterly impassioned drummer, and held his own against one of the world’s most famous drummers in Dave Grohl. So, in today’s show, there’s respect to Taylor’s contribution to the world of rock music, plus many great (mostly brand new) tunes. The KRP is back, bay bay!

Thanks for listening!

Tracklisting:

Brandy – (Wish You Was) Madball Baby (buy on Bandcamp)
Combo Chimbita – Yo Me Lo Merezco (buy on Bandcamp)
Mawimbi – De Amor (feat. Pouvoir Magique & Flavia Coehlo)
CHAI – WHOLE (buy on Bandcamp)
Foo Fighters – Learn to Fly
Kurt Vile – Hey Like A Child
The Beths – A Real Thing (buy on Bandcamp)
Sarah Noell – Desert Moon (ft. Joe Hayward) (buy on Bandcamp)
Los Bitchos – Pista (Fresh Start) (buy on Bandcamp)
Wake Up – On The Outs (buy on Bandcamp)
Ayala (IT) – Adrian (buy on Bandcamp)
GG King – Epoch Rock (buy on Bandcamp)
Widowspeak – Everything Is Simple (buy on Bandcamp)

Interview: Elvis Perkins

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Originally published at kemptation.com on 6 December 2015. Words by Richard Kemp

It was almost a shock to learn that Elvis Perkins would be coming out with a third studio album. Until 2015, fans would have been forgiven for assuming the New York recording artist was on indefinite hiatus. Perkins released his debut, Ash Wednesday, in 2007, with album number two, Elvis Perkins in Dearland, following just two years later.

And then, silence…

OK, silence is perhaps an overstatement, but not a single new album emerged from the Perkins camp in that time. The bare-bones folk of Ash Wednesday had gained Perkins the tricky moniker of “New Dylan” (no doubt for its gripping opener, While You Were Sleeping) while …Dearland saw him and his band combine their efforts to create an out-and-out group record; the result bearing exuberant choruses (I Heard Your Voice in Dresden) and wholly memorable sing-alongs (Doomsday).

Understandable, then, that the Perkins fan base wanted him back. They needed more; and in early 2015, the musician announced that he would be returning with his third full-length studio album, the now-acclaimed I Aubade, and a full US and European tour. It is before the show on the Bristol leg of this tour that Kemptation meets with Elvis Perkins to talk life, language and revolution.

Elvis Perkins has been through more than most when it comes to heartbreak. He lost both of his parents by the time he was 25: his father, actor Anthony Perkins, famous for playing Norman Bates in Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘Psycho’, to AIDS in 1992, and his mother, photographer Berry Berenson, to the terrorist attacks in New York City on September 11 2001.

Naturally then, Perkins has a lot to be sad about. This certainly shows in his musical output (he even named his first record Ash Wednesday in reaction to the aftermath of the attacks, which occurred on a Tuesday). And yet, as the conversation flows, Perkins seems content, satisfied, even…happy. He cracks jokes and dives into unanticipated tangents, bringing up far more interesting answers than the original questioning could ever have managed. This change in character is clear on listening to the new record, too. The album, I Aubade, is a far cry from the Elvis Perkins of old. “It’s the most genuine Elvis Perkins record there is,” he says, putting this down to the fact that he wrote and recorded the entire album alone, without influence from any producer (as with Ash Wednesday) or from the rest of his band (as with …Dearland).

Perkins had no management or label following the release of …Dearland and the subsequent Doomsday EP and so he decided to take his time with I Aubade, to make the album that he truly wanted. ‘Aubade’, French for the morning version of a serenade and the title word of Perkins’ album, came to him out of the blue. He was immediately struck by the word’s ambiguity; it also seemed to fit perfectly with what he was attempting with his music. “I had been aiming to make songs that would be for metaphysical morning time,” he says, and so ‘aubade’ seemed like a gift from the unknown (or at least the app store – he is not shy in admitting that ‘aubade’ came to him via a word-of-the-day alert on his phone).

“If you have any kind of audience, any kind of a voice, you must use it for good, whatever good looks like to you”

Perkins is fascinated with language. He fills his songs with plays-on-words and double meanings, something that he learnt from an early age. He makes reference to his father, who was a keen word player and a relentless pun maker. The UK loves its puns, which sets Perkins to thinking about his British ancestry. “I don’t know where Perkins comes from specifically in the UK, but we definitely had ancestors coming over. I think we had one on the Mayflower in fact, so maybe it’s a blood thing. They brought the puns with them over the seas.”

