Mind The...

In November of last year, I had a meeting with TFL to discuss the downturn in trading at Broadway Shopping Mall, and more pertinently whether Mishmash Bookshop would survive into the New Year. And we all know what happened…

I cited what I considered to be the most malignant problems; poor signage, unclean and unwelcoming environment, departure of substantial customer demographic, competition from higher profile sites nearby. Not so, I was told; despite my experience as a retailer I was, apparently, reading the signals wrongly. It was the fault of the customers themselves; “Everyone wants branding nowadays, Andrew, and that includes us [TFL]”.

This stuck in my mind; and now that I am [technically] unemployed and at home, with time to trawl the Sunday business pages, I can see how ill-formed TFL's strategy is. Big branding is over – or at least it would be if they hadn’t bought up all the big, expensive, commercial sites. Gap is up for sale, down 8%. WH Smith is down 6% in the last quarter, and raids its workers’ pension fund. HMV is ‘going to the dogs’. Bloomsbury – who own Harry Potter, the strongest brand in books – delivers a profit warning. Radio phone-ins and blogs recount the public’s concern about Tesco’s fearsome buying power and acquisition strategies.

What the customer – the really important person in all of this – wants nowadays is quality of service. Reliable, high grade products delivered as and when required. Ten years ago the big brands fulfilled this, the independents largely failed. But those surviving smaller retailers have, by necessity, developed excellent marketing strategies; while the majors have got lazy and arrogant about their like-for-like and their segmentation. And consequently, the lazy, arrogant commercial property agents have got their strategy wrong too.

None, they say, is blinder than him who will not see.

Andrew Mishmash

...And The Winner Is...

A lot of coverage in the rags about the grandes dames of British cinema in this year’s nominations for the Oscars. And, to be sure, they don’t come much grander than Peter O’Toole. This is his eighth nomination, and although awarded a consolation prize Honorary Award in 2003, he has never had the Oscar for Best Actor. Essentially, the Academy has stabbed the greatest film actor of them all, in the back, seven times.

I met Peter O’Toole once. In the spring of 1991, I was despatched to the Booksellers Association annual conference, in Glasgow, with clear instructions from my employer to schmooze a lot [at his expense, too!] and generally to give a high-visibility impression of an influential manager in a successful company. So there I was in the cocktail bar of the conference venue, schmoozing with Eddie Shah [whatever happened to him?] and William Boyd, when in walks Peter O’Toole.

At the BA conference to promote the first volume of his autobiography, he did not look a well man. He was still recovering from long-term pancreatitis, an affliction that will make most doctors wince, and the resulting diabetes. Although recognisably tall, he was pallid, shuffled a little, and someone else carried his bags. We all fell silent and turned to look; I felt brave enough to go over when the bagman momentarily moved away.

I coughed slightly, held out my hand, and looked up at him. “Beg your pardon, Mr O’Toole”, I said. He turned slowly, raised an eyebrow, and looked down. “I thought I might just say ‘Hello’, shake your hand, and say how much I love all your films.”

His eyes met mine; he smiled, took my hand, and shook it firmly and deliberately. “Why, my dear boy, thank you so very much”, he replied, with warmth that suggested I was the first person ever to have complimented him. A broad smile grew upwards over his face. Almost immediately his minder re-appeared, and indicated with his own cough that my audience was over. I returned to my new, impressed, chums.

You will hear it said that, on meeting the great statesmen or artists, you can feel their charisma, their dignity, their holiness. I have to tell you that in the moment Peter O’Toole met my gaze with his, I immediately felt from his powerfully pale blue eyes a profound sense of mischief. As if, had I passed him directions to a little known shebeen, he would have shown up, with Harris and Burton in tow, for a craic. I stood silently at the bar, and looked down at my hand for a long time.

A few handshakes like that in Hollywood, and this time the Oscar should be his.

Andrew Mishmash

Welcome Back, Miss Lombard!

We appreciative types at Mishmash Bookshop thought she had retired, but I am very pleased to report that the charming British actress Louise Lombard is in the current series of CSI, the one set in Las Vegas.

