If the truth is known, I didn’t deserve to drop lucky on my first ever visit to a car boot sale: after a Saturday night on the town, with a newt following me around taking notes, I should have spent the morning between the sheets, sleeping off the effect of five too many Tequila slammers.
I gave the wife du jour a mouthful each time she tried to rouse me, and might possibly have stomached the nagging if the Paracetamol had been close at hand … and if the dog hadn’t been so nimble I would have toe-ended it down the stairs for wagging it’s tail so noisily.
And yet, two hours later, there I was grinning like a schoolboy and clutching the two albums to my chest as if they had once upon a time been clasped between Cindy Crawford’s thighs.
The first LP I’d stumbled on was Jackrabbit Slim, and although it wasn’t worth a fortune, it replaced the copy I’d lent to a barmaid I was trying to impress. And yet, if I was thinking that Lady Luck was smiling on me when I’d unearthed Steve Forbert’s little gem, it was as if she was hitting on me like a Shepherds Market hooker when I came across a mega-rare copy of King Tubby Meets The Upsetters … for the benefit of those who are not so hot on the Jamaican ska and rocksteady scene, I should point out that King Tubby was the man credited with inventing what was to become known as dub. As a former sound engineer he built equipment that enabled him to filter lyrics and introduce reverb, phase and echo. Sadly, neither his genius nor his celebrity status was a deterrent to the person or persons unknown who shot him dead in the February of ’89.
Now don’t get me wrong, the album wasn’t in the same league as something like 14 Dub Blackboard Jungle – the value of which ranges from five to fifteen-thousand smackers depending on the strength of the ganja in the bong – but with only 300 original pressings, of which a mere 100 were dispatched to the UK, it would have funded the purchase of the souped-up second-hand Mini Cooper I’d had my eye on, or – and God forbid Her Indoors ever got wind of the value – a new Hygena fitted kitchen with double stainless steel drainer and built-in fridge.
Now that was nigh-on quarter of a century ago and admittedly I was tempted to cash in on my windfall when the gearbox on my Ford Capri seized up … and maybe if I’d have forked out for that damn kitchen I might have staved off an eye-watering divorce – at least until the fridge needed defrosting or the plug came adrift from the stainless steel sink; but setting aside grubby money matters, my decision to hang on to the King Tubby album has proved to be one hell of a shrewd move.
By way of explanation, let me start by saying that if you earn your crust as a mechanic, no one in their right mind would suggest you’re the go-to-Joe when the Space Shuttle needs a service. But the moment someone publishes your opinion or a snippet of your elementary advice, you can bet your bottom dollar that you’ll soon be pestered by people who reckon you’re a wizzo on everything from cleaning baby sick off the back-seat upholstery to gas-fuelled propulsion … believe me it’s true; much the same thing happened to me when I started writing about pop music.
Now don’t get me wrong, when it came to the knowledge game, I was never a match for those smirky-faced folk who could rattle off line-up of The Goombay Dance Band or the first dozen members of Gong and their nicknames to boot, but there was a time when I was a serious contender on the pop quiz circuit … but then the rappers came swaggering along and even before serial offenders like Ice-T had become the acceptable face of MTV, I was reduced to the ranks of also-rans … with only myself to blame.
I could claim that out-and-out dislike was a good enough reason for burying my head in the sand, but that would be like saying everybody hated Tomás de Torquemada so we should forget about the Spanish Inquisition; so, I’ll roll with the never-thought-it-would-last excuse for knowing next to nothing about the hip hop scene.
Fast forward twenty years or so, and just because I’m now a fan of b-boying doesn’t mean I’ve come to admire the gangsta-rap opportunists who’ve grown rich peddling hate to the exclusion of love.
Slap-bitch lyrics still turn my stomach, and I’ve yet to find a kind word for the deluded samplers who insist they’re due the same measure of respect as the songwriters they rip off.
And before the finger-wagging trendies start lecturing me about hip hop being an art form, let me remind them that Dr Dre once said he could make a hit record with a three-year-old … somehow, I can’t imagine little Johnny Constable rushing home from nursery school with a painting of The Hay Wain for his mum.
I could go on with the snarky remarks, but now that rap is in decline (didn’t I say it wouldn’t last?) and the dance clubs are throbbing to the drum-and-bass sounds of techno and crunk and liquid funk, I’m more inclined to talk about how I blagged a reputation as a cool-dude with his finger on the pulse of the hip hop offsprings.
It all began at the opening of a glitzy club – the kind of place where the women are younger than my driving licence and the cocktails make their party clothes look dowdy. One of the partners was a friend from way back, which is why I didn’t object when he insisted on introducing me to a group of trendy cash-splashers.
Even from a distance I could hear this one guy talking about his time spent clubbing in Ibiza and although he cut short his crowing when he recognised the owner, I sensed he much preferred hogging the limelight to making my acquaintance. Fair enough.
Throughout the introductions his pursed lips looked just like a small primate’s bottom, and rather than bother with any pleasantries of his own, he carried on with his tale of dusk to dawn dancing and wasted days crashed out in bed.
I glanced at his head of curly hair and thought about asking him if he’d slept with his underpants on his head. I didn’t. Something told me he wouldn’t see the funny side … I probably would have done if my biggest best friend who owns the Robin Hood pub in Cardiff was with me – he’s dead good with his fists – but his chef had phoned in sick with swollen adenoids, so he was busy cooking the penne Napolitana himself. Yummy, it is. £2.95 a portion, that’s all … and you get loads.
