Ecky thump! It's Kitten Kong!

The sublime sounds of Mark de Clive Lowe, Bembe Segue and gang in Ladbroke Grove last night (courtesy of Uprock Re:Freshed), were cut short by an unsympathetic bar manager concerned about his license renewal. Later on, listening to the radio, the discussion covered the proposed extended licensing hours. The commentator insightfully compared Britain's drinking with that of the continent, and I was surprised to hear him come up with a similar view to myself, although his was slightly more philosophical. I've often discussed with friends how a lot of cultures use alcohol as an accompaniment to the social occasion rather than as an end in itself, as it is viewed in Britain. He put it succinctly that on the continent alcohol is used to engage in life rather than to escape from it. I thought if so, then what does this say about the culture here in Britain? Heaven only knows what will happen when the licensing times are extended.

Killer geese coming to a town near you. On the same radio programme, they mentioned how Britain's rich set of ornithological data detailing where and when migrating birds land, will provide the number one super weapon in fighting the potential arrival of bird flu from Eastern Europe. So this will be a real live chance for Bill Oddie to save us from some urban peril. More terrible than a giant skyscraper smashing white kitten! Let's just hope that Bill and the remainder of the Goodies won't be too pissed to combat this new evil to threaten our shores.

Ecky thump!

Eighteez Hey Days

What a difference a day makes. 24 little hours.

Gosh! Stepped out this morning, to be greeted by a fresh breeze and sunlight on my face. A stark contrast to the foul weather and general mood I experienced around London yesterday. From Barbican to Hounslow, it seemed as if the miserable rain had immersed the whole of London into a mild depression. Not a smile in sight. Finding one, was like finding free parking in Camden. Not a dickie bird. The only one I remember was my physio, Dr. Bell's devilish deep blue eyed grin. Never seen eyes that blue. As I mentioned I had to get my physio exercises into my 'culture', he said 'yes culture' with that grin of his. I never know if he's just being pleasant or taking the piss.

Back to this morning. To add to the summer mood, Roots FM (95.4 for those who don't know)were playing 80's soul classics. I was standing outside taking in the fresh air and gazing at the sky while 'Mutual Attraction' by Change (formerly fronted by Luther the Crooner himself) boomed out behind me. After that the DJ played 'Magic Touch' by Rose Royce. Both tracks seemed perfect heralds for the upcoming bank holiday carnival weekend, and reminded me of my favourite carnival era, 1985 to 1989 (just before Acieed and the mad smiley people took over carnival). Those were the days when we all rocked to pulsating soul such as the SOS Band, played by Mastermind and Rapattack soul sounds in the cage under the flyover behind Acklam road. I remember bopping to Maze's 'Twilight' one minute, then reacting to a ripple in the crowd the next, and rushing back with everyone else as the crowd parted like the Red Sea letting a gang of youths steam through. I remember them flashing their blades this way and that at the crowd as their leader dragged another guy before them by the scruff of his neck. His neck dripping rich red blood from ear to ear. The crowd joined back together after they passed, like some living creature, and the music soon resumed. Those were the good old days eh.

Rose Royce's 'Magic Touch' always brings back vivid memories of my first attempt at sound system toasting. It was around 1984 and my little upstart sound system, Ambassador (cool name yeah) were due to play the baddest bad bwoy crew in Bristol, the Gold Teet Posse! Our headquarters was in the basement of our manager Noel's flat and that's where we held the party. Well he was really our landlord and helped us out with equipment and stuff. Most of our crew were made up of my close friends at the time. Earl my best friend, aka Early B; Martin the sound operator, aka Butty Ranks (an operator was the technical mix man on the amplifier); Raymond, apprentice selector; and the original older sound men, Jimmy Williams, the main selector; Wayne Pinnock, aka Sticky Ranking; Adrian Douglas, aka AD King; Clinton, the sound hanger on and driver (every sound had one); and myself Commander Ridley, aka Bigga Ranks, aka Joe 90. You can see from my multiple aliases I had just started in the public arena. That night I was Joe 90 and I was shitting my Farrah slacks.

Later on though I started to get that customary buzz you get when promoting a party. As the crowd starting to fill up the dingy basement, and the atmosphere started to electrify with girls screams and whistles, my knees started to wobble with adrenalin and I was getting excited at the thought that we were making people happy. All our efforts leading up to the night, all the speaker box splinters were worth it. It had all paid off.

