I didn’t ride the bus into Redditch anymore; I just crossed the street from the school bus stop and got on the city bus instead.

I loved the Midland Red double-decker buses. Even though they were older, they ran better than the slower, sloppier West Midlands buses and they were more pleasing to the eye, with a tidier, more compact design. The sight of one coming over the hill and down the dip toward the stop on Alcester Road never failed to cheer me.

I always sat upstairs if possible, grabbing one of the two front seats. I liked to watch the journey from the best vantage point the vehicle could offer. Past the Maypole and Bates’s Toy Corner, through Kings Heath with its massive Sainsbury’s supermarket where I now worked a weekend job, past Neville Chamberlain’s old residence in Moseley and the Edgbaston Cricket Club, up onto Bristol Road and past the ABC Cinema (now a McDonald’s), peeling off at the Albany Hotel, taking a right at the Crown pub and past the Jacey cinema, where Mom and I used to watch cartoons and shorts, but by then showed twenty-four-hour porn. Then, in a moment, out of the daylight and into the depths of the bus depot.

Where the adventures began.

Is there anything more exciting than the sounds and smells of the city? Never mind the architecture; the noise inside that torpid black bus terminus was something else. The fighting of gears, the firing up of fifty-year-old diesels, the honking in D-flat minor signaling departure. And the smell: of engineering, of fire and oil being kept a-simmer, just below boiling. Ah, the Midland Red fleet, that industry of freedom, bringing the country to the city and the city to the country!

From the terminus, I walk through the double swing doors into the Bullring market, more noise and stink. The fish market, florists, hardware, butchers in white cotton aprons and hats shouting attention to their wares, and one small record stall where I first heard Bob Marley. I head to the elevators, which convey me to the newer Bullring shopping center and its relative calm and finesse.

The most astounding feature of the Bullring was its indoor shopping bridge, a seventies take on Florence’s Ponte Vecchio. It was one of the seven wonders of Birmingham.

There was another record store actually on the bridge, then the entrance to the Mayfair Ballroom, locked tight now, and maybe I’ll make a stop at Hawley’s bakery by the entrance down to New Street train station for a cup of tea. Then into Threshold Records, owned by Birmingham progressive rock group the Moody Blues. Yes, the Moody Blues had their own record label which has a chain of retail stores, inconceivable now.

I liked to look in at the imports and secondhand vinyl at Reddingtons Rare Records behind the co-op. We all sold our souls to Danny Reddington over the years. He was the punk pawnbroker. In ’77, I had to take the pittance he offered me for my album collection in order to be able to buy my first electric guitar and amplifier.

I was Birmingham’s teenage flaneur, walking idly along New Street. It wasn’t Paris, but it worked for me.

At 10:00 A.M., I would head over to Moor Street station, to meet fellow Roxy fan Marcus, coming off his shift around 10:30. Marcus would be taking tickets from a line of commuters coming into the city off the train, see me, and smile. “I’ll be finished in a minute, and I’m starving!”

He would park his cap on a hook on the office door and we would quickly walk off, hands stuffed in pockets, through the pedestrian tunnel that passed under Queensway, catching up on gossip and ideas, mostly about music. Marcus was a few years older than me and his tastes were advanced. He loved Eno’s solo records, especially the latest, Another Green World, which I found a little heady. The prints that came with the album adorned the living room of the flat he shared in Moseley with his girlfriend, Annette.

Annette worked in the city and often met us on her lunch break. The three of us would get a sandwich or go to Oasis, the indoor clothes market, or Bus Stop (one of the cooler boutiques) for Annette to look at clothes. This was 1975; lots of sparkle and glitter still, but also Northern Soul influences like star sweaters and skinny rib tees. The baggies had gotten baggier. Six-button Crimplene pants with side pockets. Cheap as hell from the outdoor market.

I had the city mapped out according to a three-tier system. You must have guessed it by now: record stores, food stops, and clothing. I could spend the day going from tier to tier to tier.

And then there was Virgin.

Virgin Records was how the Virgin corporate empire began.