Many of Perkins’ song lyrics and titles also come from what he describes as a “slur of the hearing”. How’s Forever Been, Baby? was something he thought he had heard at a barbecue while Send My Fond Regards To Lonelyville comes from him mishearing the name of a neighbourhood in Providence, Rhode Island called Olneyville.

Perkins, as well as playing with words, likes to experiment with perception. His music often combines sad themes with catchy footstompers that take a few listens to realise what you are dancing to. When asked why listeners respond to this so well, Perkins is at first reluctant to place a finger on it, though eventually attempts an answer: “it must have something to do with the binary nature of existence,” he says. “The life and the death, the black and the white…If you can present something that breaks apart dichotomy by giving you both at the same time…you have maybe broken through some kind of divide that is only perceived in the mind.”

While I Aubade is a personal record for Perkins, it has many more take-home messages for its listeners than its predecessors. Perkins believes that, as the Earth’s “self-appointed custodians”, humans are doing a poor job of protecting their planet and he is unafraid to sing about this. Album track 2$ is a wakeup call to any who believe in the power of the presidential vote. In the song, Perkins asks whether a Washington can redeem a Jefferson, alluding to the one-dollar and two-dollar bills and the fact that the real power and vote lies in where we choose to spend our money rather than what box we decide to tick on election day.

Activism is not the coolest subject for a songwriter to tackle – Michael Jackson and Neil Young are prime examples of this with their environmental calls to arms – and regardless of how imperative these issues are, Perkins has noticed some pushback. An audience member in Copenhagen had invited him and the band back to his place after a show. He was nice, says Perkins, but he also had no problems with saying exactly what he thought, even if it would ruffle some feathers. “He let me know that I had been preaching to the converted…it was difficult to not come across as an asshole. This was a fan of mine telling this to me.”

The experience in Copenhagen surprised Perkins and so began an internal battle between the side of his brain telling him he shouldn’t make songs like 2$ because they annoy people and the other side that saw it as his duty. Ultimately, he decided that, whether people want to hear it or not, his message is one which bears repeating over and over again: “if you have any kind of audience, any kind of a voice, you must use it for good, whatever good looks like to you.”

Tonight’s set includes a heady mix of classic Elvis Perkins songs – Doomsday makes an appearance, complete with marching bass drum, as does a heart-wrenching rendition (what other rendition is there?) of Ash Wednesday – plus many tracks from the new album. Pun-riddled jaunt Hogus Pogus gets plenty of laughs, with the singer recounting the tale of a man who has his heart replaced with that of a pig. New song Now Or Never Loves stirs the chuckles, too. Perkins and bassist Danielle Ackroyd play the will-they-won’t-they romantic couple, leaning in to each other and stopping short on the closing beat – “it’s a cliffhanger,” he says.

Perkins is clearly comfortable in his role as bandleader and stage performer. He recognises this himself, too: “I don’t know what happened in the past several years, but I enjoy the touring process much more than I did before.” When the band plays Slow Doomsday, Perkins encourages the Bristol crowd to sing along, calling with a grin, “we’ll let you know when your time has come, Bristol.”

“I believe that we need revolution if we’re ever going to survive and not kill off every other thing that inhabits the oceans and land and sky”

The band plays 2$ tonight as well, with Perkins introducing it simply as a song about spending your money wisely. Knowing the story behind the song and its shaky reception makes it all the more powerful when performed live. Instead of giving much preamble to this song, though, Perkins uses any available mic time to spread his love for all living things, reminding the crowd that we are all part of the same one world and that we’re all headed for the same place. He talks about second chances, too, something even the people who committed the abominable attacks in Paris on 13 November 2015 will receive. Spoken by anyone other than Elvis Perkins, this may have come across as naive, even thoughtless, but this is a person who has had more than his fair share of inner turmoil to deal with and so, instead, it is clear that Perkins is coming from a place of love.

This comes off during our conversation, too. Perkins talks about revolution – the internal kind, rather than external: “I’m not saying it needs to be violent or anything, when I say ‘revolution’, but I do think we need revolution if we’re going to survive and not kill off every other thing that inhabits the oceans and land and sky.”

The band pulls out a couple of unheard numbers during tonight’s set, suggesting that perhaps the next record will have a quicker turnaround than the five and a half years we had to wait for I Aubade. Speaking to fans after the show, Perkins assures them exactly this. He will be back, and Bristol will be ready and waiting with warm, welcoming and unfalteringly open arms.

