Manchester’s Oldham Street is conveniently situated – roughly equidistant from both of the city centre’s biggest railway stations (Piccadilly and Victoria), and just off the main drag. It’s always in (good) flux. Gentrification never takes hold here, but maybe one day it will. Maybe one day it will be like Brick Lane in London. Don’t get me wrong: I love Brick Lane and associate it with inspiration and good feelings. But Oldham Street still emits the vibes of iration, while its London cousin, for whatever reason, begins to feel like aspic is at its contours. Curation, preservation, you know?
Oldham Street does big contrast – the Great Ancoats Street end of it is gappy, worn, forlorn. The Piccadilly side is home to any number of cool places (record shops, cafes, Afflecks, Carhartt WIP, the Magma bookshop) juxtaposed against hard luck pubs, overcrowded bus stops, kebab shops and so on.
Plus, a great op shop. I look at the clothes – nothing there for me. I look at the records. There’s some great stuff there – I find a copy of this, which I want to hear but don’t buy because I don’t have a record player. There’s also a great looking DIY-ethic heavy metal LP in the racks with a ludicrous band name and title, which I don’t buy either.
And neither do I buy DEUTSCHLAND SOUVENIR. I do however pick it up and read the sleevenotes, which are truly great: a love letter to Germany written in English (and obviously not translated from German) long ago. Time back, way back, when people had machines on which to play LPs, and put on their spectacle machinery and read the sleevenotes. At which point a James Joyce would possibly have had an epiphany. Me? I just put the record back in the rack and wandered back out onto Oldham Street.
The sun was shining – its warmth had travelled 93 million miles to get here. Me: 214 miles, give or take.