Las Vegas CSI is by far the best, with it's zen-consciousness forensic investigator Gil Grissom [obviously named after the astronaut] who is nobbing his assistant, played by Jorja Fox [a made-for-TV name I suspect]. Gritty realism throughout, and in the usual Jerry Bruckheimer style, everyone is gorgeous.

Unfortunately, the producers have not allowed Miss Lombard to use her icy-posh english accent [or perhaps it's on permanent loan to Kirsten Scott Thomas]; the same one she used in her role as the petulant Evie in The House Of Eliott fifteen years ago. Saturday night historical drama has never been the same since; not even with Alex Kingston.

Andrew Mishmash

Zero Tolerance

I am heart-sick of hearing politicians bandying the term "zero tolerance" about; Tony Blair on the radio again today in a sad attempt to look tough with something called 'hoodies'.

Zero Tolerance is the Edinburgh-based campaign for awareness of domestic violence, sexual violence, and the surrounding legal issues.

I remember the start of their bus campaign in the Scottish capital in 1995; shocking, brave, and impressive. Not everyone was supportive at the time, and many thought it painted an insulting picture of Scottish men.

But even though it's clarity has been diluted by over-use, I am very pleased to remind you that it was Scottish women who originated the term.

Andrew Mishmash

Pulp Fictions

The Guardian’s Notes and Queries posted a question last week asking why American books, both hardback and paperback, are better produced than in the UK, and often cheaper too. There were three responses; it’s about economies of scale; the US publishers design tends to be better too; the UK has some excellent printers and binders, so stop worrying. I thought I might take a look at the first – since the other two haven’t read the question – and offer a fourth reason.

The American book-buying public is about five times the size of the UK’s, and this does indeed result in savings on the fixed costs of production; research, editing, design, rights, lunch and so on. These savings are more pronounced in areas where initial costs are higher [say in reference quality pictorial art books] as they can be more viably passed on to the individual customer.

Once the book gets to the actual manufacturing part of the process, there are fewer economies of scale to be had; it pretty much costs twice as much to print, bind, transport, store and distribute 20,00 copies as it does 10,000. So when paper and storage are cheap, publishers can order huge print runs of lavish titles by authors on lucrative advances, because the major costs are all “front ended”. When manufacturing and distribution costs go up, the publisher reins in the print runs, and subsidises the jacket price from the front end savings. It’s about taking a firm attitude on product quality and building a strong market among the reading public.

The reason book production in the UK is so poor has, I’m afraid to say, got nothing to do with this. In the 1940’s and 1950’s, publishing was severely hampered by paper rationing, and a lengthy period of general financial austerity. Costs had to be cut, and since the most pressing shortages were paper, and industrial capacity, that’s where the cuts were made. The production quality of the average mass market book plummeted; you will find most second hand bookshops have surprisingly good supplies of volumes from the 1930’s and earlier, signature bound hardbacks from the 1960’s onwards, and then piles of current paperback titles. Paperback books from post war years will simply have turned to dust.

Some publishers took these financial obstacles as an opportunity to become editorially more innovative. Penguin spring most obviously to mind, with their Pelican handbook, King Penguin, and crime and biography series. But most UK houses just adapted their lists to the new budgetary regimen, and then having got into the practice of selling poor quality books to the public, simply continued to do so. When paper costs fell again and labour could be had almost for free in the Far East, printing pulp quality books became a licence to print real quality money. And if you keep up the fibbing about American economies of scale for fifty years, people stop complaining.

Andrew Mishmash

Get Up Offa That Thing!

I’ve been editing and burning my voluminous VHS collection onto DVD, and in my case it’s a myriad collection of arts documentaries from the 1980’s. Late night re-enactment of the 'foetus earrings' trial anyone? Watch the KLF burn a million quid? We got’em!

One of the most fascinating was a sixtieth birthday retrospective of James Brown, who sadly died in December of last year, leaving a big, in fact a monumental, Godfather shaped hole in music. The programme was full of extraordinary clips of the original funkster writing, rehearsing, and performing; always in the most horrendously fashionable threads.