Sonic Inspiration: Published Authors and Poets React to Bristol Sanctum

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Originally published at kemptation.com on 20 November 2015.

Featured photo credit: Max McClure, courtesy of Situations

Public art pioneers Situations held a 24-hour, 24-day exhibition of sound inside the remains of Temple Church, Bristol, a disused place of worship that was bombed out during the Second World War. The project, simply called Sanctum, promised to give Bristolians a brand new way of looking at, and listening to, their beautiful city.

Over the three and a half weeks, Sanctum hosted intimate choir recitals, kids jungle parties, makeshift punk bands (so makeshift that they were literally made up on the spot using audience members), spoken word performances and mystic chants.

Kemptation brought published authors and poets to explore the Sanctum and give their reactions in the best way they know how: by writing them down. The following poems and short stories include notes on which Sanctum performances inspired them.

Herd

By Anna Mace

Reaction to Sacred Harp Choir performing at 6:30pm on Tuesday 17 November 2015

Photo credit: Max McClure, courtesy of Situations

Just before the singing started,

I noticed the way your ring,

hugged the slimness of your finger

as you spoke, denting the flush of grace

here, like you were tracing maps

or diagrams with bright, just in the turn

of wrist.

Fingernails reflecting ghosts, black,

white, all I could see were the details,

reminding me of slide and sweep

of my bow on violin, and how it used

to draw a tear.

And despite the choir’s beat to death

and god, the rolled up paper on the

side roared threat on rain-soaked

leaders,

claiming foreign fiends coding

messages with PS4s

sprayed messages with bullets,

spelling out plans in Super Mario

makers coins, how dare they?

Kill this harmony?

Calling fiercely to gather allies;

fruit flies, like a banana.

Tonight, this is my sanctuary,

whilst the scrawling wind screams

injustice,

sacred harp remind me

how fragile voices can break.

And hold, on. Still,

how does the scale of life measure

in the shapenotes of crescent moons

against the light? The texture

I can feel to the tips of my fingers,

in my bones, eyelashes, resting

in between the silence and each note.

Anna Mace’s poetry was shortlisted for The Melita Hume Poetry Prize 2015. Her latest work is set to be published in the limited edition bookart Revolve:R.

Ladies Night

By AA Abbott

Reaction to Nick Terrific performing at 11:00am on Sunday 15 November 2015

Photo credit: Anthony Ward, courtesy of Situations

There’s a long queue, because it’s Friday evening. That’s Ladies’ Night, when girls are admitted free.

“I don’t know why you wanted to come here,” Suki grumbles. “It’s a meat market.”

“Exactly,” Louise says. She preens, imagining herself a predator as she checks out the talent lining up ahead. Even Suki’s sharp glance doesn’t turn her towards a different truth. Females predominate on Friday nights; soft, vulnerable prey for the choosy males.

The black-clad bouncer glares at them. He’s sturdy as a cliff. The only clue he’s human is the lack of vegetation. “What’s your date of birth?” he growls.

Louise hastily subtracts two from the real year, so she appears eighteen. He glowers, then flicks his thumb towards the door, letting her through.

“There’s Danny,” Suki says, eyes shining. “I hope we get engaged soon.” She’s made the same comment to Louise every day since Danny left school and joined the army. He travels the world and Suki wants to go with him. She brushes off remarks about the countries Danny visits being dismal places where she wouldn’t want to live, and most likely wouldn’t be allowed to.

Danny had complained about clubbing on Friday night, apparently, but he seems happy enough now as he chats with his friends. Their eyes rove around the room, enjoying the sights of Ladies’ Night. Nevertheless, Danny meekly ambles over to the girls when he spots Suki. “Drinks?” he asks.

Suki requests a vodka shot.

“Same for me, please,” Louise decides.

Danny returns with a tray of shots and a beer for himself. His mates cluster round.

“This is Simon,” Danny says, gesturing to a tall lad with protruding teeth.

“He isn’t spoken for,” Suki says in an overly loud whisper that seems to echo across the dance floor.

Louise shrugs. Even ignoring the teeth, she doesn’t want to be an army wife. There are other ways to escape the dull town of her birth. Working at her A levels and going to uni hold more appeal.

“The poor girl’s blushing,” Danny says.

Louise necks a few shots fast. They’re the lurid colour of boiled sweets and taste that way too. Cocooned in the pleasant fuzziness of alcohol, she’s enjoying the company more.

“Are you dancing, Dan?” Suki asks.

