Hello! I’m afraid I can only apologise for how quiet it’s been around here this month. I’ve had a lot to shout about, but a lack of spare time and a succession of deadlines has prevented me from Dubstacking. I promise I’ll be blowing away the cobwebs over the next few weeks with new tracks, new mixes, and more long interviews, but I’m currently playing catch up after I took a rare day off this week because it was my birthday.
Yes, another trip around the sun as I edge ever closer to the finish line of my 40s, and to mark the occassion I thought I’d delve into the archives and share a piece I wrote for Motive Unknown’s Daily Digest back in 2020 when I turned 45 during lockdown. 45 seemed like a significant number, and I’d considered throwing a big party with DJs selecting their favourite 45s, commemorative tea towels for everyone, dancing and juggling, the works.
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Plans were of course scuppered by the silent spectre of covid so, instead, I found solace reminiscing over what I’d long considered to be a disaster of a birthday, my 22nd, so get comfy as I take you back to May 23rd, 1997, and when you’re done reading, I’ve uploaded a mix I put together for the 45 Live radio show on Dublab featuring a stack of my own 7”s including my lesser spotted remix of Kid Koala, and it’s a rare chance to hear my still unreleased version of Eddie Cochran’s ‘Something Else’ on the Sleng Teng rhythm. Scroll to the bottom for the mixtape which is free for everyone as it’s a special occassion.
Before we head back to the 90s, however, I wanted to make a brief pitstop in 2014 because I stumbled on an unfinished track I was making back then to mark what would’ve been Sun Ra’s 100th birthday. It’s just a fragment of an idea for which I’ve cut up some scenes from Sun Ra’s Space Is The Place film. I might have to revisit this project when I get a moment.
And now we’re done with that, let’s find out if my 22nd was really as bad as I thought it was…
This adventure begins not on my birthday, but on August 26th 1996 when Olive released their debut single ‘You’re Not Alone’.
Bank holiday Monday. Notting Hill Carnival was in full swing. Big tunes that year included the relentless soca of ‘Cool Me Down’ by Anslem Douglas, Blackstreet’s ‘No Diggity’, and you couldn’t turn a corner without hearing the collective cry of “OH NOOOOOO!” as the cartoon dancehall of Red Rat’s ‘Shelly Ann’ rattled speaker boxes from Westborne Grove to Trellick Tower.
You wouldn’t have heard ‘You’re Not Alone’, however. In fact it didn’t even trouble the charts, lingering just outside the top 40 for the next couple of weeks before disappearing.
Overnight success is almost always a myth. Here in the ivory towers of show business, the last thing we want the general public to find out is their new favourite song stalled in the nether regions of the charts 9 months ago, or was once a flop for the singer’s previous band, or — in the case of ‘Take On Me’ by A-Ha — took 5 versions, 4 years and 2 music videos to propel it to number 1. Fortunately for Olive, it only took one re-release the following spring for it to hit the top spot.
Jump forward to May 23rd, 1997. My 22nd birthday. ‘You’re Not Alone’ hit number 1 the previous Sunday. It had been inescapable all week, and I couldn’t get my head around why. That’s not to say I disliked it, but it felt like a throwback to hardcore which was still very recent history, and having only recently evolved through jungle and into drum & bass, it was way too early for a resurgeance. So how had this captured the nation? Was it a misty-eyed memory of hardcore’s swan-song, ‘Let Me Be Your Fantasy’ from ‘94? Or perhaps because it’s actually more akin to a well crafted pop song than its Amen break might suggest.
None of this crossed my mind at the time as I started my beat-up old Astra. I simply switched off the radio and stuck in a tape of Red Rat’s ridiculous debut LP, crying out “OH NOOOOOO” all the way into college, drowning out the sound of my exhaust rattling beneath the car.
I parked in a cloud of dark toxic smog. The exhaust was hanging on by a thread, but I was late for class. Kwik Fit would have to wait. A video production lesson, a lecture about the Amish, and then it was off to the music despartment for a rehearsal with my band.
I’d recently formed a group called Wrong. A kind of live hip hop outfit in which, believe it or not, I was the rapper. I hadn’t yet cottoned on to the fact that if you give me a mic I will almost definitely say the wrong thing and probably ruin the mood in the room. Less than a year later I’d wind up in a slanging match with a lawyer firm at the Jazz Cafe, getting us banned from playing in various local venues, but at this point we were still full of vigor, and a few songs short of a full set.
Inexplicably, mid rehearsal, our guitarist Jim suddenly remembered it was my birthday, wishing me a happy 21st. A year out, but I appreciated the thought. We packed up our gear and I spent the next hour, and £125 on a trip to the exhaust centre. Not how I was expecting to spend my 22nd, sat on my lonesome with Olive taunting me on Kwik Fit’s tinny office radio. Fine though, my car was fixed and I was ready to celebrate.
I don’t drink booze, and I’ve happily spent my life as the designated driver, even on my birthday, so I gathered up a motley crew and hit the road across town from Tolworth to Islington where we had guest list for one of Sean McLusky’s infamous Sonic Mook Experiments.
If you’re not familiar with the name, Sean was once a drummer. First with a couple of Bristolian punk bands, then with JoBoxers who formed from the ashes of Vic Goddard’s Subway Sect, bothering the top 10 in ’83 with a brace of singles including the maddeningly catchy ‘Boxer Beat’.
