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Archie's Archive was a tiny store, a single rented unit that I suspected to only be able to survive in the expensive Soho area due to the outside décor. Instead of all the darks and greys featured on the surrounding shops and buildings, Archive opted for a reckless look, going fully red. Tourists could hardly walk Dean Street without noticing all the heat radiating from the hot rod colour.
The inside of the store had everything music. Vinyls and CDs were set up on slanted stands, with handwritten signs and labels taped to everything. The stand by the doorway had all the popular stuff — Oasis, Cher, Spice Girls, Celine Dion, and more. As you went deeper and deeper into the store, genres beyond mainstream demand began to show up. The closer you walked to the counter, the rarer and more eccentric the album artwork turned.
I couldn't help but admire the immaculate organization present on the records. I got the impression it was all Archie's work; Robbie gave off a more carefree attitude that clashed with such organisation. Neatness also explained why Archie's name was on the sign — he was the one putting in all the hard work.
White Stripes, The Who, Wire, XTC, Yello, Yes / Rick Wakeman, Yo La Tengo — the records were all in alphabetical order. My eyes lingered on the only Spanish band name I could find. The phrase meant "I got it" in Spanish. The words felt like a good omen for whatever I might discover in Archie's Archive.
"So kid, how long you been playing the piano?" Robbie asked,
I looked over at my Granddad who was busy looking through records on a stand. Each time his fingers flicked to see the next vinyl album cover, his eyes would widen in recognition while his mouth opened like a fish. His section had labels that said [60's Psych] and all were labeled [A-C] [D-G] [H-L] and so forth. How much of his own revelations must Grandad be going through? There must be treasure trove of memories in his mind.
"For a while," I finally answered, careful to avoid anything specific.
Who would believe that I had been playing for less than a month? Who would believe I might have been playing for thirty years or more?
Robbie leaned over the tiny counter, his strong arms bulging in odd shapes.
"Well, you've got talent and I have no doubt you can be a singer with that voice of yours. But I'm impressed with your fingers. You've got great instinct, kid."
"Never seen Robbie so shocked!" Archie joined in from the backroom,
"Never seen a kid carry the tune to the Klingon Klangon!" Robbie said mischeviously,
"That's what he calls those mariachi numbers, like the first one he did." Archie explained.
"I've told you, it's carimbó! It's Brazilian. Jesus wept, no one in Europe listens to anything on the other side of the Atlantic. They are always, oh so stumped when they hear it." Robbie said,
"Everyone listens to American music." Archie pointed out,
"Well, it is a great way to start a jam. Gets everyone flustered and out of their shell." Robbie explained,
"Right, got nothing to do with your obsession with macarena!" Archie laughed,
"It's carimbó! Also, I won't hear you telling me off about odd taste, I don't talk your ear off about General Trees." Robbie scoffed,
"Robin Eric Cartwright! General Trees has more musical talent in him than you will ever have. Do you hear me?" Archie asked coldly, warning written all over his face.
Robin nodded like a boy properly told off. Archie scoffed and went to the back of the store. Robin was gone as "Robbie" seemed brave enough to come out again without Archie around.
"He's proper obsessed with Reggae, his family is from there." Robbie lowered his voice to a quiet whisper, "or so he says."
"Can I check it out?" I asked,
"Sure, but Archie's got them mostly locked up. Quite rare stuff."
Robbie shouted to Archie and received permission to raid his cabinet. Archie was all too happy to put on General Trees.
I could hear the appeal instantly. Reggae had that quick double strummed note that you could instantly clock. The song Minibus by General Trees made me feel so good without really trying. Maybe Jamaicans had their legendary reputation for being chill and happy people precisely because of this. The music, the patterns, the staccato rhythm, it was an easy going, happy tone and captured the people so well.
"I prefer Bob Marley more. Don't mind some Two-tone either." Robbie said,
"Reggae, Ska, Rocksteady, they're all good." Archie shouted from wherever he was.
"What's your favorite genre?" Robbie asked me,
"I like—" I averted my eyes, not sure what my favourite was.
"How old are you? Eight, ten? You like pop, don't you?" Robbie asked, picking out the most basic genre.