He grudgingly leaves for the dancefloor with her. His other mates melt away until it’s just Louise and Simon.

“May I have the pleasure?” he asks with a goofy grin.

Louise sighs, knowing where that will lead. When the slow dancing begins later, he’ll have his hands all over her and his tongue down her throat. She shudders, but she’s about to say “All right” anyway. The bright lights, bubbles and beat of the dance floor are all tempting her even though Simon isn’t. Just as the words grudgingly emerge, another youth catches her eye.

He looks away, but it’s too late. She’s made up her mind. This one’s fit. He’s a tall lad with a tan and a short beard, black as night, standing quietly at the edge of the dance floor. There’s a purposeful quality about him. She likes that.

Louise risks a wave. To her dismay, he blanks her, strolling away. He leaves a leather satchel next to the dance floor.

Careless, she thinks, but what a useful excuse to pick it up and follow him.

“Don’t touch it,” Simon says sharply.

“Why not?”

But Simon’s off, running after the intense young man, grabbing him and bringing him to the ground. Danny reacts just as quickly, diving towards the bag, which he touches with the utmost gentleness, his face a picture of concentration. Louise sees the wires poking out of the bag.

She really ought to tell the DJ, but Suki has already done it. The fire alarm is sounding.

“Come on,” Suki pushes Louise towards the door, her voice scarcely audible above the shrill wail. It’s far louder than the disco. “We’ve got to get out.”

They shiver in the cold with the other clubbers, unable to retrieve their coats.

“It’s a false alarm,” one girl complains, ample flesh on display covered in goose bumps. She subsides into sullen silence as police and firemen arrive.

Danny and Simon emerge with the girls’ coats.

“Want to go on somewhere?” Danny asks.

“Oh yes,” Suki says, gazing at him with adoration.

Danny smiles back. She may yet get a ring on her finger, Louise thinks. Who wouldn’t want to be worshipped?

“How about you, Louise?” Simon asks.

Louise shrugs. She still doesn’t fancy him. Should she take one for the girls? She decides better of it. He’s the hero of the hour, so he’ll have hordes of women chasing him once the story’s out, anyhow. “No thanks,” she says.

They walk her to the taxi rank before heading to the next club. The DJ’s standing in front of her. He’s gorgeous too; all the girls think so.

“You were at the club, weren’t you?” he asks. “Fancy coming round to my place for a coffee? I’m still wired.”

He must have spotted the hope in her eyes, because he adds, “Just a coffee. I’m gay.”

Louise shrugs.

“My brother isn’t,” he says, grinning.

“All right,” Louise replies.

AA Abbott is a British crime thriller writer, who has written three full-length novels. Her latest, The Bride’s Trail, is available to buy from Amazon.

The Healers

By Richard Kemp

Reaction to Soulroots Acappella performing at 1:00pm on Sunday 15 November 2015

Photo credit: Paul Blakemore, courtesy of Situations

I lay at the side of the road, feeling the sun’s heat toast the back of my neck. My eyes weigh heavy with sweat, so puffy that I can barely see straight. I feel my way around, grasping at dirt and scorched grass, and try to stand, but stumble and crash down face first.

The blinding sun shows me a white figure with blonde hair. I wonder if I’m seeing an angel or still drunk from the night before. Then she offers her hand and I take it.

As I find my feet, I become wary of my appearance; straggle-haired, dirt-faced, looking like a man far beyond my years. She probably thinks I’m homeless. I want to explain that I’m just in a bad spot right now, but no words come out. She starts walking into the shady woods nearby and, for reasons I still don’t understand, I follow her.

We walk for half an hour, the angel silent with me trailing behind her like a lost puppy. “Where are we going?” I think to ask, but then decide against it, somehow knowing that I would not receive an answer.

The shade from the trees grows darker as we walk and I feel a sweat tickle my forehead. The humidity heaves its way in and out of my lungs, leaving me breathless and exacerbating the headache that comes with my week of indulgence. The forest is dense with glistening foliage, full of birds and reptiles of all sizes and colours. A symphony of chirps and bleats and shrills has erupted around us, rising to volumes that threaten to deafen. Croaks and rattles and hisses grate against high-pitched birdcalls, leading me to pick up my pace, though to where I still have no idea.