Anyway, even if he had been there, he wouldn’t have been able to help when the guy looked me straight in the eye and asked what I thought about the hip hop scene. If I hadn’t have been eyeing up a Cindy Crawford lookalike (there’s a coincidence, eh?) who had just swanned through the door, I might have come up with something better than cupping my hand to my ear and pretending I couldn’t hear.
I couldn’t say for sure, but I thought I detected a hint of a smirk as he edged a tad closer; ‘Rap …?’ he said loudly. ‘Techno? Garage?’
With the sound of The Killers filling the room, and my face scrunched up as if in the throes of a bilious attack, I pointed towards the nearest speaker.
Like one of those little dogs who keep on humping your shin, there was no putting him off: ‘Maybe glitch and wonky are your bag, or maybe you’re into …’
The track ended abruptly.
‘… Dubstep!’ Without the music to muffle the volume, the single word was loud enough to turn a few heads … and if smarty-pants hadn’t been so keen to laugh off his faux pas, he might have noticed me turn to the owner and wink one of those fasten-your-seat-belts kind of winks.
Now don’t get me wrong, I knew no more about dubstep than I did about quickstep, but when it came to dub pure and simple, I was not only the man, but, better still, the proud owner of a King Tubby album.
Keeping the smirk off my face was as tricky as speaking in a modest tone of voice: ‘To fully appreciate dubstep, you really need to check out the roots …’ the silence was as encouraging as a cheer. ‘… Ever heard of King Tubby?’
Like a father whose two-year-old son had just trumped in the bath, I forced a smile when one of the guys said something about it being a brand of soft-scoop ice cream; the mumbled apology served as my cue to hit the gas.
Once I’d explained his claim to fame, I more or less skipped over his early life, and for the next five minutes I sounded like that Louisiana lawyer in My Cousin Vinny as I detailed King Tubby’s magic with the mixing deck … not that ole smarty-pants was impressed; in fact, it wasn’t until I told them how much my LP was worth that his eyes lit up.
I’d barely mentioned the car boot sale when the girl with the wavy red hair started on about her sister-in-law going to jumble sale and paying 50 pence for a Wedgewood biscuit barrel which she sold on e-bay for £38 … she looked like a sheepish Lily Cole when she said she was sorry for interrupting. Gorgeous.
Whether or not he sensed what I was thinking, I can’t say for sure, but there was a knowing look in his eyes when he asked me about The Upsetters. Although they all said they had heard about Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry and seemed to know a bit about his problems with booze and drugs, no one realised that The Upsetters was the name of his band. I hadn’t expected them to know that he had produced a string of reggae classics including Junior Murvin’s Police And Thieves and Susan Cadogan’s wonderful Hurts So Good – I only mentioned it as part of the distraction … oh, and to show off a bit.
By this time I was on a roll, and although I’d intended to round off with a few words regretting King Tubby’s demise, I ended up suggesting that his murder might be worth researching for my next novel. Crikey! What a whopper that was.
And yet, instead of being struck down by lightening or my nose growing like Pinocchio’s, my blatant dishonesty was met with admiring glances and words of encouragement; and when the lovely Lily Cole lookalike said that her sister-in-law worked in a travel agents and could get cheap flights to Jamaica, I was starting to think it wasn’t such a bad idea … but best of all, ole smarty-pants was taken in with the rest of them; he even asked if I needed a research assistant.
Although I woke up next morning with my street-cred intact, I knew that if I didn’t do some serious homework I was going to get found out sooner or later. With notebook and pencil to hand, I Googled dubstep and was immediately directed to a video interview with a duo who called themselves Nero. They were pleasant enough guys; not overly affected and passionate about their music. Another click took me to a preview of one of their American gigs. It was out of date, but what attracted my attention was that it appeared in The New Yorker.
Now before I go any further, let me say that I’m happy writing for Stereoboard: the pay is okay, the perks are fine and the editor gives me more or less a free hand. But if I was ever invited to write for The New Yorker, I’d be off like a shot.
You see, this is the Rolls Royce of magazines; the bee’s knees; the dog’s dangly bits. Only the best get to write for The New Yorker. To give you some idea of what it takes, check out this preview of Nero’s gig: ‘One of those glorious, splinter-thin moments when a sound is both free to do whatever it wants and still functioning as a new power source for the deathless form of song.’
Mmmm; on second thoughts, now that the cricket season is in full swing and what with my local supermarket knocking a whole 50 pence off those tinned Fray Bentos steak and kidney pies, I think I might be better off where I am.
Now where did I put that King Tubby album?
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By way of explanation, let me start by saying that if you earn your crust as a mechanic, no one in their right mind would suggest you’re the go-to-Joe when the Space Shuttle needs a service. But the moment someone publishes your opinion or a snippet of your elementary advice, you can bet your bottom dollar that you’ll soon be pestered by people who reckon you’re a wizzo on everything from cleaning baby sick off the back-seat upholstery to gas-fuelled propulsion … believe me it’s true; much the same thing happened to me when I started writing about pop music.
Now don’t get me wrong, I knew no more about dubstep than I did about quickstep, but when it came to dub pure and simple, I was not only the man, but, better still, the proud owner of a King Tubby album.