I don’t yet have the skills to post direct from my own video collection [just you wait!] but while trawling YouTube last night I found this stunning clip.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pq1w0syylZI

Need to get that uploading thing sorted too!

Get Up Offa That Thing was written in 1976, by which time James Brown was in his mid-forties. He invented soul; now he’s inventing disco. He’s back, he’s working hard, and he’s taking you to the bridge. To paraphrase Captain Willard in Apocalypse Now – I did it when I was half his age and it nearly killed me. Curiously this cut is shot largely from the band’s point of view; so you get to see the tiny hand movements and hear the vocal ticks that Brown used to keep his musicians in line. Hup means one thing; Goo’god means another. It is without doubt the tightest two minutes of funky soul I have ever seen.

Can I count it off?

Andrew Mishmash

Rich, Thick, Galaxy.

A couple of weeks ago in a post on the sad death of Ahmet Ertegun, I happened to mention that in the 1970's he had essentially brought football to the USA by inviting the best players in the world to spend a relaxing pre-retirement season at New York Cosmos.

I wonder if David Beckham read it and decided the time was ripe to 'Go West'? It was only a few short days later that he signed to play for LA Galaxy, in a deal that will pay him $250 million over four years. That's over a million dollars a week.

It's not about the money, says Becks, it's about "making a difference to soccer in the US, to improve the standards, and be part of history, really". And of course David, Posh , and the kids will be able to move in next door to their new best friends Tom and Katie Cruise, and their sprog.

I just don't see it working; the biggest footballing demographic in the USA is pre-teen girls, which I'm sure is great for the physical fitness of the population, but can't be enough to develop into a new national sport. I think poor David faces the prospect of ten minutes on the pitch every home game; a constant round of daytime chat shows; and embarrassing walk-ons in Will Ferrell movies. He'll be out of his depth, which hasn't been good for him in the past; prey to all the novelty weirdness that infects Californian celebrity life.

So I suggest you keep reading Mishmash Bookshop, David. We'll let you know when it's safe to come home.

Andrew Mishmash

[Almost] Zero Degrees of Separation.

Off to Camden’s famous Roundhouse last night, with Dave, to see the eagerly anticipated folkie collective Zero Degrees of Separation. There’s always been a lot of collaborative work in folk music, and in this case it’s the combined talents of American nu-folk band Vetiver; Adem Ilhan of Fridge; and two well-known soloists, Argentina’s Juana Molina and the spellbinding Vashti Bunyan.

It’s hard to tie down quite what it is that makes Vashti Bunyan so mesmerising. She never raises her voice above a whisper; when she does sing she doesn’t have a great range, although she has a dreamy, breathy vocal quality not unlike Nick Drake’s. And to be honest neither her guitar playing nor her songwriting have any notable virtuosity; three or four picked chords, with rhyming quatrains or couplets about housework and children. But when she sang, usually accompanied by either Adem or one of the Vetiver team, she drew her audience within fingertip reach of her heart – an organ she invokes quite a bit – and gave us an all too brief glimpse of the pure and simple emotions within.

Vetiver didn’t grab me; “Long Beach!” shouted someone in the cheap seats, which summed them up really. Adem Ilhan took the vocal duties on what seemed to be the Zero’s jointly originated pieces and I was pleasantly surprised by his upbeat and ‘rockist’ style. He very nearly put his foot on the monitor, and I liked him a lot. They had enjoyed the pressures of arranging one another’s work for a group of twelve, he said, “even if that means eleven of us ringing bells”. Which in turn led to quite a bit of objet-trouve percussion as accompaniment.

Juana Molina seemed to have fallen out with her colleagues at some point; certainly she kept her back to most of them for their time on stage together, and while front apron stints taken by Adem and Vashti tended to use other band members to fill, she performed hers solo. She plays Spanish guitar through a digital sequencer, looping the samples, and singing over the top; it’s impressive, sure, but is it the electronic skill, the folk music, or the novelty that impresses? I couldn’t work it out, and went to the bar.

