The latest victim of the current high‑street extinction event seems to be HMV (again): 2,200 people might lose their jobs, and in the current precarious employment climate that in itself will be devastating. But the loss of the sole high-street purveyor of pop music has extra significance, even for someone who was not a fan of the store. I have many fond memories of record shops, but not one misty-eyed recollection involves buying the music that changed my life from HMV.
Since this establishment chain last dodged the jaws of death, it hasn’t kept up with changing times. And if you do nurse sentimental feelings about its passing, obviously empathise with the soon-to-be unemployed, but never forget that it was the march of the music super chains (including the long-gone Our Price, Virgin and Tower Records) which led to the dwindling numbers of bijou record shops.
HMV was always, even its heyday, the first port of call for beginners and general music consumers, where in more innocent times music as a physical artefact for novices was purchased. You wouldn’t expect to find knowledgeable advice (although had you done so, it was always available). An acquaintance worked in the buying office of one chain: not a music fan or aficionado herself, she gladly passed on to me the rare white labels retrieved from the skip, as this shop did not care about championing edgy new acts or stocking fresh talent. HMV was where you went to buy chart records (vinyl, cassette or later CDs) with your Christmas vouchers. It was never for open-minded obsessives or specialists, not for rarities or vintage; never really a hub where bands were formed and labels were launched; where you called in to check out what was new.
Specialist, boutique record shops were often (and can still be) intimidating: my earliest purchase was as a child of 11, wading undaunted through a gaggle of sneering blokes to buy Bowie’s Pin Ups in a now defunct shop in my home town of Swindon. Similar shops are thriving thanks to the vinyl revival, or by being friendly and well-stocked. Can you imagine HMV selling a cloth bag designed by a local artist, as Monorail in Glasgow does? HMV never became a honeypot for crate diggers: those obsessives found riffling through piles of rare old vinyl (or even CDs). Fopp, which was taken over by HMV in 2007, is better stocked, as are small outlets such as the excellent Piccadilly Records in Manchester.
Yes, the internet is obviously largely to blame. But it is also not that simple: HMV has gone the way of Spudulike or Woolworths, we just stopped needing or wanting its services. They were outdated and subsequently superseded. HMV began to sell books and equipment, but such obvious diversification didn’t save it: the internet again, and the fact plain and simple that it’s convenient to click and purchase and there is little need for a cavernous, everything-under-one-roof music emporium.
Rough Trade and smaller shops will survive – for which we should be pleased – but the disappearance of HMV is part of the inevitable demise of high-street destination shopping. Growing nostalgic vinyl obsession will save smaller, traditional boutique shops. HMV was where your grandparents imagined you still “bought records”. In reality you probably hadn’t been inside for years.
• This article was amended on 31 December 2018 to make clear that the company Fopp had been taken over by HMV in 2007
• Penny Anderson is a writer and artist