I shook my head at him, "I think I like Rock the most but I also like the Stone Roses, I think they're Indie?" I asked awkwardly.
Robbie nodded his head as if he had heard such answers before.
"You know what your problem is?" Robbie asked me,
"What?"
"First of all, you haven't got a clue what your problem is." Robbie laughed, "But that's most of us… Your problem is that you're young, too young!" Robbie said.
"Pfft," I let out, dismissively.
Don't I know that feeling? Everyone saw me as a child — rightfully so, since I was one. But I hated being so young, so small, so limited.
"You're young and you haven't heard anything. Hell, I'm fifty three and I haven't heard half these stuff." Robbie gestured to all the records around us,
"But I could tell," Robbie said, grinning. "When we were out jammin', I could hear it — you didn't know a thing! Green behind the ears, a pup if I ever saw one."
"I know many things!" I interjected, "Science, Math, general knowledge. I mean I could tell you about space…" I trailed off when I saw Robbie's face.
His smile had widened, the intimidating large man looked almost kind as he spoke.
"Great artists and good artists are separated by how much they know. I don't mean biology, moon rocks or some such nonsense. I mean things that really matter!" Robbie said excitedly,
His fingers slid over the top of vinyl records on the closest stand, there were so many in the column. He seemingly chose one at random, lifting it up.
[Free Jazz, A Collective Improvisation by The Ornette Coleman Double Quartet]
"I don't like Jazz." I informed him.
"Hold it for now," Robbie handed it over.
Then his hands reached for the column right next to it.
[Mingus - The Black Saint and The Sinner Lady]
The album had a black man lighting a pipe, a very cool look but my eyes lingered on the hat the man was wearing. Karakul hat, the material that seemingly represented the waves so popular in black culture. The way it was framed made it look like he had a high top haircut.
Robbie handed it over to me. I took it and admired the artwork. Something about album artworks just spoke to me.
"You're holding the two extremes, the yin and yang, oil and water." Robbie said, "Why do you not like Jazz?" he asked suddenly,
"It sounds like nonsense." I simply said,
"Perfect." Robbie nodded, "Then you're in the right place. Listen to both of those albums, you'll see what Jazz is about."
"Are you want to sell rain to an Englishman?" I asked incrediously, "I want nothing to do with Jazz."
"No, you don't get it." Robbie shook his head, "Free Jazz is the improv, it's not bound by any rule, no keys, no sense. Even among that genre, Coleman record you're holding is the most chaotic one. He threw the whole kitchen at it."
Robbie then took the Mingus album softly from my hand, almost revering it.
"A Free Jazz enthusiast would hate this album…" Robbie said sadly, "It is the opposite of the genre, because it's been composed, dubbed, scored and recorded. It stands against everything Free Jazz. It's the logical next step that no Jazz musician save a few like him stopped being pretentious enough to take. Check it." He handed it back.
I couldn't help but feel excited about the prospect of hearing Jazz like that, it was just different enough that someone like me with a good ear for music and working music theory could be intrigued. Some Jazz musicians seemingly had some self respect.
"I'll take it." I said with a nod.
Robbie let out a silent laugh, his dimples showed.
"You like Rock, check out the Classics, the absolute peak of Rock and Roll!" Robbie said in an boxing announcer's voice.
We went over to another column, this one was all Psychedelic Rock.
Album cover was a prism splitting a white light into a rainbow on a dark background. There were no titles or any text on the artwork. I needed it not. It was [Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd]. Revelations gave me all sorts of knowledge that popped into my brain.
"We played something from this earlier," Robbie gave me a cheeky smile, "I played a part of it and you made it sound almost exactly like the original. Music theory can be odd like that. Buy it and find out which song it was."
Another album dropped in my hand, I said nothing against the choice this time. Revelations had revealed many things to me and I knew it to be one of the best albums in the world. The added mystery only ensured I'd purchase it.
"Talk to the Elder Price to see if he'll let you get these. Price on these are quite steep." Robbie said,
"Oh, I don't have to. I earn my own money." I said, I could afford ten pounds here and there.