My eyebrows are soaked with sweat, as is the entire back of my shirt. I see steam rising from the ground and figure we must be getting closer to the bayou. Fears begin to creep up on me as to what this angel really wants, and why I was so willing to go without question. Had things really got that bad? Would I have just gone off with anyone? I look up to see that the shadow of trees has withered into light, revealing a lonely wooden house with muddy windows and a chimney billowing white smoke. The symphony of noises has been replaced with the thrum of a single song, though no song I’ve ever heard before.

I look back to the angel and catch her eye to see her break into a wide smile. “This is it,” she says and opens the thick wooden door for me to step inside. The house doesn’t look much from the outside – rough frame, slimy wet walls. The inside doesn’t offer much more – some old wooden beams here, a few rotting floorboards there – but as I cross the threshold, I feel a warmth that glows from its centre.

The walls are lined with a choir of singers, bellowing to a group of people. They are sat in the middle, facing every which way, like dishevelled patients in a doctors waiting room. One of the singers smiles and motions for me to sit. I take a seat as far from the centre as I can, fearful of what might happen otherwise. A glass of water is placed in my hands, which I sip with caution – at least at first while I survey the rest of the group. I see just how tired and filthy everyone else looks. I am disgusted at first, but then remember my own appearance is far from pristine.

The choir grows louder, their song crescendoing like waves of the sea. I watch everyone around me: some with their heads down, others talking to themselves. One man stares at the ceiling while a woman next to him quivers into floods of tears. I feel trapped and afraid, yet somehow loved. The circle of singers pulsates toward us, each angelic voice praising the ground below us and the roof over our heads. There are calls to God and thanks to Earth, and as their power grows, my thoughts turn to my wife. My baby boy. His confused face the day I decided to walk out on him for good.

I feel a tremble in my lips but refuse to give in. A hand grips mine and I turn to see a young woman. No older than 20, though she seems haggard with wrinkly eyes, puffy face and long greasy hair. Her skin is deathly pale. Her eyes lock onto mine as the choir explodes in volume, their harmonies reaching the tops of the building, reverberating about the windows and up through the chimney. It is so loud now that the house feels like a jet engine preparing for lift off. The sound wraps itself around me, holding me tight. The young woman leans in and cracks a crooked brown smile. “They’re healing us,” she wheezes.

The young woman lets go of my hand and turns her attention back to the choir. I hear another person start to blubber and see a border collie leap into an old man’s lap. A harsh wind picks up outside as the choir exclaims another joyous refrain. A refrain that I never want to end.

Richard Kemp is a journalist, published author and editor-in-chief of Kemptation.

Disassembled

By Judy Darley

Reaction to the aftermath of Sanctum, Bristol.

I’ll not forget the night

we rounded the corner to see

your cavern of light dismantled:

planks piled up, peak and windows cast aside.

A pensioner – part of a gaggle – veered towards us,

pressed a poppy-adorned paper into my hand,

asked if we’d join them to commemorate

the Blitz of Bristol. How oddly appropriate

in the wake of your soaring achievement

of song, spoken word, and shyness overcome,

the 24/7 of audible performance

filling the bombed-out church –

a space you had anchored with walls

and grace.

Judy Darley is a published writer, editor and poet based in Bristol, UK. Find more of her writing at SkyLightRain.com. Tweets at @JudyDarley.

Jenny Hval at The Lantern, Bristol

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Originally published at kemptation.com on 12 November 2015. Words by Richard Kemp

(Photo credit: Jenny Berger Myhre)

Monday 9th November 2015

An angelic, yet haunting, performance from Seattle-based singer Briana Marela precedes Norwegian purveyor of avant-garde, and unapologetic crosser of lines, Jenny Hval. While Marela’s hand had gently built up feelings of pop-laced euphoria, Hval takes pleasure in announcing to the Bristol crowd that her hand is very different. A severed hand, perhaps.

Perched atop a half-deflated yoga ball and wearing a Goldilocks blonde wig, Hval cuts a slight stage presence. Her curious personality and penchant for the uncomfortable, however, envelope the entire venue. This is embodied perfectly as she wanders through the first few rows of seating, an ethereal shape dressed in grey that is neither on this plain nor beyond it.

Terrifying screams are juxtaposed with uplifting, industrial beats that, when silenced, create a gaping chasm of loneliness almost too raw to bear.

Previous tours of Hval’s have included live bands and a focus on instrumentation while this show is very much centred on her performance. Screams of “who does your feeling?” and “so much death” serve to terrify while juxtaposed with uplifting, industrial beats that, when silenced, create a gaping chasm of loneliness almost too raw to bear.

