There’s a natural mystic in the air

I stumbled across Golden Clouds today. A Perry/ Orb collaboration that borrowed from one tune and cheekily became another over four minutes. The subtle sequences of fluffy clouds laying host to Scratch’s observations and overstanding. As this red, gold and green wizard kicked off his shoes and walked in ponds and streams to bring his musings on things that floated.

I like Lee Scratch Perry. He’s a nutter. But I like him.

I wrote some time back about jury service in industrial ports. Of Grimsby streets and barbaric youth stood up in docks made from wood not ones that produced ships or unloaded goods. I was young myself then. I was judging not being judged. Unlike now as I wait for the suits and the clipboards to hasten an exit from a profession I am actually good at but they will fail to see. But that’s another story. And I’m telling this one.

I have talked about purchasing Linton Kwesi Johnston’s sounds. I have yet to tell of the second tape purchased from that record store – which is now a simple stolen shot that I find hard to recall. A shop on the streets full of sounds and surprises. As I said before I was looking for tapes – digging the crates – to fill the journey on hard train seats from Grimsby to Scunthorpe. A scenic route as yet to feature on any holiday programme or Portillo’s travels by train. It’s all blast furnaces, coal trucks, articulated lorries and corrugated sheds.

It was my vista. Show me yours.

And there nestled in the ‘reggae, reggae’ section with UB40 and Aswad was a little tape. Red and green – the gold being the music – do you get me?  An almighty allegiance with the Mad Professor – all gated reverb and twisted pitches  - dubbing them crazy. It spoke to me at that time – and listening to it now it talks again – all version and sound sound sound. This upsetter was making me happy through dub workouts and smoked up sounds – (duppy) conquering. There was something magical in licks and rolls, the snatches and snippets of bass and drum heavy in reverberation that tickled and soothed my brain.

I’ve always liked those dub sounds – as tapes melted and heated and expanded and sounds merged and extended with rimshots and bursts of melody. It’s a Jamaican ting. This warmth of sound in the warmth of the sun. Yet it translates to concrete streets and struggles. It’s excursions and versions sound tracking our resistance and anger. You can understand why PuNk got it. As I said in a post about P.I.L – John didn’t have a support act – he simply had some dub. It starts deep and takes you deeper.

There used to be a wonderful public house in New Cross. By the university, all smoky corners and pool hall bravado and simple reggae sounds. The Tavern – a haven for the Goldsmiths’ underground – well a place to drink after hours. You would hear a mighty tune in there of an evening. It was a mellow place. As I have aged I think I’ve become more aware of the trouble that bass can cause – as it seeps under floorboards and through walls. But this was a public house – you can play that kind of stuff there. I don’t pull out my Augustus Pablo records or King Tubby 12s these days. Even though we’re end of terrace – it doesn’t seem fair on the neighbours. As the grey hairs come thick and fast you just buy better headphones.

There’s a wonderful book heavy in weight and attitude called Bass Culture. It rides the beginnings of bass right through those West Indian struggles and leaves you feeling knowledgeable about politics, race and sound. You should read it – you probably have done. Scratch pops up in there from time to time. A pioneer, a seer, a shaker and a maker. His imprint sitting in all things reggae. You can’t ignore his presence and what presence he has.

And over the years Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry has bubbled and popped up across a variety of records I’ve bought. Through Trojan sets, MC battles and blissed out ambience Scratch can be called on to provide that sideways stomp. The unexpected. Not lyrically  - his musings and bubblings have a familiar ring – but his philosophy is one of not compromising.

Build it up. Burn it down.

I don’t buy into all that mysticsm – I don’t need a God to explain a thing – we’ve got scientists for all of that. And I like them. But possibly not chatting on records. This crazy witchdoctor can provide that and the Mad Professor can man the mixing desk. Dubbing it crazy for those who like their bass on the heavy, heavy, heavy side.  The professor really is an academic of dub. He can twist and tickle a line – make it say something else – educate the mind without words – through sounds.

I like Lee Scratch Perry. I like the Mad Professor. I like them working together.

This is was on the tape. Now it’s in your house. 

From the Bronx to Scunthorpe: breakin' in back gardens

I attempted breakdancin’ in my garden – I was on my own – except I guess the neighbours could witness the spectacle of a skinny youth slowly slamming his body onto lino and cardboard in a hasty representation of the Bronx created in a Scunthorpe yard. When I say on my own – I mean I was not in a ‘crew’ – my parents, brother and sister were all home. They could look out and see me too – if they had  wanted.

Practicing the ‘caterpillar’ to show to nobody. Although I had perfected the ‘the robot’ and used it to good effect at school discos as Blue Monday was slipped on the decks. Those moments when a crowd gathers round – circular and sinister – watching. Invariably a teacher would join in and credibility would seep out and embarrassment creep in.

