“My theory was that my copy of
Strawberry Fields Forever by the Beatles which had cost me seven and
sixpence was no better or no worse than the copy Andy Warhol had”
Bill Drummond
I was a very young lad, 5 or 6 maybe,
when my mum first told me about Elvis Presley. She told me about this
kid who wore his hair like the truck drivers and made records to make
his mum happy. About how he was a white kid, but sounded black on the
radio, but everyone loved him anyway and what colour you were didn't
matter but how much you loved your mother did. I was quite taken with
him, he sounded pretty cool, but the image that cemented itself in my
head was the original record, the first one off pressing of That's
Alright Mama that he made as gift for his mother. I wanted to know
where that record was. My mum said she didn't know, that she thought
maybe it was buried with her. I thought about that record, worms
crawling all over the shiny black vinyl inside the rotting coffin. I
remember thinking that it belonged with her, but at the same time it
should be in a museum. It was quite the conundrum.
I thought about this recently after
reading about the discovery of one of the rarest records ever. It's a
long story, but I’ll shave it down as not to bore you. Young Frank
Wilson from Houston, Texas fancied himself as a singer. He cut a
couple of discs under various aliases which did nothing, and decided
he wanted to sign to Motown because that's where the money was. Berry
Gordy, Motown's boss and lest we forget a disciple to money rather
than art, recorded a Wilson single called Do I Love You (indeed I do)
but decided that he had enough artists in his arsenal and wanted
Wilson as writer and producer instead. The single wasn't released,
and that's where the story should have ended. Cut to Northern England
in the 1970's. A new scene has emerged of kids dancing to rare and
obscure black American soul music. A kid called Simon Soussan, who
had an enviable job of ransacking Motown's vaults and discovers a
copy of Do I Love You. He promptly bootlegs it and sells it on to
Northern Soul DJ's in Britain. The record, a dizzyingly joyful fizzy
pop release of a song (which almost hits the same aural euphoria as
Happy Together by the Turtles but not quite) is an instant hit on the
dance floors. The original copies (two known to be in existence) are
now the most sought after records on the Northern scene. The second
copy sells for £25000.
Cut forward to England late 2017. It
emerges there are not two copies, but three. But this one is even
rarer. An original test pressing no less. Everything is scrutinised.
The matrix numbers down to the handwriting on the label are put under
the microscope. It's true, it's real, the golden egg of vinyl
collecting. Estimates are so bold to state that the record could sell
for £50000.
I watched on in amazement. I was
raptured at the discovery when a terrible feeling come over me. I had
absolutely no desire to own this record. What would I do with a
record worth so much money? I certainly wouldn't play it (I'd be
scared to pick it up). Where would I put it? I've also have a policy
of not selling records on (I had to sell some Smiths import 12”s as
a teenager to fund that years Christmas shopping. I still wince at
the memory) so even though £50000 would come in very handy, I'd have
to sell a piece of my soul too.
There is an assumption that if you buy
a lot of records that makes you a record collector. This is not the
case. I do buy a lot of vinyl, but have no completest urges.
Collectors of Beatles have it the hardest. A slight variance of font
on the label can increase the records by hundreds of pounds. Do I
need two copies of the same album because the lettering is a bit
different? No. I own lots of collectible records but not many rare
ones. I have two test pressings of Sarah Records 7” singles. One is
a white label and the other a Mayking Records factory test pressing.
I rarely play them. Half the fun of playing a Sarah record is looking
at the sleeve as it spins. This is what makes me a non-collector in
essence. I don't buy them to file away like a stamp collection or pin
them like butterflies in glass cases. I buy them to play them and
enjoy them. I don't like and don't understand the one-upmanship of
that world and I don't need it in my life.
Another reason I don't want to own that
Frank Wilson record is I already have a copy. It's not an original
obviously, not even a reissue. It's a third generation bootleg I
bought off Ebay for a tenner. It still goes round and round though,
and still sounds incredible. I played regularly whilst Djing at Just
Like Honey and would have the pleasure of looking out at a dance
floor packed with smiley sweaty people having the times of their
lives. There was the girl who came to the booth and said it was her
birthday, and we probably wouldn’t have it but she would love to
hear Do I Love You by Frank Wilson. I still remember her smile as I
got it out of the box. This one? Yes, she beamed. That's the one . It
was also the last record we ever played at JLH and still has beer
stains and possibly tear stains of the sleeve from that night.. I'm
not sure you get these kind of memories from an MP3. But maybe you do
and I'm just a snobbish old man. Either way, I hope the eventual
owner of the test pressing enjoys his copy of Do I Love You 5000
times as much as I enjoy mine. But somehow I doubt it.
(Written with gratitude and respect to the fine people at the incredible Soulsource website)
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