It’s not all so serious, though. Hval proves that she has a sense of humour, referring to the yoga ball as her ‘spirit animal’ and even assuring the awestruck crowd that not everyone in Norway sings this kind of music.

We sit through a short, awkward timeout, during which Hval patiently plays a cover of Lana Del Rey’s Summertime Sadness through a smartphone, and then the theatrics take a turn for the outlandish. Hval removes her blonde wig and places it on the floor above her now-also-removed jacket and trousers to create a flat model of herself. Dressed now all in black, she lays next to the empty frame, appearing to either dominate her own stage persona or submit to the empty vessel she has presented herself – all this soundtracked by a montage of Hval’s howling vocals.

Hval invites the audience to chat after her set, though she warns that she often makes no sense after a show. While a few people may have felt this way during the show, most will have left The Lantern giddy from having witnessed something that boldly challenges the way we think about live music performance.

8/10

Interview: Gordon Montgomery, owner of The Centre for Better Grooves, Bristol

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Originally published at kemptation.com on 3 August 2015. Words by Richard Kemp

When I walk into the Centre for Better Grooves, a newly-opened record shop on Cranbrook Road, Bristol, I am met with a scene like nothing of the manic, cluttered display so lovingly depicted in Nick Hornby’s novel ‘High Fidelity’. There are no sticky floors or disinterested sales staff. Instead, I feel as if I have stumbled into someone’s living room. I am offered a cup of coffee and those all-too-familiar feelings of guilt – of unworthiness for not having swotted up enough on myriad unknown musicians beforehand – quickly disappear.

Whether consciously or not, a good portion of the UK’s used record shops cater mainly for the seasoned music head. This can make shopping for records a stressful experience for anyone without the prerequisite knowledge. The owner of the Centre for Better Grooves, Gordon Montgomery, who made his name as the force behind nationwide success Fopp, looks to buck this trend, to do away with the unfriendly, impenetrable stereotype of the used record store.

“Yeah, I don’t encourage that. We’re inclusive,” says Montgomery. Say a customer enters the shop and has no idea where to start with seminal German outfits Can or NEU!, he and Dean McCaffrey (Montgomery’s equally knowledgeable and approachable sales assistant) choose instead to turn this into a learning opportunity. “People come in,” he explains, “and they say they don’t know but ‘this is the sort of thing I’m interested in, can you help?’. So we provide a service.”

I want people to come to my shop and say ‘this is how you should do a record shop’…I want to be the best.

Montgomery is a businessman, through and through. He makes no bones about this nor about the fact that his key mission for the shop is to turn a profit – if this weren’t possible, he would never have set up in the first place. Sure, it’s an independent second-hand record shop, but it’s still a business and so he employs a lot of the sales techniques he developed during his Fopp days. Many used record stores have signs all over saying ‘All records are untested’ or ‘No returns’, but Montgomery doesn’t run things this way. In his shop, all records, new or old, are guaranteed. “People go to a second-hand store,” he says, “and they take a bit of a punt. They don’t feel as if they should take it back…Here, we don’t make the distinction between ‘used’ and ‘new’. We just say they’re all ‘records’.”

Still, with so much competition on the nearby Gloucester Road (the longest stretch of independent shops in Europe), it is tough to bring in the punters. Cranbrook Road is not the most obvious of retail areas and so Montgomery decided early on that he would have to make his offer different from that of everyone else.

While other shops might buy in job lots of stock without considering whether it’ll sell, Montgomery makes sure to focus on the quality. He started record hunting in the mid-1980s by going to charity shops. “And when I’d lost the will to live,” he recalls, “doing three towns in a day, when I found myself in Newport, South Wales and I’d been there two hours with a bad belly and only managed to find one record for a pound, you start to think this isn’t quite right, is it?”

Now his stock comes mostly from dealers, which suits Montgomery fine since that’s where he often finds the best stuff. “The more serious collectors and DJs, they don’t want to be seen behind the decks with a repress, so they’ll pay a little bit more…they [the DJs] have built their collections over years and so they have long lists. If they can just buy a few off that list each month, I suppose they’re satisfied.”

Soul and funk are two genres with which Montgomery’s shop seems fit to burst. For every James Brown and Isaac Hayes record, there’s one from Bobby Womack, Sam Cooke or the Ohio Players. The shop’s jazz section, tucked away in the back (“always put jazz in the back,” Montgomery riffs. “They like dark places, jazz fans”), is mightily impressive. There’s a turntable on hand, too, for anyone who wishes to sit with their coffee and try before they buy. Even the rock section, which sprawls across the front of the store, has top-rated selections from the likes of Pink Floyd, Neil Young, Led Zeppelin and King Crimson. As he takes me further round his store, I get the feeling that Montgomery is proud of every record he sells.