Thinking back to those faintly ridiculous times it pains me to say that I didn’t even have a ‘ghetto blaster’. I was simply lockin’, poppin’ and breakin’ to my own internal beats and scratches. Replaying Rock it and Bambataa’s electro groove. That’s not to say I didn’t hear those tunes on a regular basis – at staged shows, meets and battles– whilst we all had fun [family] weekends or watched by the clock or the leisure centre paved car parks. As crews from various parts of town came to get down – came to get down. And then up rolled the Hull crews, the Donny ones – it was a touch of the spray paint fuelled NY times – right here in the industrial landscape of northern Britain – it was a culture shift really – a separation and recognition of futures both scuppered and starting. Which I guess the whole NY scene was to. Futility, fury and freedom. Rock a funky beat and dance. We’ve always danced to forget.

There was even an all female crew – Break Three – geddit – ratcheting up the rights of women’s liberation through synchronized windmills and headspins [okay- so I probably made up the political angle – but it was liberating in a way] You could say the ‘elements’ were in place – hip hop had arrived in the North East. As I’ve said before – I kind of got lost in the mix – that indie blender of jangles and jeans and missed out on the hip hop scene to some extent – my education coming from Lou Reed not Marley Marl in 1984. But luckily I had school friends who did. And they would eventually play me those ‘lost gems’ on 1210s in smoke filled bedrooms as beats bounced off walls. You don’t lose your passion for those breaks – even if you do stop listening. There’s a wonderful book called Can’t Stop Won’t Stop that documents those breaking days of the breakin’ craze and the emergence of hip hop in New York. You should read it if you like hip hop – you probably have done.

I should read it again.

There is never enough time though. I just picked up Rotten again – a seminal book about a John – suddenly lost in ten pages as Lydon explains just how wrong everybody got it and Jones with his wonderful insight to those college students who at the time ‘were so fucking snobby’. You know the ones who became ‘ the upwardly mobile yuppies’ and as Jones’ puts it –‘they were so damned self-righteous at their hippy festivals, never connecting with the general population’. You can imagine their [the hippies not the Pistols] reaction to the birth of hip hop – class, race and poverty all rolled into one –ready to exploit - it’s a shame it fell for the glittering jewels of banal capitalist gifts – you need to be looking back at the ghetto to change it – not forgetting why it was made as you race off in tha Benz from your endz.

As I type in a London home.

Not that my attempts at breakin’ would free the North and therefore working class Britain from the tyranny of the greed and systematic erosion of any identity worth fighting for. But the ways we set about creating sub-cultures were full with politics. I was talking last night – between the Great Bake Off and Midsomer Murders about the depoliticised nature of popular culture – we do that in our house – it’s all highbrow you know. Now clearly I am most likely wrong about this – but as the independent ‘spirit’ crossed over to mainstream acceptance and all looks became up for grabs – the ideology behind the putting on was lost.

Again don’t misinterpret the naivety of youth and the willingness to belong. But as those scraps of sub-culture were amassed we discussed why we looked like we did – be it the appropriation of a Kangol hat or the wearing of a studded belt – things like this mattered. Didn’t they – and do they now? Maybe I was just more neurotic and uptight [everything is [not] alright] Which brings right back to the music.

Music has and always will matter – I now accept it doesn’t change the world. But it can offer alternatives and through those clumsy attempts at b-popping and crazy legs rockin’ I have amassed a knowledge of the political infrastructure of New York during the 70s and how Bambataa and his Zulu Nation tried to fix a corrupt system amidst the Reaganomics of the 1980s - that shaped choices about purchases and listens in northern towns and Scunthorpe record shops – why KRS One mattered more than MC Hammer or 2 Live Crew. Don’t get me wrong KRS One was a misogynist too – but Sound of da Police could soundtrack last Summer and the next one. That relentless beat and as cars with sirens pull you up and stop and search you – it’s always about the wider power struggle with the state. I wasn’t expecting to arrive at the ways the brutality of the police can ultimately empower the masses from attempting a headspin in my garden – but somehow I have arrived here – questioning modern police methods.

Hip hop can do that – well it used to.

And it’s all trapped in the anger and hostility of this tune.

They sold them and they played them

I used to live in Nottingham. It was a place I had escaped to from the confines of a small northern town that was guaranteed to bring you right down. Guaranteed to take you nowhere. I remember being deposited there by Mark and Anna – it was a Sunday. A car ride to Beeston Rylands – to Leyton Crescent – a car ride to the beginning of all of this.

The thing I liked about Nottingham was the fact it was run through with record shops – second hand, independent, the big chains all sat side by side – shipping out the vinyl to the streets – to the bedroom DJs, the newly formed bands, the rock obsessives , hip hop headz, pop tarts and dub troubadours. And I liked to browse - that simple feeling of flicking through piles of records and finding a spark, a name, a title or a photograph that grabbed you and forced you to look that little bit closer. Pull out the record, check it for marks. You know the drill. We don’t really change – although the autist in us all will have to evolve the ritual to include the wait to see if i-tunes can return the search.

