Ah yes, Record Store Day... there's nothing quite like rising at the crack of dawn to queue with a legion of fellow sad fucks, each armed with a wad of cash and in pursuit of limited, grossly overpriced discs of plastic. This year, I set my alarm for half past five, and about an hour later took my place in the line outside Newcastle's Reflex, behind 42 even more eager/dedicated/tragic individuals who'd beaten me there. It was a sign of the deranged, obsessive extremes music can push us to, but for me the sheer diversity of those present also offered the first indication of all that's good about this annual gathering. I, a staunch advocate of miserable Scottish music, stood with my Dad, an old punk hunting Street Dogs and Undertones singles, and even in those early stages we found ourselves accompanied by everything from skinny-jeaned indie kids to prog dinosaurs to mod revivalists, all looking to grab their own slice from several hundred exclusive releases. There were even girls! Not many of them admittedly, but enough to shatter the myth that obsessive musical disorder is an exclusively male trait.
