venta

So, as promised (and with apologies to bibliogirl if it's disappointing):

A while back, I was off messing about with bendy swords somewhere so missed the joys of Record Store Day. ChrisC was down in the fleshpots of Ber Wick Street in Soho, where he saw (among other things) Frank Turner doing a free show. Mr Turner mentioned that, that evening, he'd be doing another in-store performance in Banquet Records, Kingston.

A record shop? we said. An independent record shop? That still exists? Well, if we're heading towards Kingston anyway...

Banquet Records is a tiny little shop which was, once upon a time, one of the Beggars Banquet shops. A bit of scurrying round on the internet tells me that it's been there, in its present incarnation, about eight years. Its stock is about half-and-half CDs and vinyl, with a few ludicrous boxed sets dotted around the place.

("Whenever I see Blur," said a passing teenager with a faintly Transatlantic accent, "they're always in a massive box". His friend coveted the box, saying that he had "nothing to play it on" but would buy it just to display. They both agreed that they should probably get jobs if they were going to do things like that. As passing overheard conversations go, they were very good value.)

Anyway, why would a record shop be so exciting? Obviously, rarity value: there are barely any independent record shops left in the UK at all.

More than anything else, though, it was the tangible sense that stuff was happening here, that the people here cared about music, and that there were limitless possibilities in the shiny record sleeves.

The walls in Banquet Records are that peculiar, filthy shade that comes from the repeated application of blu-tac and sellotape as posters for local bands are put up, taken down, and covered over. There are stacks of flyers for local nights and new releases, and polaroids everywhere of big-name bands playing tiny in-store gigs.

I explored briefly into a strange little cubby hole at the back, full of 12" singles and DJ's courier bags. There were two turntables, both with headphones (one set worn by a glass head, the other lying on the deck). A guy was pricing up CDs using one of the old label guns where you set the pounds and pence using dials, then pull the trigger to spit out a little yellow sticker.

Almost every CD on display had a white sticker flashed across one corner, telling you about the music. I idly browsed through M, looking to see if they had the new Mesh album. They didn't, but before I reached N I'd picked up two CDs based purely on the descriptions. Ten minutes later, I seemed to be carrying five CDs (one proper album, a bunch of EPs at a couple of quid a go, and a compilation) of bands I'd never heard of. (Some of them turn out to be great Boogying material, coming soon to a Desk near you).

And it was full of people. People with overly stylish hair buying drum'n'bass 12", some happy-looking teenagers buying Daft Punk's debut Homework on vinyl (had they just discovered the band thanks to Get Lucky?) and us buying stacks of CDs between us. Even though I'm sure vinyl is where the street cred's at, me and my stack of brand new music felt like the coolest kids in town.

Banquet use the slightly archaic system where all the record/CD sleeves on display are empty, and when you get to the till they will either find the disc for you, or fetch a clean copy. Which means it takes more time than it does to ring your purchases through in HMV. I stood around in the queue, and then waited to have my discs retrieved, happily browsing the posters and polaroids and listening to their in-store music (Peace, as it happens).

It's a record shop as I fondly remember them to have been. Too much stuff jammed into too small a space, staff who will talk about music given even the ghost of a chance, and a new song round every corner.

Apparently I missed the Coronation Stone in my enumeration of Things in Kingston. Any more suggestions?