Then, following the ‘the more you earn, the more you spend’ incident, two whole years passed without the three of them being together. They only ever saw each other in the passing, down the town or going to the games. As for getting together, arranging something; well, they didn’t really see the point. It was as though they’d gone through a bitter divorce; they associated each other with their problems and that was that. The memories just seemed to be bad memories.
As time wore on, though, it was the normally self-assured Hilly who came to realise just how much he missed the other two. Hilly had no fervour for socialising or meeting new folk. Hilly had such a dislike of most folk, anyway, that it was pointless him even contemplating going out and finding new mates. Sure, he got on with the folk at his work and with his family but somehow, something, was missing.
And Hilly knew what it was. His two friends. Martin and Ray. Hilly wanted to see them again. Properly. He wanted the three of them all to get on with each other.
Hilly thought about it, about how they were all doing away fine on their own but how they couldn’t get on when they were together. It was then Hilly had an idea, the same idea he always had. When things weren’t working out, then you went back to the way things were when they did work out.
Hilly contacted Martin and Ray. He told them how they should all meet round at Ray’s on the first Tuesday of the following month. The idea being that they would only talk about records. Seeing as how that was what had brought them together in their youth, there was no reason why it shouldn’t continue to be the case. They would bring along their new purchases, play them and talk about them. On no account were they to talk about anything other than records.
In love with the romance of the idea as much as anything, Martin and Ray said yeah, they were willing to give it a go.
And that’s what they did.
Unfortunately, though, the first occasion proved to be little short of a disaster. True to form, Martin hadn’t brought anything. He said he hadn’t had the money. Ray, meanwhile, had brought damn near everything. He’d even brought along stuff he hadn’t yet played. Hilly was furious with him. After about two-and-a-half seconds of each record, Hilly would go on about how crap it was, slagging it to bits, and slagging Ray for having more money than sense. Hilly himself was the star of the show, playing his records and enthusing about them.
The next time round was better. Throughout the month Martin had stayed in, listened to all the decent radio programmes, latched onto something that was brilliant and bought it. Ray and Hilly agreed, it was a classic. Ray himself had spent his lunchtimes hanging round the record shops, listening to what the kids were wanting to hear, and buying the best. It was mostly dance but it had a power and urgency that won over the others. Hilly, as was his want, took his cue from what the papers were raving about. Yet even he had to concede that what Martin and Ray were playing was as good in its own way as the stuff he normally listened to.
And that set the precedent. Martin listening to the radio, Ray hanging round the record shops and Hilly reading his papers. They held their monthly meetings, and they never talked about anything other than records.
At first they’d been concerned that what they were bringing along was good enough, making sure there wasn’t some little reference that would draw the derision of the others. But, in time, they grew confident. They had a pride in what they were buying. Equally, they were keen to hear what the others were buying.
Before long, they began to notice changes in each other. Martin had started off by coming along with just a couple of singles, but now he was appearing with a few singles and a couple of LP’s. Not only that but people in the streets had been stopping Ray and Hilly to ask for Martin. Nobody was seeing much of Martin these days. They’d all assumed he’d gone a-wandering again. But no, Martin was around. Martin was doing fine. Simple truth was Martin wasn’t going out because Martin didn’t want to go out. He wanted to stay in and play records. Many’s the time he’d got himself ready to go out but he always had to hear just one more record, then another, then another. It ended up with Martin having to ask himself the question: what did he want to do, did he want to go out, or did he want to stay in and play records? So Martin stopped going out.
The change in Ray had to do with his appearance. Whereas Hilly had always dressed classically (501’s, white t-shirts) and Martin went in for the latest Next or Top Man high street fashions, Ray always looked as though he was going to a game in the middle of January. Now, following their Tuesday nights, Ray was taking a few chances, and it was paying off. He was looking alright. He was getting his hair cut every six weeks instead of every six months. His flat seemed different as well. It was more untidy, yet it was less filthy. It looked like he was living there rather than just staying there.
The big change, though, was with Hilly. Martin and Ray were always wary of Hilly, knowing that Hilly was perfectly capable of dismissing their purchases – and, by implication, themselves – with either a subtle shake of the head, or, by going to the other extreme, and bawling and screaming his socks off. But Martin and Ray were so into what they’d bought, so passionate about it, that they did something nobody else could ever be bothered to do: they argued with Hilly. Nobody ever argued with Hilly. Folk usually just ignored him, or laughed at him, nobody ever argued with him. But Martin and Ray did – and they won. They won him over. They got him to listen to what they were playing, and to listen to what they were saying.
On a couple of occasions they almost broke the rules. There was one time when Hilly was so excited he’d phoned Ray up at his work, telling him how he had to go out and buy something. Ray had said no, it had to keep, there were rules to be obeyed. Another time they’d all turned up with virtually the exact same records. Martin seemed uncomfortable. But he didn’t say anything. Next time round, Martin appeared with the same number of purchases as he’d had the previous month. He said that yes, the notion had entered his head just to turn up with a batch of blank tapes, but that he’d decided the important thing was to own the records. That was what it was like when they were younger, that was the way he wanted it now.
The three friends still argued, of course; but they only ever argued about records. They argued about what made a good record, whether something ephemeral could ever possibly be as good as something that was seminal. They argued about whether bad bands could make good records. They argued the case for Suspicious Minds being better than Heartbreak Hotel. They argued with passion, with loads of logic, even with blind prejudice – but they never held back, never kept their thoughts to themselves.
Hilly had long held the belief that the place for dance music was the dancefloor. Not that he was bigoted against it or anything, just that playing records that went beep-beep thwack-thwack in the privacy of your own home was about as pointless as playing 95% of live LP’s. But he came to understand, through force of sheer enjoyment as much as anything, that the records could stand on their own, that they were as valid and wonderful in their own way as the stuff he normally listened to.
As for Martin; well, it wasn’t so long since Martin had all but stopped buying records. Occasionally, he’d’ve got something from the bargain bins, but he wasn’t involved, he was purchasing out of a sense of obligation rather than want or need. Now he was buying things full price. Not only that but because he was taking his cue from the radio, he was ordering the likes of expensive imports and limited edition mail order. Martin’s disposable income was still short in terms of its lifetime, but now at least there was something worthwhile to show for it.
Likewise with Ray. Prior to the arrangement, Ray had been the one blanding out. When it came to music, what he’d been buying had been predictable – comfy compilations, bland best sellers. He’d even bought a CD player. But, after a few meetings, he’d gone back to vinyl. Like he said, he’d got the taste again, and owning vinyl was like tasting chocolate.
It was as if they’d gone back to the old days, back to their youth. But they knew the only way to get the most out of records was to hunt them down, to be obsessive. See that was the great thing about records: you never just