The night started with a typical heated exhange between our Butty Ranks and Senator Blaggy of Gold Teet (those two never seemed to like each other much). It turned into a sound clash for much of the earlier part of the night and at one point I thought it would come to blows. I remember both DJ decks (or control towers as we used to call them) were squeezed into the tiny concrete space under the stairs, and both sounds were separated by a large piece of thin wooden board. As I was classed as a young 'banton' (a talented lyricist) Butty wanted me to go on in the middle of the clash period. Somebody was playing a reggae version of Micheal Jackson's 'Billy Jean' by Shinehead. We, Ambassador had a brand new version of that rhythym with a sample from the popular cop series, Hawaii Five-O. It started with Steve McGarrett saying "Book him Danno!". Every bad boy loved that, and I started my chant after Butty gave me the nod. I remember hurtling into my lyric, gasping for breath, not fully aware of what was going on. I was barely conscious of the crowd accalamtion I was getting from the whistles and female screams, but knew I had caused some upset as Senator Blaggy of Gold Teet forced the thin partition aside to see who was on the mic and what was going on! Or "what di raas!", to be more precise.

Things went a bit crazy between our two sets for a while before things calmed down with a soul intermission, and that's when I remember Gold Teet playing Rose Royce's 'Magic Touch'. I went out into the crowd to seek out the other friends I had invited receiving hand shakes and plenty 'nuff respects from them. I bopped the rest of the night away in my Farrah slacks, leather should bag/purse (they unfolded into a larger item) and my Pierre Cardine or whatever diamond jumper I was wearing. Hey it was the style of the times man!

Those were certainly the days.

Urban Horror

After my first fun filled attempt at Blogging last week, I was feeling slightly agitated that I couldn't think of anything significant to write about. I knew my girlfriend was right when she stated that it didn't have to be something profound but just everyday even mundane observations, as long as it was something personal. The question for me is probably just how much of the personal do you share with the world, without compromising your privacy. Can you go as close to the bone as you would in a novel? This is the personal choice of the Blogger, but for me it may be acceptable to share certain personal truths by adopting a philosophical tone. Whatever the amount I choose to reveal, my aim should be to seek the personal/human truth and share these with the audience just as I would with any of my other work.

So this morning I returned home to Greenford after spending a charming weekend at my girlfriend's. Which is significant as it's taken a year of torture (particularly for my girlfriend), for me to arrive at the acceptance of settling down. But that's a discussion for another day.

Despite the journey home from Wimbledon being slightly problematic (what with the west bound District line tube being forced to terminate at High st Kensington due to another security alert), I was delighted by the lush green sight of Perivale Park Golf Course again as the Greenford train emerged from the monstrosity of a council estate over the River Brent and the Ruislip road. Walking the short distance from the station, I mused over the near tranquility of suburbia in London. This was in stark contrast to the tone of Vanessa Phelps's talk show on BBC Radio London. Vanessa was garnering London's feelings towards urban thug behaviour in public, in light of the stabbing of Richard Whelan on a North London bus over the weekend. What was most ironic for me was that this was one phone-in where all the public stuck to the one topic despite the deluge of correspondence. However, even though people were clearly aggrieved at the state of our urban streets, there was a common theme that of the majority of people turning the blind eye or 'hiding behind their Evening Standards' during the most horrific incidents.

I think it was one of the best talk shows BBC London as aired, as the conclusion that came out was that we are all part of a community and cannot ignore such acts by simply leaving things to the government. If we aren't willing to stand together and impose sanctions on those thugs whatever age, race, or gender they may be, then who will? Ultimately, the order of society is our collective responsibility not just that of the State. After all, heaven belongs on Earth not up in the sky; a 70 year old woman getting slapped by 15 year olds or a man stabbed to death in a senseless killing, sounds like hell on earth to me.

May I say this to the member of the public on Vanessa's show who confused the North London bus stabbing as a racist attack, comparing it to the terrible racist murder of young Anthony Walker in Liverpool last Friday. That I would probably have been stabbed myself despite being as black as the perpetrator. Richard Whelan's murder was ugly and horrific in its meaningless and casual inhumanity displayed by the killer; but I truly hope that the authorities make best efforts not to repeat the mistakes of the Stephen Lawrence tragedy over a decade ago, when bringing Anthony Walker's killers to justice. As a black man, I will not be looking for misguided politically correct measures, but some good solid common sense action. Let's hope as Anthony's Uncle, Shiloh Binns wished, that some good come's of this tragedy.