The Roundhouse is an impressive venue [despite being in Camden, yuk!] and at one point Vashti wondered what had been going on there during the sixties; psychedelia, mostly, it turns out, lots of innovative theatre, then of course it was the birthplace of the NWOBHM. “Bet they didn’t have seats then”, opined Dave; “Too right”, I answered, “you just parked up your Norton Commando and stood on the dirt floor drinking snakebite ‘til your ears started bleeding”.

“You might think this is about mobile phones” said the beautiful Vashti as an introduction to her tiny, frail, short Diamond Day, “but it’s not, we didn’t have them then”. Nor intrusive ad campaigns neither, I thought…

Andrew Mishmash

A Perkier Mood.

I read a very funny article in the Guardian last week about the changing demands in the breast sizes of fashion shop dummies.

Contemporary boutiques, it seems, want mannequins with a larger embonpoint. I can only imagine this is to better display clothes made for a demographically larger lady. Models are available up to a size DDDD, and have hand painted nipples.

Now I don't spend much time at all in clothes shops [although in my new leisure centred lifestyle this may change!] but my first guess is that, like all fashion, it's about aspiration. Buy our shirt and you'll be happier, because your boobies will look bigger.

Having said that, something that has always amazed me about shop mannequins is the permanently erect nipples. Has it not occured to designers that, for a device largely used to promote the sales of wooly jumpers, the models should at least give the impression the jumpers would keep your chest warm?

Or is that not what's required here?

Andrew Mishmash

The Cult Of The Moron.

We are very sorry to announce the sudden closure of Mishmash Bookshop. We were locked out earlier this morning by the landlord’s bailiffs. We had offered the landlord, Transport for London, a reasonable amount in rent to run a January Sale for a couple of weeks; they refused to negotiate and have shut us down.

We have enjoyed our five years of bookselling in St. James’s Park; we have sold books to MPs, Most Excellent Ambassadors, mums with kids, yuppies, tourists, writers, the accomplished, the novice, and many more thousands of London’s readers. Our philosophy was just this; sell good books, have fun doing it. We have deflated pomp; we have made good friends; we have given piles of books to charities; we are rightly proud of the work we have done.

Retailing in Britain is changing; and not for the better. The ideological greed at the centre of the commercial property business is killing the small independent shops we all love. The greed that replaces your local family butcher with a third betting shop is the same one that kills anonymous chinese cockle pickers on shallow beaches; it takes away the shopkeeper who genuinely cares what you read, wear, eat, or drink, and replaces him with a ‘developer’ who sees you only as a ‘client’, someone to be fleeced as speedily as possible. Dr Jonathan Miller calls this the Cult of the Moron; others the Unacceptable Face of Capitalism. I say it is rank, it is philistine, it is Mammon.

To paraphrase John Lennon, there are only two businesses; the war business and the peace business; you make the choice. I know which one I work in.

Andrew Mishmash

Addawanna Hallidayah Inna Sunnah!

Steerforth has recently written a piece on his excellent site Age of Uncertainty about the imminent celebrations for the fortieth anniversary of the release of Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. In it he predicts [with uncharacteristic certainty too, I bet] that comparisons will be made to the Sex Pistols thirty year old milestone, Never Mind The Bollocks.

I go back and listen to this astonishing album again and again. It's about hate; it's about dystopia; despite it's "No Future" slogan, it predicted the course of British society with an acerbic accuracy. The writing, musicianship, and production are astounding.

But still it has a reputation for foul-mouthed, scattershot invective against a jubilee Queen who was usually described as "unable to answer".

So I offer you two numbers and two quotes in an attempt to heave Messrs. Rotten and Co back onto the podium;

The entire musical oeuvre of the Sex Pistols lasts, in reality, little more than one hour. Thats how long it took to change everything...

This iconoclastic masterpiece was released just seven years after Woodstock.

The opening line is "Cheap holidays are other people's misery".

The closing lyric is "Blind acceptance is a sign of stupid fools who stand in line".

Excuse me while I take an hour to marvel at 1977 London's greatest cultural legacy once again...

Andrew Mishmash

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year to you all!

May 2007 bring you all your heart desires, and more besides.

Andrew Mishmash