“If a jazz aficionado walks into a record shop and sees a load of Tubby Hayes,” he says, “they’ll go through the rest of the jazz section. If they don’t see that, they’ll think it’s not a good jazz shop – ‘No Tubby Hayes? I’m out’ – and that would be the same for Hampton Hawes or Bill Evans…That’s merchandising. Small independent record shops are poor at it. Used record shops are absolutely abysmal at it. They don’t lay it out so people can find it easily…They don’t use that psychology…They think ‘bugger ‘em, let them find it themselves.’”

Some traditionalists might turn their noses at applying professional retail techniques to the used vinyl market, but Montgomery doesn’t see it this way. “Most people appreciate it,” he says. “Here, it’s neat, tidy and well laid out. People like it here. Generally, record shops are supposed to just have fag butts on the floor and stink of real ale, and put people off.”

“It doesn’t matter how big the business is, I lose sleep over this because it never goes away.”

The psychology of retail is a constant theme when talking to Montgomery. The importance of keeping the bestsellers at the front, for instance (“that way, you’ve got a product in your hand. And once you’ve got a product in your hand, you’re gonna buy more products”). He recalls his time working at Virgin on Market Street in Manchester, back when record stores could sell thousands of albums a day. “You could not put records on shelves between 1pm and 4pm. It was impossible. If you ran out of a line, even if you had it in the stock room, you couldn’t get out there…’cause people used to congregate in record shops…That’s why, you know, at Rise, that’s why that café was put in there: for dwell time and also to appeal to a new demographic. ‘Well, if they don’t buy a record, at least they buy a coffee and a panini and we can get some rent.’”

I ask Montgomery whether profit really is the only goal for him. Does he have any other aims for the shop? “I want to be the frontrunner, I don’t want to be at the back. I want people to come to my shop and say ‘this is how you should do a record shop.’…I want to be the best.”

In order to achieve this, though, Montgomery admits he’ll need to move locations. He has a two-year lease for now, but once that’s up he’ll need to find something bigger, and more central, where he can relocate. The other factor in this is the vinyl market itself. Many continue to argue how the resurgence of vinyl is set for another downswing, how it’s just a fad. Then there is the explosion of vinyl shops opening in the last ten years. Bristol alone has a plethora of independent, second-hand record shops and so what does Montgomery plan to do once the market hits saturation? “I’m great at ironing. I can charge 20 pounds an hour to iron – and that’s more than I make out of selling records. Just gotta teach Dean to iron properly and we’ll have a full service.”

There will always be a certain demand for good-quality records, Montgomery reckons. Whether there’s a profit to be made in future, though, is harder to tell. “If it doesn’t [make a profit], I’ll have to turn my hand to retailing other products. Or not retail at all. I’m unemployable. I can’t get a job. I haven’t interviewed since I was a kid…I don’t know how to dress or be compliant. HR would have me in the book within a week.”

Montgomery’s fine with this, though. He would much rather keep working for himself. I ask him whether he has advice for anyone looking to start a business: “Calculate the risk. Be prepared to lose a lot of sleep. It doesn’t matter how big the business is, I lose sleep over this because it never goes away…I used to run Fopp and I lose as much sleep over this as I did running Fopp…because you have to commit yourself. It’s not for everybody.”

In the end, it’s tough love that Montgomery issues over anything else: “Being self-employed, most people don’t do it – it’s too risky…There are no entitlements to running your own business. You’ve either got to get your sorry ass out of bed and do it or not.”

Live review: Love Saves The Day 2015

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Originally published at kemptation.com on 28 May 2015. Words by Richard Kemp

Another year, another venue, the same zesty mantra: Love Saves The Day. Now in its fourth year, the Bristol-based festival for all things electronic, hip-hop, dub and drum ‘n’ bass returned with a glittering, all-star lineup, which included the likes of Groove Armada, Roni Size, Grandmaster Flash, Jessie Ware, My Nu Leng and Four Tet. There was worry of it being a rain-drenched slopfest this year, but the event, moved to new location Eastville Park, proved itself a veritable suntrap, the sun’s dazzling rays roasting the heads of anyone who had neglected to bring a hat (or at least a welder’s helmet like one forward-thinking party-goer).