"Busking won't pay for many more." Robbie eyed the albums in my hand,
"No, I meant that I actually work. I'm an actor." I said,
"Huh, you've been in anything I've seen?" Robbie asked, looking me over again.
"I'm in Doctor Dolittle, it's a play on West End. Technically not in the West End, but it's the same thing. Also a show on BBC but it's not out yet."
"Well, aren't you something. You must make a decent wedge?"
"For a kid, sure." I smiled at him with as much mystery as I could muster.
Robbie shook his head then his face morphed like he'd seen the light.
"You see my hair and my beard, it's turning white and I feel already too old. So, here's some wisdom for you, kid." Robbie said, gesturing me to follow.
He led me over to the tiny counter, the entire length of it barely fit the giant cash register. Next to it was the turntable playing a General Trees album. Robbie lifted the needle up and reached for another album underneath the register.
"Rock and Roll could be traced back to other genres. Listen well, and listen close." Robbie said, rolling up his sleeves.
The album said [B. B. King – Kansas City, 1972], and the vinyl was more beaten up than the rest I'd seen in the shop. Robbie placed the needle on a particular groove, seemingly knowing where the song he wanted to play was.
Unlike a studio-recorded album, I could hear the crowd noises — cheers and whoops of joy. Soft bass and piano played idly, almost too quiet, all the while an electric guitar cried out a tune both sexy and longing. I forgot most of what I had been thinking, and even my Granddad stopped ruffling through records to listen in attention.
After a minute of an amazing guitar solo, I heard the saddest note, held up for three long seconds. I'd often found horns to be one of the most melancholic-sounding instruments. B. B. King changed that perception with an electric guitar of all things. It was odd that the band accompanying him had horns, organ, and trumpet, yet the melody was played entirely by King's guitar. Like they'd heard my complaints, the band started to play louder — trumpets started to blare, piano picked up speed — then it suddenly ended. The guitar was gone; silence lingered only a moment before the horns took over. The band had successfully reestablished their dominance; the piano was now leading the melody. B. B. King then started to sing. My expression must've mirrored the crowd's on the day this was recorded.
Robbie silently pumped his fist — he'd been studying me and the Elder Price's reactions. I paid him no mind as I listened to the lyrics. B. B. King was a great vocalist for how much emotion he brought to the table. His voice mirrored the guitar solo he'd played before, but a human voice was more real and expressive. The sadness of his voice was more guttural and thought provoking. I listened for meaning in the lyrics but found none, for it was simply a repeated line over and over again.
In the end, it didn't matter. It needed no complex lyrics. The song was perfect as it was.
"That was wicked!" I said wholeheartedly.
"B. B. King," Granddad read out loud.
"I can get you a mint-condition vinyl of this. This one's been well-loved," Robbie patted the plastic sleeve lovingly.
"These albums are all black men," Granddad observed as he checked my stack.
"Perfect timing! I was about to move to more British artists," Robbie chuckled, walking away in search of another record.
"I have no problem with black people!" Granddad shouted in worry.
"That makes you sound more suspect," I informed him.
"Aye, that's me told." Granddad shook his head.
"Choose," Robbie said, holding up two albums.
Both albums were by Fleetwood Mac. One had a picture of a trash-bin-filled back alley, and the other had a naked man on a galloping white horse. The art style of the second one drew me to it. It had the charm of Greek art mixed with the colours of a stained glass on a church window.
"That one." I pointed,
"I walked into that one, didn't I? Not a very inspiring photo, this. British blues — if you like it, these guys have dozen other albums. Before that, they were John Mayall and the Bluesbreakers — some legendary stuff there, basically the founding fathers of the genre on the British Isles."
"All of rock 'n' roll is influenced directly from blues. Bluesbreakers split into Cream, Colosseum, and Fleetwood Mac, and even those split into other bands. Inspired a whole lot of the people in the '60s, '70s, and even now. John Mayall's somewhere off in the U.S.A., touring and releasing a few albums every year — probably up to thirty or forty at this point. Colosseum signed for a new label that signed Black Sabbath right after. Since you're discovering all the greats, that's a page you must turn to next."
"Ozzy Osbourne — that's the Satan worshipper," Granddad said with disdain.
