I was sifting through the pile of receipts and old bus tickets and I found the credit note for Totem Records, left over from my last swapping-shopping expedition. The sun was shining and I wanted some new music that hadn’t arrived in a jiffy bag, so I jumped on my bike and headed off to N16, the part of town that was my manor for six years, with that happy, fizzy feeling in my stomach that anyone about to go and buy a bundle of old vinyl must surely recognise. I’d shackled the bike to the lamp-post and got almost to the door before I noticed all was not right. There were holes in the window display and boxes on the floor. There was a sign in the window that said CLOSING DOWN. And that everything was half-price. I wonder if there’s a word for the feeling of joy that the words ‘half-price’ on the window of a great record shop induces, when mixed with the sinking feeling generated by the words CLOSING DOWN. If there isn’t I will try and think of one.

I went in. They weren’t kidding. They really were closing down. I’d expected this for a while; when I went in over the summer to find some Gal Costa for my sister’s wedding do the shop had looked a little empty and the counter had moved forwards in a funny way. But I never expected it would really close. See, Totem Records is - and still is, because it’s not quite closed yet - one of the finest secondhand music shops in the whole of London.

When I first moved to the area, back in 1998, I found myself in another paradoxical situation I’d like to find a word for. Namely: being round the corner from one of the nicest shopping streets ever, one that was built with me in mind (there’s even a violin shop), and being completely penniless. I’m talking real bottom of the heap dole scum here, real skip-run poverty. It was a great time, one of my favourite times in many ways: I was 21 and in a band, being creative every day, dancing to Neu! by night, blagging everything I could get and partying the way you only can when you’re completely skint. It was pragmatism in action, and the sympathetic streets of east London resonated with centuries of making-do and DIY and manifestos for better living. And free parties. But there was this record shop round the corner, and it was like Tantalus with the goddamn grapes. I would just go in there and look at stuff, sighing. Eventually I gathered up a bunch of the ill-advised post-rock records I’d spent my student loan on and got swapping.

One time, having spent about half of one credit note, I lost the remainder. I went in and explained this to Tony, the wonderful proprietor, expecting him to laugh and send me on my way. How much was it for, he asked. I told him; he wrote me out another there and then. What a dude.

Totem’s selection was an odd mixture of the classic and the plain weird, a lot of which was priced beyond anyone’s idea of what was realistic, unless you were mad (as I often wondered I might be as I stroked some rare piece of experimental jazz and wondered what I could get away with not paying this month in order to have said item). Like there was this one record of the Incredible String Band playing a benefit concert for L Ron Hubbard that was going for £100. It was most likely awful. It is still there, after a few years, and I wouldn’t mind betting it will still be there when the doors finally close.

But between records like this and the standard secondhand fare were some amazing pieces of music, some of which hold very special places in my heart. The Sixties psych section was a wonderful delight, as was the selection of modern classical stuff. It was from this shop that I got into Fela Kuti, Pharaoh Sanders…and Magma’s soundtrack to Tristan and Iseult. It was here I found the Beach Boys 7″ with ‘Celebrate the News’ on the b-side.

And now it was all half price. I called Leee, told him the news. I often call Leee when I’m in a record shop. Not only does he get a vicarious thrill from hearing about your latest score, he also points you in other directions. This time he instructed me over to the Industrial section. They had some old Total stuff in there last time I looked, he said. And some Ramleh.
Sadly, all I could find was SPK. Next, my phone instructor and I headed to the Krautrock section (it was like some muso treasure hunt or supermarket sweep all of a sudden), but it was mostly Roedelius solo stuff. No matter.
Yes, a lot of the ‘good stuff’ had, I could tell, already gone. But there was a section that I knew the Stokey blokeys, with their Hornby-esque love for classic rock, wouldn’t have plundered, and I was right. The African section was mine, all fucking mine, and I got me an armful of juju and Ghanaian dance bands that will keep me happy for weeks to come, including the above rare King Sunny Ade record which is probably one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard in my life. Serious.

And some other stuff too. All you need to know is that Anthony Braxton and Royal Trux were involved

As I headed to the till, I finally got to do something I’d always wanted to do, which was to buy something from the wall. The wall was where all the special records lived. Finally, with the credit note and the half price both, I got to score a wall-worthy record. It is quite unlistenable free jazz and I love it. I handed over my money and I asked Tony what had happened. The rents on Church Street were going up and up, he said. I nodded; this I knew already. How else to explain the disappearance of everything good from this most lovely of streets, to be replaced by Fresh and Wild and shops selling over-priced cowboy boots? It was the way of the world, and one of the last bastions of good shopping was on its way out, soon to disappear into history the same way that naive 21 year old dole-ite with a head full of big plans that was me seems now like more and more of a distant memory.

I didn’t know what to say, so I thanked Tony for having such a lovely shop. He thanked me for being a lovely customer, and kissed my hand, all gentleman-like. I felt bad for having moved away from Stokey and not spending more money there, for only swapping stuff, for getting into downloading and for going to Vinyl Vault and the big Oxfam in Dalston instead. But there was no amount of rare vinyl I could have purchased that could have saved Totem, or the Vortex jazz club opposite, also closed. I just hope I can keep the violin shop going, and the bookshop where the owner plays Shirley Collins records to his customers. Or the other bookshop where I found that Edwardian book about a mongoose called Pig. With photos.

And there’s another thing there should be a word for: people who hate shopping in proper big shops, but love this kind of shopping. Although if things go on like this, there won’t be any righteous shops for us left, and we’ll have to go further and further afield to get our fix of hidden treasure.

I know that places have to change and rents have to go up. But in squeezing out all the independent traders on Church St., those who are doing so are squeezing out all the reasons why it’s such a ‘desirable’ street in the first place, and making it just like every other alterna-Babylon, full of whimsical kids’ clothes and expensive coffee. Yet the street’s as busy as it ever was, settling-down hipsters and couples with three-wheeled buggies promenading the narrow pavements every weekend, buying expensive cushions for their pretty homes. You can’t begrudge them that, but you can feel sad, and I do. Totem wasn’t just about buying old history too. It would stock records by and flyers for new local bands and events, and had a huge noticeboard where you could post anything music-related. I used to love reading it; it confirmed all my hopes that I lived in a part of London where people cared about music and wanted others to care about it too, whether they were offering piano lessons or trying to form a punk band. I was all set to ask if we could sell Plan B there too.

Totem’s website is down for now, but I’m hoping that it’ll come back again soon, once the records have a new home, and it can continue trading as mail order. In the meantime, I urge you to get over to Totem Records, Stoke Newington Church Street, London N16, and buy what you can over the next few days or so. There’s a Pierre Henry with your name on it, and piles of twelves that I didn’t have time to wade through.

Just don’t go and have your coffee at Fresh and Wild afterwards.

Posted on Friday, November 12th, 2004by Frances May Morgan