Walking through the gates of Love Saves The Day (LSTD) on Saturday was an instant shot to the senses: multi-coloured balloons and bunting decked the vicinity, as did pillars painted shocking pink, a ferris wheel, an old-style horse carrousel and a giant inflatable chapel (devoted, of course, to dance and spur-of-the-moment marriages of convenience). There was even hula hooping all day long, a big cuddly playpen for the kiddies (most of whom were all wearing construction-site ear mufflers) and an enormous robot structure under which sat a full-size wrestling ring dedicated to the many high-octane dance-offs that would ensue all weekend. There was no way around it: LSTD was a colossal adventure theme park built specifically for adults; adults who had all come to get drunk on dance and high on love.

Eastville Park seemed the perfect setting for such an event: a great rolling hill of lush green played below a wondrous blue sky that gave way to nine different stages, each one decked out more majestically than the last. The gurning and face chewing started early here, with many punters running themselves into the ground unable to calm their chemical jitters. A good thing there was so much to keep people active, then, from the aforementioned dance-off wrestling ring to the Bump Roller Disco arena, which featured a proper ‘90s-style roller disco but without the skin-crawlingly bad commercial radio music. Instead, the skating was soundtracked by live DJs all weekend (the likes of Dirty Thoughts, Lee Pattison and Hot Buttered Soul to the rescue). The hulahooping stand encouraged much entertainment, too, not just for the people doing it but for those watching who got to see numerous fest-goers, clueless of what to do with their bodies, spend 20 minutes simply gyrating at thin air – this, of course, at a dance music festival, where that sort of behaviour is nigh-on compulsory!

It was nothing short of impressive to see how much effort each company had gone to in order to set up their stage for just two days of partying. The robot above the dance-off ring was staggering in its size while even the tiny (relatively so) Cocktails and Dreams stage was covered in bamboo canes, floral strings and juxtaposed with a full-size clamshell for any festival mermaids who wanted to climb inside and bob away to their own meditative beat. Every stage was dressed to the nines in rave colours – pinks, yellows, greens – even the bazaar burst with colour.

And then, of course, there was the music. Hard to avoid it, really: thunderous basslines collided into one another like confused bulls in heat as DJs in every corner of the park threatened to drop any beat they were currently holding, resulting in screams of euphoria from the audience when they finally did so. People piled into every tent, venue and stage, excited for everything around them, though, unlike your average rock or pop festival, there was actually room to move. Even at the front of each stage, where a crowd might normally concentrate most of its energy, there was plenty of space to flail away. Perhaps this is the nature of electronic shows: after all, you’re there to get wild and have a good time, not necessarily stare wide-eyed at the band on stage while yelling the lyrics to every song in your neighbour’s ear. There was never any reason for artists to introduce themselves either since, for most of the time, people weren’t paying that much attention anyway. They were more interested in exploring and marvelling at their own bodies as the chemical-induced imbalances began to kick in.

This fourth year of LSTD had plenty of big-name acts to draw in crowds – your Groove Armadas, Roni Sizes and Azealia Bankses – but there was a mass of new music to discover, too. The Just Jack stage played host to a great many contenders, from funky disco outfit Soundstream to an entire Sunday curated by Teachings in Dub, which included an especially chilled set from Channel One. The Cloud 9 stage, meanwhile, boasted some of the strongest acts of the weekend, including Gorgon City, My Nu Leng and the soon-to-be-huge Tourist. Pop sensations Rae Morris and Indiana urged Saturday’s main stage crowd together early, both backed up by full bands to prove you didn’t need tables of decks and MacBooks to get a gig here while Futureboogie brought a bevvy of delectable delights to the Apocalypso stage in the forms of Maxxi Soundsystem and Ame, among others. Crack Magazine, ever the purveyors of quality music you wish you were cool enough to have found on your own, did not disappoint with a stellar cast of heavyweight beatsmiths, including Floating Points, Daniel Avery and bedroom nerd / heartthrob Four Tet. The London DJ graced the Paradiso tent at 9pm to rapturous applause and hollers from a crowd that could not have been happier to see him. He repaid the respect by ending his two-hour set with a couple of dub-fused numbers to mollify the Bristol locals. The set seemed to end rather abruptly at this point, though, as if the DJ hadn’t completely thought it through. No matter, though, as the LSTD audience had moved on to exploring the inner workings of their own legs by this point. They were just happy to have something to move to as they fell deeper into their Four Tet vortex (fourtex?).