"Ahh! That's what people used to believe, maybe back in the '70s. Read the lyrics of their songs, Mr. Price. They're all Christians — most of them, anyway. Having those harrowing images allowed them to get popular — break the mould, go against the polite imagery so common of the time," Robbie said, turning over albums of the era to highlight the tame artwork.
"Heh," Clive wheezed. "I'm taking the piss. I've seen him perform a couple of times."
Robbie laughed good-naturedly at that.
"Well, think of me as the doctor. Your grandson needs education in music, and I'm prescribing him all the good medicine. He's talented, but this is London. Seven million people live here — four times that travel through here every year. I see talented kids all the time. Talent's like a plant — you need good soil, plenty of sun and water, then some good old competition with other plants for resources. But I can't sell that here. What I can sell are all the greats that music can offer." Robbie turned to me, fully addressing me now.
"When we played together, you only played the basics. Simple scales, simple chord progressions. You say you don't like jazz, but those guys have new musical ideas coming out their head every moment — thousands of novel and new ideas mixed with the old and classic, forgotten the next time they put down their instrument. Created anew when they pick it up again. I want you to chew up all these ideas, all these albums, and spit out your own music when we jam the next time. Musicians jam to throw out ideas, show off some cool new motifs, learn about a new one. That's how you learn something new about the person you're creating music with and discover more about yourself," Robbie said.
I took the advice seriously. Robbie had the look of a reformed thug — gruff and mean-looking. But he was really a big softie with a passion for music and great talent on the guitar. He also hit it right on the head: revelations were great for obtaining information quickly and concisely. Music wasn't quite enjoyable with the revelations — not the listening of it anyway. The same applied to art in general. Reading something and reading about something were different concepts. I could describe a colour or you could experience it for yourself — I think we both know which one you'd prefer.
The same thing went for me: all the music I listened to in the revelations was nothing compared to experiencing it for myself. The emotions I felt listening to B. B. King made me feel like a man wading through waist-deep water — tough but relatable hardship. Revelations would give me the technical hardship of the piece — not the emotions behind it. It just wasn't the same. So, I had never retained those musical ideas inside me, memories without emotions were as empty as sky without stars. Robbie was handing me the best albums in each musical genre, a collection of humanity's greatest artists. He was handing me the guide to conquer the music industry — the examples of how others climbed to the peak.
A parallel idea came to mind about my acting career. Not every artist had to consume the work of others, yet every great artist was a fan of another band, artist, or an actor. You needed to be informed of great art to create great art. It reminded me of a quote from Picasso:
"Good artists copy; great artists steal."
I doubted he meant the lesson literally. Great artists were inspired by others to create their original work. You can't expect a fish that's lived in a barrel to swim out of it, and for the same reason, I couldn't discover who I was without exploring every path available to me. Even the paths I couldn't see right now. A random day of strolling through Soho had turned into me committing to another time-consuming task.
Yet I couldn't help but smile as I listened to Robbie gush about each new album he handed me. I didn't want to be just another talented kid passing through Robbie and Archie's shop. I wanted to be the greatest to have ever shopped there. I would be the best — and for that, I needed to see, hear, and experience all the best that came before me. Whether it was in music or film, I'd have it all.
Suddenly, I got a funny feeling that lead me to observe Robbie, who was trying to sell me on another album — odd because it was a new release.
[Lucinda Williams – Car Wheels on a Gravel Road]
It was so new that it had only been released the day after we did our first preview show.
"It's just come out, but I listened to it. It'll be the defining work for country rock, you better believe it!" Robbie spoke on.
"Erm, sorry," I said, looking at him incredulously. "Did you do that whole speech just to sell me all these?" I gestured at the pile of vinyl in my hands.
Robbie laughed. "It's my job, innit? But seriously — the advice's real. You need all this vinyl — and this." He added the Lucinda Williams album to the top of the pile.
"I sell water in a desert," he said, patting my shoulder, "I just needed you to see you were stuck in the mirage."
"I don't even have anything to play all this!" I protested.
"I sell that too," he said, grinning so wide I half expected his face to cramp.