Led Zeppelin - The Greengrocer Strikes Back

            

Record Shopping In Berwick Street, 60s Style

by Stuart Penney

What springs to mind when we think of Berwick Street? For Oasis fans it's probably the band's second album (What's The Story) Morning Glory? Love it or loathe it, this 1995 release is one of the biggest selling UK albums of all time and its clearly identifiable cover photo put Berwick Street firmly on the London pop locations map.

For others it could be the record stores.  In recent decades this humble Soho thoroughfare has become world famous for its profusion of CD and vinyl shops.  Every year on Record Store Day men of a certain age (and it is nearly always men, let’s be honest) can be seen queueing outside Sister Ray or other participating shops in all weathers well before daybreak.  

They do this in order to be first in line to secure that limited edition Morrissey 12” single in blue vinyl, or whatever other coveted RSD release has taken their fancy.  That same 12” single will, in all probability, be up for sale on eBay before the day is out, but that’s another story (morning glory).

  

Record Store Day was inaugurated in 2007, and Sister Ray were one of the first UK participants.  But record shops had been thriving in Berwick Street for years – Reckless Records moved there in 1984, followed by Sister Ray in 1989 and others soon followed.  More recently the advent of streaming, plus the COVID lockdown, saw a sharp reduction in the number of music outlets in the area, but several have survived. 

Before any of this, however, there was Musicland.  Operating from 1967 to 1975 at the junction of Berwick and Noel Street, this legendary record store was a mecca for imported US vinyl.  Back then many albums were released in America weeks or even months before we saw them in Britain and, together with One Stop Records in nearby Dean Street, Musicland always had the latest and best selection of imports in Soho.  All this was pre-megastore, of course.  Virgin opened their first shop in 1971, but at that point they were a small concern operating above an Oxford Street shoe store.

 My trusty record buyer’s diary from the period (in reality, just a dog-eared school exercise book) tells me I scored John & Yoko’s Plastic Ono Band - Live Peace in Toronto (shrink-wrapped with calendar) from Musicland just before Christmas 1969.  Other significant purchases around that time included the first T. Rex single “Ride A White Swan” (October 1970), a trio of US-only Donovan albums Hurdy Gurdy Man, Barabajagal and Mellow Yellow (various dates during 1968-69) plus Frank Zappa’s Hot Rats (February 1970).  

Literally on the doorstep of Musicland was the famous Berwick Street market.  First officially recognised in 1892, but established more than a century earlier, it’s one of the oldest street markets in London with a long and chequered history.  For the purposes of this story, however, all we need to know is that in the late 1960s the market had a rather excellent record stall.

 

 

In time honoured tradition, record company sales reps and music journalists alike would supplement their income by offloading unwanted samples and review copies at the Berwick Street market record stall, turning it into a goldmine for obscure new releases and promo records of every description.  I picked up countless rare gems there, some of which I still have and many others I regret parting with.  One memorable visit yielded a dozen or so Blue Horizon “A” label promo singles, including items by Fleetwood Mac, Otis Rush and Chicken Shack. 

 

Then, one day toward the end of October 1969 I was at the stall checking out the new arrivals, as I did most lunchtimes, when “Whole Lotta Love,” the opening track from the recently released Led Zeppelin II album came bursting from the speakers.  This was a big deal.  Zeppelin were poised to become the world’s biggest band and there was a huge media buzz around their eagerly awaited second album.  I decided to hang around the stall as long as possible to hear more.  

Now, immediately alongside the record seller was a fruit and vegetable stall, one of several in Berwick Street.  With his textbook cockney accent, fingerless gloves and toothpick thin roll-up permanently clamped to his bottom lip, the fruit and veg seller could have come straight out of Eastenders central casting, had the venerable TV soap existed at the time.  His well-honed cheery patter could often be heard above the music as he served the customers, forever charming the ladies with a cheeky “Mind how you go, darlin’.”  

It goes without saying that he also had the full complement of greengrocers' apostrophes on his signs - apple's, orange's, banana's etc.  Of course he did. But that’s probably a gripe for another day. 

The fruit and veg man didn’t seem too thrilled with the music emanating from the record stall, however, and judging from the disapproving glances he kept firing in our direction I could tell he wasn’t much of a heavy rock fan.

By this point “Whole Lotta Love” was nearing the end.  We’d negotiated the strange orgasmic middle section where the swirling sound effects move disconcertingly back and forth across the stereo spectrum, and now Jimmy Page was peeling off those life affirming staccato guitar phrases which lead back into the song.  

There we were, serious record browsers all, heads bowed over the LP crates, nodding along with the music as Robert Plant launched into the coda around a minute from the end.  "I'm gonna give ya every inch of my love" he threatened ominously, before bellowing “Shake for me girl, I wanna be your back door man" in an overtly suggestive manner. This was followed by a series of wordless grunts and moans, each one more exaggerated than the last.  Then at exactly the 4:58 mark Plant let out an extended groan which seemed louder, longer and noticeably more strained than anything which had gone before.  

It was at that point the fruit and veg man finally spoke up.  With perfect timing he raised his voice above the general hubbub and with a look of undiluted disdain called out: “Farkin’ hell!  What’s wrong with ‘im?  He sounds like he's bleedin' constipated!”  Everyone, including the record seller, roared with laughter.  How could we not? 

It was a priceless moment and one which has stayed with me to this day.  Even now, more than half a century later, I can never hear the final minute of “Whole Lotta Love” without thinking of the fruit and veg man and his perfectly executed interlocution.  It was the kind of witty put down our dads might well have said at the time, had they thought of it.  But it also comprehensively pricked the pomposity of Plant’s performance (if you’ll excuse the accidental alliteration) without taking anything away from the timeless recording itself.  

I’ve dined out on this story endlessly over the years and even passed it onto my son who now quotes the line freely whenever he hears the song.  Probably to the bafflement of his peers I shouldn’t wonder.

Record Mirror May 1967