I may once again be stating the obvious: “In 1974, Gene Clark released an album that almost nobody wanted to hear. Today, many regard it as a masterpiece.” Clark had made exactly the record he wanted to make, but the record label simply didn’t know what to do with it. My way into the album came many years after its release, of course, as I was born in the mid-’60s. Around 2013, I had been given a commission to sketch out the interior for a new retail concept. The CEO of the company at the time was a very open-minded and exuberant American called James. Robban suggested to James that I put together an inspiration trip – to check out trends and feel the groove of what was bubbling away and the directions that looked set to grow strong in the years ahead. So we did. Robban, my colleague and close friend, photographer, 100% entrepreneur and, above all, my partner in crime when it comes to creativity and general mischief, and I travelled to London with James. A destination chosen partly because of my never-ending Anglophilia and my younger years of repeated visits and getting down and dirty in the streets: Brick Lane, Portobello Road, Shoreditch, the East End, Bethnal Green, to name but a few. Late ’80s and early ’90s.
Filterless and with plenty of self-confidence, we visited haute couture shops, the Sonos headquarters and smaller, newly established bazaars at the embryonic edge of the vintage trend. We looked, listened, talked, drank. Took it all in. And then, one night, we ended up on Carnaby Street in Soho. As if by chance, Liam Gallagher, founder of Pretty Green and, of course, frontman of Oasis, was launching a new collection in his shop at 57 Carnaby Street – Pretty Green’s first shop. ’60s-inspired, packed with Mods artefacts, a Lambretta Li 150 Series 3, two floors, whitewashed brickwork, black industrial windows. Music roaring from the speakers, invited guests, curious faces and security guards in black hoodies, arms folded and wearing hard stares. But, as you know, serendipity only exists if you seize the moment and keep an open mind. Somehow, we talked our way in. Perhaps it was the American accent, perhaps the eccentric, slightly authoritative confidence, or simply being the right people in the right place at the right time. Whatever it was, we were invited to the party. Free beer and a bloody lot of high-profile celebrities.
And now comes the arc in my story. Gene Clark suddenly came pouring out of the speakers. In my state of looking straight into the kaleidoscope, beer splashed across my chest, swaying away in a red, grey and blue striped padded jacket, green army trousers and the obligatory boots, I felt on top of the world on the dance floor, right in front of the DJ’s Technics 1200s. So I walked over and asked him: “What are you playing now?” Given my interest in music, we quickly found common ground, and the record changed hands right there and then. No Other. I had absolutely no idea that this record had been waiting for me for almost forty years. Or that I would have to travel all the way to Carnaby Street and drink beer with Liam Gallagher’s guests to find it.