In the 90s Sean turned to club promotion, with nights like Fantasy Ashtray and the aforementioned Sonic Mook Experiment, still fondly remembered by those who actually showed up to catch, maybe, a Welsh language punk band coming on after a big-beat set, only to be pelted off stage after 5 minutes, or Clinic appearing unannounced in place of UK hip hop legend Silver Bullet. A guillotine was brought forth that night, I can tell you.
Maybe you were there in 1998, upstairs at the recently opened 333 enjoying a slice of battenberg and a nice cup of tea while a proto-Shoreditch twat played sh*t records like REO Speedwagon to people with 3 haircuts in one, or downstairs doing a pub quiz in a nightclub which used to be one of East London’s biggest dedicated queer venues, the London Apprentice. Some of the staff and clientelle remained, and it was fun watching awkward hip hop lads reduced to quivering school boys at the sight of leather-clad men kissing in grimy corners.
Wait, where was I? Somewhere driving up the A3 when my brand new exhaust came loose and went clanging into the traffic behind me. Somehow unphased, I dumped the car on a side street and bunked a train to Waterloo where, once again, we jumped the barriers for a free trip to Angel. I’m not sure if I’m imagining the next bit but I think we were briefly chased out of the station for not paying, yet we made it up Chapel Market unscathed, and into the Rhythmic: a half finished club space, with exposed pipes and air con. Less shabby chic, more a modern health and safety violation.
On this occasion it was also half empty. Sean had chosen to open the night with a load of teen punk bands. They’d trashed the place and been ejected, along with half the underage crowd, leaving the venue looking like the final act of Threads. Confused and desperate people wandering aimlessly, looking anywhere for the remnants of a good time. I was £125 down. My car was pretty much a write-off. My birthday was looking like a nuclear disaster.
At the bar I encountered an actor/comedian who I won’t name for legal reasons. He was wasted. In a hot minute we somehow spilled our drinks on each other, had a kind of light tussle — I wouldn’t call it a fight — on the ground where no punches were actually thrown, before he hugged me and walked off laughing. “Where’s my drink?” asked my girlfriend on my return. It was mostly down my trousers, some on the minor celebrity’s coat.
In the spirit of Sonic Mook, I decided it might be a good idea if I gathered up the band to jump on stage and start playing. Now this won’t sound remotely rock n roll, but I asked Sean if we could rush the stage; “Yes, RUSH IT!” he insisted, probably hoping the headline act would fight us for picking up their instruments. I wish I could remember who the headliners were, but whoever it was I didn’t fancy my chances, even after my recent run-in with [name redacted].
I gathered up my bandmates and told them to get ready for the bum rush. All but one of us were up for it, but that one voice of dissent was enough to derail the fun, and that was that. Back to the drudgery of a dwindling dancefloor, and a wash-out of a birthday.
I wonder if Olive had these problems. Tim Kellet’s previous band Simply Red definitely weren’t down with the bum rush. Perhaps Robin Taylor-Firth, known for his involvement with Nightmares On Wax, was a little more rush-friendly. Olive certainly sounded well rehearsed and polished, and now I’m listening properly, Ruth-Ann Boyle’s voice is reminiscent of Tracy Thorne. I think I’m actually coming around to Olive after all these years. I have the album on, it’s not what I was expecting at all. Some of You’re Not Alone’s synths and ethereal strings remain but it’s mostly a downbeat (don’t make me say trip hop!) affair.
Look, I came of age when the intersection of hip hop, rave and dub was troubling the charts. Mutant boom-bap tracks by the likes of Depth Charge, Renegade Soundwave and Smith & Mighty had been pumping out of my home speakers since the late 80s, and the advent of beats labels like Ninja Tune and Mo Wax were a welcome stepping stone, and I was glad to see a wider audience for this music. Many ragged on the commercial groups which coat-tailed on the success of Massive Attack and Portishead, but I loved a lot of these beat-heavy outfits and their melancoly mood mosiacs. A few favourites of the genre included Mono’s Formica Blues, Fingerfood’s cover of Python Lee Jackson, Morcheeba’s debut LP, the samba-infused Flying Away by Smoke City, and the underrated Melk who’s only single ‘She’s Been Sleeping’ featured Wrong’s bassist Reg Edwards.
Another group who a lot of folks often forget started out as more of a downtempo project was Moloko. Their debut LP Do You Like My Tight Sweater — named for singer Roisin’s chat up line when she met instrumentalist Mark Brydon — mostly bops along below the 100bpm mark. Jim and Dave DeRose from Wrong would go on to join Moloko’s touring band, and continue rocking huge stages with Roisin when she went solo, but unfortunately, for me at least, they weren’t going on stage at the Rhythmic back in May 1997.
So, back to my birthday, the club night was over, and what remained of the crowd was now turfed out onto empty backstreets of Islington in the dead of night. Most of my mates had sloped off already. Tubes were closed. All the car seats were taken. I was two long night bus journeys from home and didn’t even have a walkman to keep me company. I was alone.
Just when I thought all was lost, Reg pulled up in his van. He didn’t particularly want to take a trip to the far reaches of SW London when he lived in Southall, but it was still my birthday, and beyond being an amazing bassist, he was also a great friend. We didn’t listen to Olive on the road back to Tolworth, but in hindsight it feels like we should’ve done.
You know what? This wasn’t a bad birthday at all, in fact I’d like a commemorative tea towel of this night.
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