You see that’s what fucks me off – I was getting ready for Christmas here – it’s always busy - the boys have their birthday on the 27th. And I happened to be getting something out of the cupboard – some secreted gift. When I was drawn to a pile of records - a pile of records I was definitely going to have a look through – suddenly off task. How can that happen when you have a list – already in order on your i-pod? You can search and find – search and order – search and sequence – the playlists of the mindless – it can sort it for you – it’s ‘genius’ like that. Now don’t misunderstand – I have tried to order my records from time to time. I have listed them and moved them around and put singles in genres. But as I have moved house at least five times whilst having them it’s safe to say that I have forgotten what I own and where to find it. That is I would love to play the second Razorcuts album or Caveman or the white label Electronica album from Fat Cat but would not be able to find it – easily. In fact I know there are two boxes of vinyl sitting in the garage – slowly warping and eroding.

And buying records was something I did a lot of in Nottingham.

I worked across and out of town – in a village called Radcliffe – in the school there. It was a wonderful place to learn and work. Free of responsibility and willing to take risks – sometimes the best things happen in the classroom when we’re not obsessing about the progress and attributing arbitrary levels to performance – and instead indulge in telling kids about stuff and getting them to use that stuff to make their existence that little bit richer. Anyway – I don’t want to rant about education. I got my education.

But working in the sticks meant I had to head across town to catch the bus to Beeston – just outside the library. Angel Row gallery – Nottingham was thin on the gallery ground in the late 1990s – now everyone has an institute of modern contemporary art. Actually I remember a series of canvases in the Angel Row gallery that depicted classic concerts – realised through simple dots – the band on stage – one was Joy Division represented by four white dots and the audience – represented by a hundred or so dots – all about 2ft by 4ft. Simple and effective. The artist had also made replica album covers on wood and left them stacked against a wall – inanimate objects – redundant images without the sounds - but somehow providing the rush of excitement when you came across an album you owned. So catching the bus home rather than taking a lift from Hutch [a wonderful Science teacher – a roll up in one hand driver – I once drove the wrong way up Electric Avenue with Hutch – but that as they say is another story] meant I could record shop in the centre of town. Again free from responsibility – not rushing home not wanting to stay out – it was a simple as that – I had time. Time has changed now – in a good way – but time has now changed. And of course Emma worked in the city – so I would meet her.

I would alight from the L3 [I think] at Broadmarsh bus depot and shopping complex – Alders, H&M, a Bookworks and all of that. HMV was just outside – opposite the ‘jacket spuds’ stand. A quick glance – a shake through the vinyl racks and then up to Virgin Records on the corner of Slab Square – that beautiful centre to a Midlands city. Civic and open – a genuine welcome for / from the people of Notts. In the city there’s a lot of things I want to say you. More rack raking – a possible purchase of a reduced CD and then up to Selectadisc – the big one – I would do the small one on the way down for some reason and Rob’s if he was open.

Selectadisc has closed now.

Sometimes cities lose the things they most need. I remember turning up to the first listen of Hello Nasty by the Beastie Boys at a Selectadisc – a 6 o’clock airing with bottled beers and bass – I was wearing a suit from work but you could do that in there – no one really judged you – the staff where there to help – source and recommend. Not like the staff at the selectadisc on Berwick Street – the one on the What’s the story cover – a great deal of the staff in there were twats. London/ Nottingham thing duck.

That Selectadisc is also closed.

The staff played records. They sold them and they played them.

Downstairs general / new releases – CDs that sort of thing – upstairs vinyl. A race up the staircase. The change of sound systems from the push of independent alternative strains to repetitive beats and twisted grooves – upstairs was the hipper cooler older brother – downstairs was rockin it – but upstairs knew that little bit more. And so to the racks – I would start with the latest hip hop releases – move into the new releases – possible over to the sales rack – back into the psychedelic or reggae area – maybe the sixties or just stand and listen to what was playing.

So I grabbed a handful of vinyl and had a look. Because that’s what vinyl obsessives do. Not that I am one now – the fatherhood thing means you spend real time doing real things. Although today – I just found myself moaning. But there you go – no said it was going to be easy. Once I had grabbed the 12 inches – I was hoping that Loop by LFO would be in there. First heard on an epic Weatherall Essential Mix – a bleeping builder – with repetitive beats – 303s sounding out the sounds of the underground – all K-holes and trance like states. I’ve been looking for it for a while – trying to track it down on the ‘net’ – but I can only find the LFO vs FUSE version. That is not the one I want. Funnily enough it was right in the pile – tucked into the Orbital Mutations record. And I was taken back to Nottingham – that moment of discovery as the hand flicked through the covers – or in the case of the second hand shops – the actual records. Also if you liked the look of a record – or recognised a producer etc they let you have a listen. Like Danny did in Record Village.

I haven’t mention Rob’s Records. It deserves a little more than a few sentences. But suffice to say I think it’s still open – and that’s got to count for something. I once sent Emma into Rob’s – in her lunch break – I wanted a copy of Shirley Ellis’ The Clapping Song – he had several copies – some more scratched than others – it cost three quid. A guaranteed floor filler. That ride cymbal introduction – into the rhyme as the r’n’b funk begins to bring the whole thing together – and the horns get hornier and by the end we’re all clapping and back patting and slap slapping. It’s finds like this that exist in record shops. Real record shops. My copy of that single smells a little – like it’s been hanging around a while.

But now it is found. I can clap my hands for that.